Football has always been something Ray and Todd shared in common. They were both coaching high school teams the year Puppy was born; I remember Ray coming back to the hospital room late one night after a game (which he and Todd promptly spent the good part of an hour dissecting play by play). Every phone call between them eventually turns to football.
Puppy recognized this commonality early on. Not surprising, given that it's nearly impossible to miss. I think it's important to him as a way he can connect with his two dads at the same time. Footballs and football teams and football shirts and football love are something the three of them can share, an overlapping space all of them can comfortably occupy. They throw the ball around in some fashion every time we get together. He can pick out Ray and Todd's favorite teams on the television and roots for them by color.
This picture is from Ray's visit in August. Football was a major theme of the visit. The three of them tossed a ball around in the yard more than once and went to one of Todd's practices together. On this evening, a pajama-ed Puppy had toddled over to where Ray and Todd were talking with this helmet in his hands. I love the symmetry in Ray and Todd as they gaze at Puppy, they way they share the same tilt of the head, the same proud smiles.
I treasure this picture because it reminds me that, as bittersweet as it sometimes is, open adoption makes this sort of overlap possible and real. It's not just us telling Puppy that his birth dad likes football, too. It's him experiencing that for himself, seeing the similarities and differences between his fathers, watching them enjoy each other as peers.
(I'm password protecting the picture because I'm shy like that, but just contact me for the secret code if you don't have it already.)
See other entries in the latest GIMH Adoption Carnival here...
October 29, 2009
October 28, 2009
EnviroMom Meatless Supper Club: Autumn in a Squash Bowl
I feel like a big cheater this week. First I took a perfectly good recipe that called for tofu and made it with chicken instead. And now I'm giving you a favorite recipe for stuffed acorn squash that's only meatless because I swapped in a fake meat substitute (in this case, faux sausage).
I'm not sure how I feel about things masquerading as meats. We eat them semi-regularly: Morningstar "chicken" nuggets, Boca burgers and such. They're almost always lower in fat and calories than the real thing. And the enviromental impact of growing items like soybeans and mushrooms is smaller than growing a cow or pig. But then you factor in all the processing and added ingredients...and they always come in so much packaging...like I said, I'm torn.
(While we're on the subject of cheating, I do have a quick tip for faking spaghetti with meat sauce. You can swap out the ground beef for bulgur--1 cup dry bulgur for every 1 pound of meat. Add 1 cup boiling water--or beef stock for more flavor--to 1 cup bulgur, cover and let sit for several minutes. Very similar texture but more fiber, less fat, less money. It works in soups, too.)
Enough guilt. Back to the stuffed squash. I love this meal. The combination of the squash, sausage, cranberries, apples and pecans just captures autumn perfectly. It's pretty enough to serve to guests (it looks more impressive in real life than in my picture) and not very hard to make. And it's a dinner recipe made with maple syrup. How can it go wrong?
The results: Everyone ate it! Whoo! I fully expected the four-year old to turn up his nose, but he was chowing down. Maybe it was the novelty of the little squash bowl? I wasn't about to question it. Four year olds--who can understand them?
The verdict: The change to the faux sausage in this recipe is one we'll keep. It's healthier without the pork and it didn't change the favor or texture of the dish at all.
Recipe below the jump, plus more meatless meals at EnviroMom...
I'm not sure how I feel about things masquerading as meats. We eat them semi-regularly: Morningstar "chicken" nuggets, Boca burgers and such. They're almost always lower in fat and calories than the real thing. And the enviromental impact of growing items like soybeans and mushrooms is smaller than growing a cow or pig. But then you factor in all the processing and added ingredients...and they always come in so much packaging...like I said, I'm torn.
(While we're on the subject of cheating, I do have a quick tip for faking spaghetti with meat sauce. You can swap out the ground beef for bulgur--1 cup dry bulgur for every 1 pound of meat. Add 1 cup boiling water--or beef stock for more flavor--to 1 cup bulgur, cover and let sit for several minutes. Very similar texture but more fiber, less fat, less money. It works in soups, too.)
Enough guilt. Back to the stuffed squash. I love this meal. The combination of the squash, sausage, cranberries, apples and pecans just captures autumn perfectly. It's pretty enough to serve to guests (it looks more impressive in real life than in my picture) and not very hard to make. And it's a dinner recipe made with maple syrup. How can it go wrong?The results: Everyone ate it! Whoo! I fully expected the four-year old to turn up his nose, but he was chowing down. Maybe it was the novelty of the little squash bowl? I wasn't about to question it. Four year olds--who can understand them?
The verdict: The change to the faux sausage in this recipe is one we'll keep. It's healthier without the pork and it didn't change the favor or texture of the dish at all.
Recipe below the jump, plus more meatless meals at EnviroMom...
October 25, 2009
Little Church
Today was a Little Church day, a Sunday we worshiped at the AME Zion church in town. We've been alternating weeks between that congregation and (what used to be) our usual church since mid-summer. Puppy dubbed them Big Church and Little Church based on the size of their buildings, but I'll bet most adults observing the two would think of them as "white church" and "black church."
There is an imbalance right now in our involvement between the two churches, since we've got a couple years' head start at Big Church. But our goal, in the near-term at least, is to be equally invested at them both. It's important to us that the kids see us parents giving and receiving instead of merely attending--especially at Little Church, so they can know that we're there because it's important to us, too, and not just for Firefly's sake. It's been slow-going. Todd joined a men's breakfast one weekend and bonded with a couple guys in that way he has. He has helped out in kids' church. We went to the big annual church picnic, where I got to know the family of a little girl Firefly's age and Todd somehow managed to inspire a giant game of football. We've started to learn people's names and have conversations that go beyond banal pleasantries--small things, but ones that feel like a big deal when you're getting to know a new community. Todd and I attended a fundraiser on Saturday for a local group researching the history of African-American pioneers in our state. We'd been to their events before, but this was the first time we've walked in and been able to greet people we knew. It feels like our baby steps venturing out are beginning to pay off in small ways.
