Nature Vs. Nurture

Greg and his full biological little sister. Look alike much?

I suppose we could debate endlessly about whether Nurture or Nature is more influential in the lives of adopted children. To be honest, I don't really CARE which is more important because together they make the unique mixture that are my kids. There are HOWEVER certain things about raising children I did not give birth to that will never cease to amaze and surprise me.

I come from a family of chocoholics. Loving chocolate is so ingrained in our psyche I could not imagine a family gathering, dinner, dessert, treat or DAY without it. Greg and Eric prefer VANILLA. Vanilla pudding, vanilla yogurt, vanilla ice cream. In fact, not only do they PREFER Vanilla, they really don't even really LIKE chocolate. I find this hard to even fathom and tried for many years to convince them they were wrong. Indoctrination on the wonders of chocolate have not worked. In my cupboards there are VANILLA flavored items. My poor, poor grandmother who worked for a chocolate company for years, feeding my addiction, was shielded from this travesty of good taste. I suppose maybe its a secret plan that this way the boys dont have to share with the rest of the family?

Greg and Eric like GRAPE JELLY. A slimy, congealed, disgusting excuse for jam. GRAPE JELLY. YUCK! Not sure if this one is nature or nurture though as I am good naturedly blaming their former foster mom for that exposure. I tried for several years to convince them of the wonders of Raspberry Jam or Strawberry Preserves. I almost succeeded during those tween years. But now? If I expect them to help me schlep in the groceries, I have to concede and buy them some of the things they want. Grape Jelly also lives in my cupboard next to that disgusting Vanilla Pudding.

Where I KNOW nurture wins out is in their obsession with hockey. Obviously they get their athletic ability from their biological parents, particularly their sports obsessed father, but hockey? That's all us. Would they have been obsessed with another sport if they were not part of our family? Probably. Given the chance, Greg would have loved to play football. However, it is wonderful to see talents and skills naturally given to them find a venue where they can thrive and excel. And the wallet paying for it? ALLLLLLL nurture.

School? That's a mix. One does well in school with no struggles what so ever. Their biological father is a smart, smart man but quit school earlier than I thought was possible to quit. The "go to school, work hard, get an education" drilled into them is definitely nurture, the smarts to do it? Nature. On the other hand, one has to work VERY hard in school and needs some supports. Those needs are apparent in many members of his first family, but the supports were never provided to them, making the school battle often too difficult to win. So, educational needs? Nature. Ensuring those educational supports are given? Nurture

There are certain foods and tastes and are also obviously nurture, or more probably, cultural. When the boys' birth father sent us a list of his favorite foods, the boys had only ever eaten one item on the list (fried chicken). Stir frys and salads, salmon and rice are much more a part of our daily fare than collard greens and grits or biscuits and gravy.

The boys joined our family ten years ago this week as little people. Pre-schoolers with pre-formed likes and dislikes that we had to work to get to know. Until really getting to know their biological family, it was difficult to know what was from their foster parents, what was from their experiences in their first family, what was coming from us and what was there genetically. NOW we have this experience with two babies that are developing tastes and interests day by day.

The girls LOVE salmon. As in LOVE salmon. Miss Tiny is just starting to eat strained baby foods (apple sauce and pureed pears), but last night managed to down an entire fillet of baked sockeye salmon - screaming for more between each bite. This is the traditional staple food of her people. Is it a genetic, primal, cellular taste for a food that has been eaten for thousands of years by her family? It sure seemed like it to me. That would be NATURE at work.

Their disdain for little girls and deep affection for all things teenage boy? I would say that's nurture. The fact that Miss Curious can say ZAMBONI? Definitely Nurture.

I cherish the wonder of raising kids with unexpected likes, dislikes and talents. No need to fit the mold of me and mine. Although seriously!!?? VANILLA?? yuck!

Chilcotin Lesson Part One

Well Chilcotin is a TONAL language full of 47 consonants and 6 vowels. FORTY SEVEN CONSONANTS of which very few actually sound like anything you would say in English. Lots of tongue clicking and mouth blowing and generally trying to manipulate my teeth, tongue and lips in ways they have never moved before.

The class is full of FLUENT Chilcotin speakers, many of whom this language is their FIRST spoken language and they are taking the class to increase their reading and writing skills. Its an interesting skill to read a language with English letters (some extras) that make completely different sounds. Its more interesting when you know nothing of the language and are not used to hearing it or speaking it.

My goal at the end of this course is to be able to put together a dictionary of common terms and phrases for other foster parents, or non Chilcotin speaking adoptive or biological parents could use to teach young (pre-school age) children some common words or phrases.

