Name Something

  My son called it the loo or the W.C. No matter that he had never been to England or watched Downton Abbey. I chalked it up to a phase, an I-want-to-sound-sophisticated phase. For a while he insisted we call him Hank instead of Henry. His older sister just called him Stupid. Hank/Henry gave her a new name in return. He managed to twist Annalia into gonorrhea, and it stuck. I can't tell you how many times I've answered the phone to hear, "is Gono--I mean, Annalia--there?" I have no doubt I'll find Henry murdered in his sleep some morning. The joys of children.
  Henry also went through a phase where he called me Mother, but now he prefers to call me Kit--which is not my name. Sometimes I think Slave would be a more appropriate title. Gotta love those kids. I can't wait until they grow up and have to clean their own loos.

My Personal Miracle

  Words cannot adequately describe how much I love this infuriating teenager who has raised whining to an art form, who calls me Muumuu--yes, like the Hawaiian dress fat ladies wear--and rolls her eyes at her father. She slams her bedroom door a lot, and seems to have her iPod surgically attached to her hand, but I don't mind the drama, really.
  She is stunningly beautiful with her round face, long, shiny black hair, almond-shaped brown eyes, and bow of a mouth--and I can take no credit for any of her features.
  The first time I saw her photo, I knew she was my daughter. She had that imploring look, her pert bottom lip jutting out in a frown. I knew she needed me as much as I needed her.
  I carefully selected her name, one with meaning that she could be proud of: Maya--which has different beautiful meanings in several languages--and a Chinese name to reflect her unique heritage: Meilin. It means beautiful forest. It suits my beautiful daughter perfectly.
  On June 13, 2000 at 10:00 a.m., nine-month-old Meilin was placed in my arms for the first time in a hotel conference room in Hefei, Anhui, China. As my husband predicted, she didn't cry but I did. It was the most wonderful moment of my life. When you go halfway around the world to embrace a stranger's child as your own, that kind of love transforms you forever.
  Sometimes God sends children to you the traditional way, as He did with my four wonderful sons. Sometimes He expects you to search for them, as I did with Meilin and, ten years later, her sister Malani from Zhongshan, Guangdong, China. God creates the perfect match. No other experience has increased my faith like adoption. My longed-for daughter was my own personal miracle.

The Chair

  His favorite chair was older than me when we got married. The textured red fabric was so worn down on the seat and arms, you could see the individual threads hanging on for dear life. It was his mother's chair before it became his, therefore he would never part with it.
  Being a recliner, it had a tendency to recline whenever you didn't want it to, and the footrest always stayed up whenever you wanted to put it down. I suggested reupholstery once, but then the springs on the seat started to poke through the worn-out fabric and I figured, 'why bother?'
  The chair was banished to the man cave where it was draped with coats when the guys came over to watch football. It was a designated coat rack because it was too uncomfortable to sit in. Soon even the cat wouldn't sit in it, and that's saying something--this animal falls asleep in her own litter box.
  Yet still the chair remained a fixture in our home. It so closely resembled something you would find at the dump that I wondered if anyone would take it if I left it on the curb--as if he would ever consent to the chair being banished to the curb. It was his mother's, after all.
 

 

New Weekly Post Series: Sterling's Short-Shorts

   Seeing Beauty in Rust

   My dad knew nothing about fixing cars, but that didn't dampen his enthusiasm for collecting them. I have fond memories of playing cops and robbers in whatever rusted-out engine-less derelict that graced our yard. One year it was a Model T Ford. Next it was a hearse, which did run, but only got seven miles to the gallon. His collection included an original Impala, a VW Beetle, a rust-colored van with doors that sometimes flew open while it was in motion, and his personal favorite: a Ranchero. It was sort of a car-truck. I rode in the back because there was only room for three in the cab. This was before seat belts and child safety laws. It was a bit awkward riding home from church in a dress, sitting on a wheel hub of the Ranchero, but Dad looked so happy in the driver's seat that I tried not to complain.

   My mother had no reservations about complaining. She was never happy to have a car in various stages of disrepair sitting on cinder blocks in the backyard, but my brothers and I saw the vehicles as wonderful playthings, better than fancy swing sets or a sand box choked with weeds. From toddlerhood we knew what it felt like to sit behind the wheel and use our imaginations--something my own indoor, plugged-in children are sorely lacking.

   The rusty cars had character, like my dad. To this day I loathe HOAs that forbid cars on cinder blocks in the yard. They have no imaginations.