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Dear Han,

I am going to write this very fast so I can go write. Someday your mom is going to have a book on the shelves! I'm rolling a new project around in my head, and it's uncomfortable. So I'd better get to work!

But first...

It's been a long time since I wrote to you about you. You've grown about a foot and more into your sassy, headstrong, loving, observant self. When you're mad at me you shout, "I'm rude at you!" or "You're stupid at me!" But yesterday I did something to make you really mad, like insist that you get dressed before you ate breakfast, and you ran to the sofa, crying, and screamed, "I hate you, Mom! I hate hate hate you!" 

I don't hold that against you. It happens. 

You ended up completely missing breakfast, so it's lucky your preschool always has food on the table when we get there. You ate three bowls of granola and a lot of banana slices, and then you were your normal, non-demonic self again.

You only ever want to wear short-sleeved t-shirts, shorts and the checkered Vans you chose all by yourself when we went shoe shopping. You stick your hands in your pockets when you walk. You're missing your two front teeth and one on the bottom. It gives you a scrappy look. Plus, you need a haircut.

You love gum.

You notice everything! You're quick to smile and what you seem to want most (besides gum and love) is to make people laugh. You've discovered that the words "poop" and "toilet" and "butt" get laughs, so you use them frequently even though they earn you frowns from me. 

Lately, you've started role playing with your toys, using voices and creating worlds and characters. Iona did this at your age. (She still does it, I suspect, but don't tell anyone.) I love listening to you play by yourself in this way.

At school, you have friends you play with a lot, particularly Leo and Cormack. Cormack is missing a tooth, but Leo is the one who walked up to me the other day and announced, "I'm Toothless!" I was taken aback until he explained Toothless is a character in the movie, "How to Train Your Dragon."

You are the most curious person I know, and by that I mean you want to know everything, not that you're odd or strange. Yesterday the young tattooed philosopher window washer who was here at our house all day noticed how inquisitive you are. "That's good," he said. I agree.

I love you, Hanster Monster, to infinity and beyond!

Mom

Dear Iona,

As I write, you're on your way to spend the night at a farm to see how pioneers lived. Except you'll put M&Ms and marshmallows on your homemade ice cream, and I'm pretty sure pioneers didn't have M&Ms or marshmallows. 

The thing is, I miss you. Most days when you're at school, I'm grateful for the time to work. You'll have a great time. I can't wait to hear the stories. Will you and that particularly prickly friend of yours make up? Will you come back asking to play with someone new? Maybe you'll want to show us how to make ice cream, or weave our own cloth, or you'll ask if we can get some livestock.

When I came into your classroom to say goodbye, you let me kiss you on the cheek without embarrassment. I *think* you're not embarrassed, anyway. Wouldn't you tell me? You showed me the math worksheet you'd just finished, upon which you'd written your name in 3-D block letters and drawn some tiny illustrations. You whispered, "Mom. Big Ben made it into the seven wonders of the world." Mentally, I pumped my fist. You triumphed. You wrote a report a while back in which you made your case for Big Ben.Your report convinced the librarian that Big Ben should be in the top seven. Most important, you had that proud look I love to see. You've come far in the last two years.

I'm glad the sun is out for you. Your convoy is on the road, headed for Puyallup, where you'll stop for lunch. 

My ten-year-old girl. Be safe.

I love you to infinity and beyond,

Mom

Tonight an old friend and his family are coming for dinner. I try to remember the last time I saw him, and I can't. We used to work together. I left that job in 2003. We ran a marathon together before that, if I can call 'together' him running it in half the time I did. Still, my feet pounded the same pavement the same day his did.

Thinking about old friends, and missing them, makes me wonder why we dwell on the last time we saw someone, and were physically in the same room with them. In my relationships, being with friends is important. Farewells are difficult enough that I never say goodbye (unless I really mean it). When it's been a long time since I've been in the same room with a friend, it's like a craving. I want to see them and hug them and talk to them. In person.

I don't much like the phone, though. Skype really freaks me out.

I wish it wasn't so weird to write letters. If you would like to receive a letter from me, let me know.

Dear Iona,

You are growing up! Eight has come too soon for me. Last night you were reading chapter ten in Mandy, and you worked out nevertheless on your own. You still have trouble falling asleep by yourself and are recently plagued by nightmares at that point just between waking and slumber. Last night, zombies and kidnapping. I am sorry that I was too irritable to be the one to put you back to bed; luckily, Dad was home. He came back upstairs and said, "I didn't mention the shape shifters that come up through the floor." He was trying to snap me out of my mood, and it worked. 