So, dear readers, consider this your first lesson in Chilcotin Language. You have to imagine the sounds because there are many sounds for which there is absolutely NO POSSIBLE WAY to write it in English but I will do my best. Punctuation in the middle of the word usually means a pause and hard sound. ? means the same.

Tsa - Beaver (pronounced SAH with a slight T sound at the beginning of the word)

Seta - Father Se?aba: Daddy (pronounced Seh PAUSE Aba)
Seban - Mother Se?Inkwel: Mommy

Tsaguy - Hat (saw-gooey)

Ha?anh - Yes! (Ha PAUSE ah)

The focus of today's lesson was on fish (lhuy pronounced h-looey with some nasal sounds thrown in for good measure) and fishing. My spelling list for next week includes these words. Lord help me!

?ek'un: Roe / Eggs

Benagh: Fish eyes

?eteqash: Dip Netting (e/te/ki)

biteqash: Dip Net (be-ti-ki)

gnedelh: fish coming (ha-deln)

xalwig (with a cap over the w and a line through the i): fish jumping (hall-wick)

?et'elhjinsh: fishing with a rod (e/tell/gee sorta kinda lots of tongue sounds I cant ever say)

sex: Fishing with a gaffe hook (sahh)

betl'es: Slime on a fish.

ts'eman: sockey salmon

Jas: Spring Chinook salmon

Jens: hook (pronounced Juss)

yatu - ocean

biny: lake (been)


It was assumed, I found out, that my husband must be a "Nenqayni" (Nen-Ki-Nee) or First Nations Person if I was taking the class, and many were surprised to find out I was there for my kids. But all were welcoming and I had the opportunity to sing and drum with my new friends, embarrass myself thoroughly by completely tripping over my tongue repeatedly, and learn many new things.

Next class we are going dip net fishing in Farwell Canyon. This is a traditional activity that my girls' family does still to harvest fish for the winter. It is also something I have never experienced, would never ever be able to before and now will be able to share stories of first hand with my kids. Except for the fact I am pretty sure its not quite legal for me, as a white chick, to be dip net fishing, it should be alot of fun! I will be sure to let you know if I get arrested.

The Things We Do

There are many things transracial parents do for their kids. We might pull out "ethnic" art like I have done in the picture above in the girls' bedroom. Instead of pictures of Barbi or Poo Bear, I framed pictures from a Native Artist and bought dream catchers.

We might change the tone of our holiday celebrations, where we spend our vacation times, or where we worship.

All those things are a step ahead of simply dressing our kids in their "national costume" once a year, or worse, pretending that race, culture and nationality don't matter and we can be a happy multi-racial family without ever examining what that means.

I do not just consider myself a white mom of black or brown kids, I consider MYSELF now part of a minority family. It is MY responsibility, and mine alone, to make sure that our home is a sanctuary from the pervasive cultural messages my children will receive outside our front doors that White is Better. It means I never put my black child in a tshirt with a white super hero on the front. It means I have consciously put myself into situations where I would be the minority so my child could be the majority sometimes. It means I address and discuss difficult and uncomfortable racial realities with my children long before I want to. It means I bring my children to hear the voices and stories of those like them, knowing that no matter how much I want to, I can never truly understand their experience as young,black men.

Somethings are easy. I made conscious decisions about the books I buy, the music I listen to, the history I teach, the art on my walls in order that if reflects the diversity of our family and lays the foundation for the kids so that they are confident in the history of their people, their place in this world and that their sense of self as a minority person is not erased by having white parents.

Obviously as they grow up this becomes their own doing, but I know that they have learned the rich history of the African American experience. They know black inventors, musicians, artists, scholars, warriors, politicians and pastors as children while it was my responsibility to lay that foundation.

And now we are a tri-racial family. I have always thought that it would be very difficult to adequately support more than one culture in a home. My efforts have always been vested into the African American and African Canadian experience. My girls are Chilcotin . A history as difficult, as rich, as amazing and as tragic as any I have ever studied before.

I know I am not their adoptive parent, but I AM parenting them. My girls deserve all the dedication, respect and honor that the boys have received. And so today I take a huge step and start a university level language course in Chilcotin. Considered a language at risk, only 1200 people speak it today. But those 1200 people are my girls' people. Their grandparents and aunts, uncles and cousins. They lose so much by being away, they don't need to lose their language as well. So I will try, hard, to learn what I can and then pass that on to them.

I am terrified.

Not So Smart Teenagers

Dear Teenagers,

If you are in the kitchen singing along to your IPOD and the words you are singing include the phrase "She's a Sexy Girl" and your mother asks to see the song you are listening to, and by the time you bring it to her, the song playing is titled "I Walk The Way of Jesus" your mother might figure out that you changed the song.

Denying this is futile. I love my new IPOD. Thanks.

