I am not a Llama

Gabe had a friend over yesterday who (either inadvertently or on purpose, I don't know which) called Lana, "Llama".

It's actually not that far a stretch from Lana to Llama. Although many people mispronounce Lana's name like beginning of the word "land" with an "a" on the end, her name is more correctly pronounced like the word "llama," only exchanging the "m" sound for an "n" sound.*

Do you suppose more people would say it right if we changed the spelling to "Llana"? (Or, you know, that might lead to her being called "Yana," which would just be ridiculous.)

At any rate, after several instances of being called, "Llama" by Gabe's friend, Lana had had enough.

Which is when I heard her yell something that I really never expected either of children would have a need to yell across our yard, ever ~ namely,

"LISTEN TO ME!!! I. AM. NOT. A. LLAMA!!"

It gave me a giggle.

*we choose to pronounce her name this way because it was the way she, herself, pronounced her Vietnamese name, which was "Lan". We just westernized her name by adding the "a" sound on the end.

Of All the Gin Joints, In All The World, You Had to Walk Into Mine

This evening I was having dinner with my family at a smallish chain restaurant that all four of us like.

Lana surprised me by reaching over to my plate and taking one of my shrimp. (And no, we were not at Red Lobster. Ever since the great Red Lobster Debacle of 1993, David has not set foot in a Red Lobster.)

Where was I?

Oh, Lana reached over and took a shrimp from my plate, put it in her mouth (uh...tail and all) and ate it.

"I like this," she announced.

David and I stared at her, a bit dumbfounded.

Lana loved shrimp when we were with her in Vietnam. And, for a short time afterward. LOVED them.

Then, inexplicably and without warning, she refused to eat them. For a long time she offered no explanation for this. And then, one day, months ago, she said, "I no eat that no more. I ate that when I spoke Vietnam. I no speak Vietnam, I no eat those things."

And while this made me sad, I didn't know what to do. It's not like shrimp is something I feed to my other child, well, ever. So, I stopped putting shrimp on her plate and replaced it with other things - chicken and pork and salmon. She didn't complain.

But today, she put that shrimp in her mouth and ate it happily. And I'm not sure what to make of it.

I watched her, sitting across the table from me, in the booth, leaning into David's arm. She said something very funny (although I cannot recall what it was exactly), we all laughed and she cuddled into him.

For a moment, I was awestruck, looking at this beautiful, beautiful child - this child who once loved shrimp, and then didn't anymore, because it reminded her of a place or a time before, that was too painful or confusing to think about.

To think that we had traveled to the other side of the planet, and arrived at an orphanage on a rainy afternoon, to meet a child we knew almost nothing about...and 20 months later, to find that she fits into our lives, into the crook of my husband's arm, into the spaces of my life that I didn't know were empty...

Truly, what are the odds?

What are the odds that people who are truly meant to be together will find their way to each other? It's almost a little like arranged marriage, isn't it? To be handed a packet of information and a picture and a list of instructions. You will get on a plane. You will meet this stranger. You will love them and live with them forever.

Is the human capacity for love so boundless that we can find love under such a pretense?

I think it might be. And maybe there is something greater going on. Maybe we are drawn to those we are meant to have in our lives by something bigger than ourselves.

For a long time, when I looked at Lana, I knew, somehow, that I loved her, that I was choosing to love her.

Love can be a choice that you make, and I was choosing to love this child.

But, I am not able to remember, at what point, I stopped choosing to love her, and found that I had no more choice in the matter. I love this little girl. It's no longer a choice I am making but simply the be all, end all - I love this little girl. Against all odds, against language and culture and blood ties that do not bind - I love this child.

I could not love her more than if it were my blood pumping in the heart in her chest.

And I am weirdly relieved, that, for whatever reason, she is ready to eat those things again, that remind her of Vietnam, and not feel bad about it.

Gretchen


*Rick Blaine (Humphrey Bogart), Casablanca, 1942

You Are My Only Mommy

Lately Lana has been extremely, even demandingly, affectionate. I'm not sure how to describe this exactly, except to call it, "attack affection". She lunges herself at Husband and I and wraps herself around our necks or legs or waists or whatever part of us she can get a hold of, and announces, "I LOVE YOU! HOLD ME!"

We try to accommodate this need for affection as well as we can, but, it's difficult to, for example, chop an onion and hold a five-year-old, even a really light one who is hanging on to your body like a monkey. (Believe me, I've tried.)

She is doing well in kindergarten. I spoke with her teacher on Monday for about 15 minutes, about how she was getting along in class. Mrs. K~, Lana's teacher, who appears to be 16-years- old but obviously must be at least 24), said, "Honestly, if you hadn't told me that she had only been speaking English for 18 months I would never have guessed." She said that, from her point of view, Lana understands everything that happens in class, has no trouble with her "skill ring skills"*, and is socializing very nicely with the other kids. Mrs. K~ is not concerned about the trouble Lana has pronouncing consonant blends, because evidently (?) lots of kids who speak English as their native language have trouble with "fricatives and blends" in kindergarten. So, it's a relief to know she is doing just fine at school.

The other thing Lana has been saying, A LOT, is "You are my only mommy" or "You are only my mommy." I think there is a huge difference between those two statements, and I'm not sure if she means both of them.

When she says, "you are only my mommy" she will often add, "not Gabe's mommy" as a clarifier, which makes it pretty obvious what she is trying to insist that she should not have to share me with Gabe. (Sorry, sweetie, but, Gabe is part of the package.)

However, there are times when she says, "you are my only mommy" without insisting that I am NOT Gabe's mommy, and I don't know if she means that she no longer remembers her foster mother or, if she's just being affectionate or what?

I probably should not dig too deeply into this, as it is likely that she is simply marking her territory, so to speak.

Needless to say, the comments from her that I am not Gabe's mommy are going over like a lead balloon with Gabe.

There is some constant bickering and arguing happening between the two of them almost constantly, and, quite frankly, they are making me a little nuts.

This Is How We Spent Labor Day Weekend

It was all too much excitement for my nephew, M.

On Saturday, as we were driving the boat out into the middle of the lake for some tubing-fun, my sister-in-law mentioned how much her (late) mother had enjoyed water-skiing on the lake. Two minutes later this butterfly landed on my sister-in-law. Coincidence? (Am I the only one who has heard that when you are visited by a butterfly, you are being visited by a lost love one?)


Lana and my niece Jo-Jo (her nickname, not her real name)

Lana, always wanting to "go faster"
Lana and Dave

David and I (keep in mind I had very recently been dunked in the lake. Several times. And it was very, very cold water!)

David and Gabe

First Day of Kindergarten

Harold and Kumar May Have Gone To White Castle but Gabe and Lana Went to Arkansas

No alligators (or Lanas) were harmed in this photo session.