You are a little anxious about going to your new school in September, but you are excited too. You are independent and confident, and are willing to try anything. That's why I'm surprised when you actually need me, but occasionally you do. A couple weeks ago you got homesick when sleeping over at Aunt Kathy's. A couple days later, the first day of boating camp, you needed to come home early because you were having a bad day. The next day you stuck it out and had a great time, kayaking and rowing and sailing and paddle-boarding and jumping into the lake.

You love to run fast and chase and be chased by your friends. Yesterday evening I watched you and five girls run after each other and shout, barely stopping to pay attention to the cranky lady who admonished you to be quiet. 

A minute ago you came upstairs tousled and long-legged in your yellow pajamas with pink, blue and green butterflies. You were sniffing and rubbing your nose red. You still refuse to blow your nose, as you have forever. You drank a glass of water, shuffled to the green armchair and picked up The Adventures of Daniel Boom, Loud Boy. I asked you what it was about and you read the inside flap about an evil doctor who wants to rid the world of all children, or at least force them to be well-mannered. Horrors! As you read you waved those animal toes at me, the ones you inherited from your father. 

And of course, as always, I love you,

Mom

Dear Han,

One week ago today (it feels like five minutes) we all, with Grandma and Granddad and Kathy and Delaney, went to family court. Finally, our union is done! In the eyes of the world, we are a family. Our lawyer was efficient and funny, supplying a running patter that was part instruction, part explanation and part humorous commentary. He has helped with five thousand adoptions! One of his families had forty family members and friends in the courtroom. He said, "The judges love it. It's the only happy thing they see in family court." Then, addressing you and pointing down the hall at a shackled, orange-jump-suited man being led into a courtroom he said, "And you want to avoid that look if you can, son. Now congratulations, go celebrate, eat junk food."

You want so badly to talk these days! When, in a book, you see a cat (or a fox or tiger or bat) you yell, "Cat! Cat! Cat!" You have a lot of words, including beer. When you fall or hit your head on something you tearfully reenact it for me, pointing to the offending piece of floor or furniture and saying, "There! There!" You occasionally throw mini-tantrums, kicking your feet and making your mouth into an O as you cry and lie down. You are not a fan of costumed children or adults. But you love to celebrate everything, hoisting your schooner of milk and crying, "Coo!" 

Coo to all of us, Hanster Monster.

Love,
Mom

   

Dear Han,

We are in the office. It's sunny out, and this room is cozy. I am more relaxed than I've been in days, and you are sitting on my lap at the desk, in front of the computers. I feel warmth from your small, solid body. You move the mouse and it messes up my typing and when something happens on the screen, an odd pop-up window or a flash of mistake, you say, "Oh, cool!" I take the mouse out of your hand (you are now examining the underside) and you say, "No, no." You pick up the rollerball pen and take the lid off, put the lid on, take the lid off, put the lid on. You say, "Guck." I think you mean stuck, but who knows? You pick up the stapler and the pen falls to the floor. Out come the staples. "Uh, oh," you say. Half the staples fall to the floor. You pull the spring, I say no. You reach for the return address stamp. The papers to hire the attorney to finalize your adoption sit on the desk in front of us, waiting to be put in the already-addressed envelope. I will mail them on the way to the park, after we have a snack. You will fall asleep in the stroller on the way home.

Love,

Mama

Dear Iona,

I feel like I should be writing a letter to your brother, because I haven't yet, but I want to write to you. I carry a lot of guilt lately about how I feel (and don't feel). I don't know how to shake it yet, but I'm going to shake it, the guilt. It makes me angry, which is bad for everyone.

Tonight we were reading a book we've been enjoying, Holes, by Louis Sachar. I suddenly realized I should have read it first, because it is too old for you, by perhaps three years. There is a part about racism that knocked me flat on my ass, only since this is a letter to you I will replace that word with bottom. I cried when I read ahead a little (thank you, foreshadowing, my trusty ally) and cried when I closed the book. I want to shield you (and your brother) from the ugliness in the world.

I want to shield you and your brother from the ugliness in me. Which brings me to...