Love,

Mom

Run For Your Lives!

The end is nigh.

Miss Curious, sixteen month old wonder child, just got HERSELF out of her playpen.

It is possible I will never shower again.

Back in the Swing of Things

So I took pictures of the boys on their first day of school that I would LOVE to show you.

Miss Curious ate. ATE. part of my SD Card Reader.

Or she fed it to the dog? I am not really sure. Either way, pictures are on my camera. The cord? The cord was lost a long, long time ago. And this is the cheap, little camera mind you, because I think I mentioned that Eric dropped my expensive, wonderful and beautiful camera in the creek back in August. So I am down to a cheap little digital camera without a cord and no card reader.

You know, if I didn't have kids or dogs, my house would be in one piece. If my husband didn't touch anything that is. Did I mention he downloaded a virus onto our second computer, which is now the square dust collector in the corner?

Four kids, a job seeking husband and I all fighting for one computer? Guess who is winning.

Yes it would be the job seeking husband. The progressively more stressed out job seeking husband. If you pray, please keep it up. You can only apply for so many jobs without hearing back before you get depressed and very, very scared. I think we are there.

Speaking of scared, so were my sons today. Did you remember how confusing those combination locks are? Two to the right, one to the left and then BACK to the right? Try and tell that to a nervous, stressed, over tired 13 year old who has memory problems. Then I had to tell him he had to take the tape off the back that had the number on it.

Sort of defeats the purpose, don't you think?

Speaking of defeat (Its a night of segues!) Trip is defeating my last ounce of patience. For those that follow my Facebook Saga Status Updates, I am not ready to give up yet. For those that don't, HE PEED ON MY PHOTO ALBUM. Not just ANY photo album though, he peed on JAZZY'S memory album. Other than my grandmother's rocking chair, I probably don't have anything more precious in my possession. He pee'd on it.

There is no way to add anything productive to THAT story.

And Your World Stops

I was asked to be a beta tester on a new Cancer Support site (I will tell you about it more later) and to share my story. Here is the little article I wrote about my experience with diagnosis.


And Your World Stops - Cancer. ME?
by Jensboys

Spring Break 2009. Life was normal. Our old normal anyways. I am not sure I will ever forget that week. My husband and I took our four sons to a hockey tournament our oldest was playing in. My sister, her sons, my mother, our two dogs all crammed into a couple of hotel rooms. Silliness, jokes, long walks on a beach between games.

When the tournament was over we returned to my sister’s home, over tired and with lots of laundry, we were surprised by the unexpected visit of my dad. He took my sister and I out for supper, alone. The first time in the entire 15 years I had been married that I was alone with my sister and my father. We ate and laughed and shared crazy stories about our sons, my father’s beloved grandchildren. As we drove away from the restaurant my dad pulled over, and with tears in his eyes told us he had been diagnosed with terminal colon cancer in his liver. 9 months. N-I-N-E months.


We hugged, we sobbed. We questioned. We recoiled in horror. We had to tell our husbands, our children. My dad, my precious, young father with CANCER? I could not, I cannot imagine life without him.


That was a Friday, and the next Wednesday I dragged my emotional, exhausted self into the hospital for the final stage of kidney donation testing. Many months before I had begun the process to donate my kidney to my cousin. I explained the situation to the surgeons, social workers and nurses sent to examine me. I told them about my dad and his cancer. I said I didnt know if I could still proceed with the donation process, but I did want to finish the testing. They agreed to proceed and I had a CT Scan and a Nuclear Renalgram the next day.


My family and I left my sister’s home exactly one week after hearing about my father’s cancer. Its a long drive with 4 kids, over six hours and there was so much to process, so many tears to shed. The next day my beloved grandmother, my support, my friend, the rock of my world, died.


In one week I had heard I would be probably losing my father within the year, and lost the woman who had been my biggest support and cheer leader. I shattered. Sobbing, I held my husband and said I could handle no more. No more. My world was falling apart.


I returned to my sister’s home alone, leaving my 4 sons with my husband. We were responsible for planning my grandmother’s funeral and the executors of her will. There were 10,000 details to plan. Pictures for the video, music to be selected, family to call, eulogies to write. It was overwhelming and sad. Clinging to each other, my sister and I relied on each other in a way only sisters can.


Donating my kidney was far from my mind in the midst of this trauma and loss. Grief and fear were consuming my thoughts. Thursday morning, as my sister and I drove to the lawyer’s office my surgeon called and left a message on my cell phone. I listed to the voice mail as we pulled into the parking lot. It was urgent, he needed to speak with me immediately. I returned his call.


My sister frantically called our mother as she listened to my half of the phone call. Tumor in my kidney. Cancer. Come into the hospital as soon as possible.


