My blond babies

I have so many real topics that I want to write about, but the arrival of August is sending me into full-on panic mode about finishing school, finding a job, etc. The pressure is on, and some days I wilt, but I guess that is to be expected.

Thank you for your lengthy comments on my last post. I guess that I was not thinking so much about the logistics as the changes that children bring. It is weird to think that despite the fact that we just celebrated our third wedding anniversary, I only notified one of my three bridesmaids about pregnancy #2 (at that one happened to be my sister, although quite by luck a second bridesmaid did show up at the bris). I guess that it's just the speed of the changes. When we moved (last month) I got rid of so many items from my closet, but I am obviously not going to have time/money/need to replace them. And in some ways friendships are much the same. I have plenty of lovely acquaintances who I spend time with, but whenever I read a blog where someone mentions calling their friend every day to check in, or flying across the country to meet up with a lifelong friend, well ... sigh. Oh yeah, and it doesn't help that JD categorically refuses to socialize with other families, except for 2 or 3 couples (some of whom happen to be blog readers). I can drag him to a toddler birthday party, but ain't no way that man is going to make small talk.

And speaking of lovely acquaintances, one of the things which I am most deeply grateful for is the diversity of our acquaintances. I am always interested in how other women parent biracial or adopted children, but I feel like in many ways we have been able to postpone those conversations. Maybe our child is particularly clueless, maybe I am particularly tolerant of potentially inappropriate comments, but mostly I think that we just happen to live in a delightfully diverse neighborhood/circle of friends.

I love that every Chinese grandmother within a 2 mile radius recognizes my children and asks enthusiastically after them (usually not in English, so the conversations are brief).

I love that the fusspot has a dear friend with a physical disability, which she seems to have never noticed.

I love that the owner of our local dry cleaner comes out from behind the counter to tell my daughter funny stories in Chinese. And yes, I am happy to let a 50 year old man whose name I don't know hold my baby when he asks because it is so very apparent that he is watching out for our family (we live above the dry cleaner and our bus stop is in front of it, so we spend a lot of time waving to him from the window).

I love that the waiters at our favorite mediocre local sushi place come over to show me photos of their toddlers and to sing my daughter nursery rhymes in Chinese. Oh, and the free miso soup. Makes cheap sushi even better.

I love that my daughter is often the whitest child in her dance class. Definitely not the closest class, but worth the commute.

I love that we live equidistant from 2 gorgeous NYC playgrounds. At the ritzy one, the diversity can be heard in the nannies' accents. At the sun-drenched barbecue-smoke-filled one we get quite a few stares from the adults (who are far far fewer in ratio to kids than at the other playground), but nothing but affection from the children.

I love that when my friend was complaining that her daughters' first word was dada despite the utter absence of such a figure in her life, the fusspot could ask: "No dada?" to which I replied: "No, but she has 2 mamas" (and a known donor) and the fusspot muttered "Lucky" and wandered off.

I love that when waiting in line for the museum the fusspot asked me rather innocently if the security guard happened to be "my dada." It was exceedingly adorable since the 300 or so pound guy looked younger than me. Oh yeah, and he was black. But it made excellent toddler sense given that she is always lining up "Mama pasta, baby pasta; Mama shoes, baby shoes; Mama poo; baby poo." If size determines family relationship, she had a good chance of being correct.

I love that our local childrens' bookstore has a huge display celebrating gay marriage, and that the fusspot has books in at least 6 languages on her bookshelf (not that we anticipate her understanding those languages, but it is nice to know that people who love her have gifted us books close to their hearts from such different places).

And it is in part the delightful bubble of innocence surrounding race which in part seems to keep me from engaging properly with the very community that I grew up in, the religious one which defines my moral standards and provided so much support throughout my life. Although we are still under a mile from our old synagogue, our new apartment is exactly one block from a very popular synagogue (as in, you open our front door, walk to the end of the block, and up the ramp to the synagogue) and I keep considering going. And then don't. I know that this too will change. As I read more waldorf books about education and think about the "rhythm" of our home it's hard not to translate that for us into the jam-packed fall holiday schedule, and I certainly have no intention of "skipping" any of that. I guess that I hope my children will someday be able to "pass" (not necessarily with all of the negative connotations as that is often used), to be comfortable in both communities, to at least be able to choose how to identify. But here it is, shabbos eve, and I am yet again out at my in-laws preparing for a (kosher) barbecue and quick swim before sunset, rather than bathing the kids and dressing them in neatly ironed (who are we kidding - just not stained will do) outfits. I do not think that feeling comfortable in one community neccessarily means giving up the other, and I am sure that this waxing and waning will shift over time, but for now I am in part choosing to keep my children in a (large, amorphous) bubble. Just not the one I thought we'd be in.