There is a certain self-consciousness walking into a black church that first time as white parents with a black child in your arms, at least for me. It's easy to convince myself that everyone is looking at us and thinking that we're only there because of Firefly. But that was more or less true in the beginning, so I figured I might as well own it. And the members have been nothing but welcoming of our whole family. Not that I expected them to not be rude, but it really is a particularly warm congregation. (I've visited umpteen churches in my day, so I've got some basis for comparison.) Smaller churches often are.
We received an extra dose of that warmth today after the service. A woman came down the aisle as we were working to gather our things and hungry children. I apologized for the lot of us blocking her way and moved aside. "Oh, no," she said. "I actually came to talk to you."
She looked like she was in her mid- to late-forties. "I'm biracial," she continued, after we exchanged names. "My mom raised three of us biracial kids on her own. I've seen you here a few times now and I wanted to ask if you had any questions about how to do [Firefly's] hair. I know how hard it was for my mom."
She did a quick look and touch appraisal of Firefly's curls and deemed them well-tended (whoo). She quizzed me on a few of the basics of care and combing, I think mostly to make sure I wasn't torturing poor Firefly. We laughed about the total paradigm shift it is for women with fine, straight hair like mine (and her mom's) to deliberately work oil into hair.
We talked briefly about some of the tensions she felt growing up and what it's been like for her to live in our predominately white city. "Please, if there is ever any piece of advice or comment you'd like to say to us, feel free to just put it out there," I told her. "We won't be offended. We need people to tell us what we're doing wrong."
"I don't think it's a matter of right and wrong," she answered. "Maybe better and worse. What's most important is that love is underneath it all. I've watched you and it seems like you've got that part right. I just wanted to let you know I'm here. I've thought a lot about my experience growing up biracial and I feel like it's my mission to do something with that."
What a gift, you know? This woman saw Firefly and felt a kinship, and wanted to love on her by offering up her own experience and making sure we had our basic act together. She certainly didn't have to do that, but she chose to, and that means so much to me.
There is no grand point to this post, and I hope it doesn't come across like I'm patting us on the back. Lord knows we haven't earned the right to do that yet. These are teeny tiny steps we're taking, but ones that feel increasingly right.
There is an imbalance right now in our involvement between the two churches, since we've got a couple years' head start at Big Church. But our goal, in the near-term at least, is to be equally invested at them both. It's important to us that the kids see us parents giving and receiving instead of merely attending--especially at Little Church, so they can know that we're there because it's important to us, too, and not just for Firefly's sake. It's been slow-going. Todd joined a men's breakfast one weekend and bonded with a couple guys in that way he has. He has helped out in kids' church. We went to the big annual church picnic, where I got to know the family of a little girl Firefly's age and Todd somehow managed to inspire a giant game of football. We've started to learn people's names and have conversations that go beyond banal pleasantries--small things, but ones that feel like a big deal when you're getting to know a new community. Todd and I attended a fundraiser on Saturday for a local group researching the history of African-American pioneers in our state. We'd been to their events before, but this was the first time we've walked in and been able to greet people we knew. It feels like our baby steps venturing out are beginning to pay off in small ways.
There is a certain self-consciousness walking into a black church that first time as white parents with a black child in your arms, at least for me. It's easy to convince myself that everyone is looking at us and thinking that we're only there because of Firefly. But that was more or less true in the beginning, so I figured I might as well own it. And the members have been nothing but welcoming of our whole family. Not that I expected them to not be rude, but it really is a particularly warm congregation. (I've visited umpteen churches in my day, so I've got some basis for comparison.) Smaller churches often are.
We received an extra dose of that warmth today after the service. A woman came down the aisle as we were working to gather our things and hungry children. I apologized for the lot of us blocking her way and moved aside. "Oh, no," she said. "I actually came to talk to you."
She looked like she was in her mid- to late-forties. "I'm biracial," she continued, after we exchanged names. "My mom raised three of us biracial kids on her own. I've seen you here a few times now and I wanted to ask if you had any questions about how to do [Firefly's] hair. I know how hard it was for my mom."
She did a quick look and touch appraisal of Firefly's curls and deemed them well-tended (whoo). She quizzed me on a few of the basics of care and combing, I think mostly to make sure I wasn't torturing poor Firefly. We laughed about the total paradigm shift it is for women with fine, straight hair like mine (and her mom's) to deliberately work oil into hair.
We talked briefly about some of the tensions she felt growing up and what it's been like for her to live in our predominately white city. "Please, if there is ever any piece of advice or comment you'd like to say to us, feel free to just put it out there," I told her. "We won't be offended. We need people to tell us what we're doing wrong."
"I don't think it's a matter of right and wrong," she answered. "Maybe better and worse. What's most important is that love is underneath it all. I've watched you and it seems like you've got that part right. I just wanted to let you know I'm here. I've thought a lot about my experience growing up biracial and I feel like it's my mission to do something with that."
What a gift, you know? This woman saw Firefly and felt a kinship, and wanted to love on her by offering up her own experience and making sure we had our basic act together. She certainly didn't have to do that, but she chose to, and that means so much to me.
There is no grand point to this post, and I hope it doesn't come across like I'm patting us on the back. Lord knows we haven't earned the right to do that yet. These are teeny tiny steps we're taking, but ones that feel increasingly right.
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