...this letter is partly for Han after all, because what I want to write is that I think I have a touch of Post Adoption Depression. Which is why I'm up at 1:30 in the morning when I need nine hours of sleep every single night. I spent the past four hours researching PAD (its snappy acronym). So, sorry I've been a bit of a nightmare lately.

Maybe this letter is for me.

I do want to say to you that I love you, and I expect to love your brother just as much as I love you, soonish. If I push you too hard to be something you're not, or good at everything because I know you can be, or old enough to read the books I want to read, I'm so sorry. I love you just the way you are, sweet and wise and innocent; seven years old.

Any minute now, I'm going to let go of guilt.

love,
Mommy

Dear Iona.

Today we were late (not very, but still) for school yet again. As you struggled to put on your shoes I left the house and backed the car out of the garage. 

Thinking, maybe this, me doing what my father did so many times he waited for us girls, will move her along.

You came running through the garage and I could see, before you even got in the car, that your chin was doing that trembly thing that means you're about to cry.

"What's wrong?" I said.

"You scared me!" you said.

"Why? Because I backed out of the garage?"

"I thought you were going to drive to school without me!"

I explained to you that wouldn't be very sensible, since I don't need to go to school without you.

Picturing you not being able to find your sweater, running around the house looking for one, frantic at hearing the car and the garage door. I feel bad.

Instead of being angry, I told you I was sorry I scared you. Then I asked, "Why every morning, instead of doing what you are supposed to be doing, getting ready for school, brushing your teeth, brushing your hair, getting socks and shoes on, finding a sweater, do you instead see an empty glass and fill it with water, or pick up a Happy Meal toy and start talking with it, or pick up a book?"

And I might ask myself the same question every minute of every day of my life.

"I don't know," you said. "It's just the way I was made."

Made out of these parts: part stunningly unwelcome habit of living in the moment so I can't finish anything substantial (if one more magnet or card or t-shirt tells me to live in the moment I will set it on fire) and part matter-of-fact truth-telling (from your father).

And you are seven. You have time to learn to manage your weaknesses, my dear, and when you do you can take over the world. Chances are you'll be happy not to, though, and that is from me too, dammit.

Come to think of it, at forty-two I can change still. Or learn to manage myself, at least. So maybe I will finish something of note yet. The thought makes my heart soar, and I feel like I learned something from you this morning, again.

As usual, I love you this much (that is, to infinity and beyond),

~ Mom

Dear Iona.

It's been a while since I wrote you a letter, and something happened today so I thought I'd get it down. You lied to me.

We recently received your narrative (at your school you don't get grades, you get a narrative). It read that we have been tardy twenty-nine times this year, so we were trying to get to school on time this morning. I walked into the bathroom where you were supposed to be brushing your teeth, and to me it looked like you were goofing around in front of the mirror. I asked (mildly, because we agreed no more yelling before school, and we're starting a points and rewards system, and I get points for not yelling and you get points for being on time and playing your violin) what you were doing and you said, "Brushing my teeth." Then you beat a hasty retreat.

The sink was dry. There was no toothbrush in sight, nor your special non-minty toothpaste. I didn't know at first whether to be upset that you lied or insulted that you think I'm that unobservant. I confronted you. "Did you really brush your teeth?"

You nodded, but your eyes shifted left to right. You ducked your head. I asked you to explain how the sink could be dry if you had just brushed your teeth. (You'll be sure to run some water, at least, next time you lie about brushing your teeth.)

I took you into the bathroom and brushed your teeth with my toothbrush. (Why are you using my toothbrush these days, by the way?)

"Please don't lie to me. It makes me not trust you, and we need trust in our family," I said. I was not yelling. Then I said, "No playing on the playground after school today."

You muttered, "No points for you this morning."

The drive to school was silent. I don't believe in giving the silent treatment, but I was upset. My heart felt heavy. I didn't want to say angry things, because my points were already in jeopardy. When we got into your classroom at 8:45 on the dot, I kneeled. "What are we not going to do?"

You looked so wan. "I don't know," you said. I took you through the events of the morning. "I'm disappointed," I said, really meaning it for the first time in your six years. Your eyes got pink. I told you I loved you no matter what. Then I left feeling bad, and I now get to go through eternity until I can pick you up at 3:15 and hug you and make you laugh.

Plus, I just ate half your cinnamon bun so now I feel worse.

Mommy

A thank you note.

Dear Countrypeople,

Thank you.

Love,
Carol