I slid into shock. There I sat in the lawyer’s office signing documents for the death of my grandmother. My dad was dying and I had cancer. CANCER. Me? Only a week before that same surgeon had said I was in “ideal health” and a “perfect donor”.

Between signing papers as the lawyer ran out of the room to make photocopies I called my husband. I called my dad. I called a friend. Unemotional, calm, and totally in shock.
My husband left work, grabbed our sons from school and made the 6 hour drive in 5. I really could not even talk about it, and I certainly could not process it.


8 am Friday morning my husband and I entered the hospital doors. We ran into the surgeon in the elevator. You know its not good when they don’t make eye contact and although agknowledging us, he never once smiled. My palms dripped with sweat as I clung to my husband’s hand.


I sat in that office chair, where I had sat only a week before as the “Healthy Donor”. I sat there as the patient. The patient with cancer. My CT image on the screen over his shoulder he explained that the tests had discovered a tumor on my left kidney. A small tumor, but cancer none the less.


“Renal Cell Carcinoma”. I am not sure I had ever heard those words before, but they became ingrained in my mind at that moment. I don’t remember much except that the doctor kept saying he was sorry. Sorry it was there, sorry I was dealing with this, so, so sorry.


There are no real treatment options for RCC other than surgery, or so I was told. We left that office with the knowledge that I would be shortly scheduled for surgery.


The next day I buried my grandma. The next day I read her eulogy. The next day I told my extended family I too had cancer. Too raw to really feel, I ached to connect with this act of saying goodbye to a woman I would miss every day the rest of my life, well at the same time fearing for my own death with every breath.


There is no greater horror I have experienced as a parent than I did the day I sat my sons down to tell them that I too had cancer. The same 14 year old who had just been told his grandfather was seriously ill, the same 13 year old who was scared beyond belief at the changes happening around him, the same 11 year old who had held his dying great grandmother’s hand to tell her he loved her, and my precious 8 year old who wiped my tears as his own fell into his lap. My sons, eyes filled with fear, being told that their mother had cancer too.


We made it sound like it was slightly more serious than your common cold. “Mommy will be fine”. “Mommy will be fine”. “Mommy WILL be fine”. But kids know what cancer means. The Terry Fox run they participate in every year has taught them enough. People with cancer are sick. People with cancer die. And truly a part of me died that day along with their innocence that parents live forever and really bad things never happen to us.


My tumor came out on May 11. Stage 1 Grade 2 RCC. I am extremely lucky. An asymptomatic cancer was in me, a 35 year old woman with absolutely no risk factors. I would have never, ever, ever known until it was too late except for the fact I decided to try to donate my kidney. That act to safe another, saved my own life.


Life has gone on. One week after getting home from the hospital we very unexpectedly added two baby girls to our family, then aged 2 months and 12 months. 6 kids have forced me to keep on, to heal, to move forward and to leave the kidney cancer behind me.


My dad responded beyond our wildest dreams to the chemo offerred to him. His doctor suddenly is talking in years versus months.


I have a 90% chance of being alive in 5 years, maybe more if you factor in my age and health. And still, late at night, or with every new ache I wonder. Growing old is no longer my right, I realize, but hopefully, God willing, it will be my privilege.


Thanks for reading,
Jen

Call Me Crazy

I have admitted defeat. This animal will never, ever not pee in the house.

This is how my day started:

Remember Trip? I might have mentioned him before. And before. And maybe possibly before.

You can't say I didn't warn you.

Last night an accommodating, non-blog reading overnight guest invited Trippy to sleep with him.

Right around 11:30 pm Trip decided to relieve his bladder.

Did the dog whine at the door?

Did he jump off the bed?

Did he even move away from our guests body?

Oh no. He peed ON THE GUY'S LEG. ON THE GUEST'S BED.

And our guest? He slept in it rather than wake us up.

After apologizing profusely, our gracious guest brought me his laundry, washed himself off and left rapidly saying an "unexpected trip had come his way". No pun intended.

Do you want to know how my afternoon went?

Miss Curious took a long, long nap. Longer than usual. At least that is what we assumed she was doing. Napping that is.

She wasn't. Pants off. Diaper off. Two hours of play time? You can only imagine the mess.

Really cleaning up dog pee off the guest's laundry wasn't all that bad.

Desperate times call for desperate measures and she is DEFINITELY smarter than me.

Oh and my evening? You would like to know how my evening went?

Tonight we are sorting out new school supplies. New pencils, crayons and markers to bring tears of joy to a tired mother's eyes.

What I forgot to mention to the boys? PUT UP THEIR OLD SUPPLIES.

Take your hand off your direct dial line to Child Protective Services. That is marker, not blood. She thinks she is so funny.