The Story of Sebashka

Wrote this for an iVillage submission request for stories of your kid's favorite stuffed animal. Hope you enjoy!



Sebashka is one of the dearest members of our family, even if I'm not entirely sure how to spell his name. My older son is 13 years old now, and Sebashka has been in his life for almost nine ... as long as we have. Sebashka was the first present I brought my son, at a point when he wasn't yet mine legally. (My son legally, I mean. Sebashka was legally mine. Ask American Express.) Sebashka was one of the two bright white & tan stuffed dogs I schlepped from New Jersey, 1/2 across the world to Novorossiysk, Russia, to the orphanages in which a certain precious 4 yr old  and his equally precious 2 yr old brother were living. I was told to bring a toy or treat to play with when meeting the boys who were our adoption "referrals." I was cautioned that the toys would not be theirs alone but rather property of the orphanages in which they resided, for all the kids.

My younger son, Son2, was a little overwhelmed at first meeting. He enjoyed the dog I brought him, while I simply fell in love. We then drove on to meet his brother, my Son1, with dog2 in tow. He loved it. Loved loved loved loved it. He starting screeching like I thought only 13yr old girls could, "SEBASHKA!!!" I was told by the translator he has yelling "DOG! DOG!" When we left I hoped the boys remembered me when they saw the dogs. I hoped they were able to play with them after that day, but never expected to see the plush pups again. My heart was sealed in love for these two boys, and we counted the days until they would be "ours."

Fast forward two months, to the date we went back to pick up our sons after our court hearing. We picked up the younger Son2, and then went on to pick up Son1. Imagine our surprise when down the hall came a little boy escorted by two adults, grinning ear to ear, with this gray, drab, squashed bit of fuzz under his arm. It wasn't some random dingy, matted stuffed toy. It was so loved, it was literally having the stuffing squished out. It was the Velveteen Sebashka. And it was coming to Jersey! My son somehow managed to do the impossible. He had hung on to that dog for two months. He played with it and slept with it and did Lord knows what to keep it near him. He had taken possession of something in a place in which the kids had no possessions. Now, he was bringing it home. They were each getting a home, for the first time, together.

As the years and countless other stuffed animals have come and gone, Sebashka has stood the test of time. At some point, to protect this special memento, Sebashka was moved from the bed to the dresser. A few months ago, we split our sons' bedrooms and my oldest now has his teen lair. But, no matter how much lacrosse gear lays strewn all over the floor, now matter how many texts are sent from the cell smuggled up at bedtime, Sebashka sits and watches from its favored perch on the top shelf. On occasion, I've walked in and found it sitting on the bed and I know it's still loved by my son. To this ratty-looking little dog, I say thank you for all the comfort you've given to him. Thank you, собака, for becoming so much more than a stuffed dog.

What Will I Wear?

I sometimes lie awake at night, in a near panic wondering, "WTH am I going to wear for such a huge day?" I wonder whether my flights will be on time, if I will have enough batteries for the camera, if I will have packed for hot enough/cold enough weather, and if we'll maybe get an invite to the White House as parents of a distinguished American. Part of the panic and insomnia is caused by just not knowing... I mean, I know the day is coming, I just don't know when. Which year will Son1 be awarded the Nobel Prize for Saving Mankind? Oh God, where's my passport?

You see, I've written repeatedly how intelligent my son is (in his delusions). What you may not realize is that he is a godsend to all of us. He knows everything. Everything. He has that dizzying, awe-inspiring gift that all children develop, 'round about 12-13, that renders them omnipotent. But even among tweens and teens, he is in an echelon of knowledge beyond my wildest dreams. Certainly beyond what my meager Penn State degree can hope to reflect, which is why I have planned its return.

This week's agenda included completion of another Social Studies project. Is it me, or are these kids the most Socially Studious generation? I feel like all my kids ever do is Social Studies projects. But I digress. His current teacher, a 30+year veteran of middle school education must thank his lucky stars after all these years to have a pupil like Son1 sitting in his class, first row, center chair. They say it's because of his IEP, and that it helps them monitor my ADHD boy. Now now, silly teacher. I know it is merely so you can be in closer proximity to the glow of his aura. Does he correct you too at every turn, or challenge your knowledge based upon actual decades of experience instead of what Sean's cousin's girlfriend's neighbor's babysitter's boyfriend's cousin said? While I do hope he does not consider me the only jackass in dire need of his insight, I certainly hope he is polite to you.

He is now 2 months away from 13. We're not even Jewish but I feel like giving him a bar mitzvah to welcome him to adulthood, as a distinguished elder of the tribe. Clearly, he has it all figured out, whether it be the secrets of the universe, reducing the national debt, tackling cancer cures, or how to get all Madden 2010 football players to do victory dances. Even I draw the line at calling him the "second coming of the Messiah"... but- if you have ever heard the passionate fervor of a teen fired up to contradict you, well, you may know why I think he could at least be a harbinger from above that big things are coming. He doesn't actually have to be right, and in fact, rarely is he, but I think that's just trivial. He puts forth all facts with such teen-conviction he can sway anyone to do anything (again, in his mind).

Son1, I truly love you more than life itself. Average student or super genius, you are a large part of my reason for being. And yet, each day, you remind me (over breakfast, homework, dinner, laundry, schlepping to swimming, you name it) just how superior you are in knowledge held. You are always right, whereas I never can be when in your presence. Not since Moses was pulled from a floating basket, or maybe at least not since Faith Hill first began singing has an adoptive parent sat in such awe at the genius God placed in her lap.

Now the Nobel Committee may be a little thrown by how soon to award you the medal, but since they snubbed Ghandi in his lifetime, I think they've learned a lesson about the hazards of delaying the obvious. For this reason, I think they very well may phone any day to tell us you are nominated and the votes will of course be unanimous. I'm sure they will not wait until you have actually accumulated the knowledge you now think you should wield over your little brother. I'm sure they won't wait until you've hit maybe 22 and begin to see how little you really do know about the world. No, no... I'm certain, since you are ALWAYS right, they will pick you, a shining example of know-it-all youth of your generation, and am equally sure it will be soon.

So good Lord, what does one wear to watch such momentous event? I'd better get shopping. And dieting. And where is that passport? Ugh, so much do when one parents an omnipotent child, so very much to do. No wonder I lie awake at night.

The Day My Name Changed to Mom

Today is one of the most specials day of the year in our house. It's "Family Day." Family Day is what we call the day our adoption papers were finalized in the Russian court, and we became parents to Son1 and Son2. For the rest of my days, my name would be changed to Mom. In honor of the day upon which my descent into madness kicked off, I've been reflecting upon the things I wish I knew then. For all the Home Studies and parenting classes, there's a lot that falls through the cracks.

I don't think many of these are exclusive to adoption, really. Deep down, I think we all could have used some practical guidance on the following:

Parenting ages you at a rate once reserved for US Presidents.
Did you every notice how fast the President ages over a four year term? Did you ever stop and look at your old DMV photo when the license expires and the new one is taken? Eight years ago I looked like Janet Leigh, now, Mrs. Bates. Knowing this in advance would have enabled me to stockpile face creams, massages... maybe a vial or ten of botox.

Washable red markers are, alas, not fully washable.
Just as new red tshirts wreak laundry havoc and Hawaiian Punch will ruin any garment, the red markers will stay with you.My advice- remove them at once from all Crayola boxes. Lose them, toss them, crush them, shred them... whatever it takes.

Your parents really did live to embarass you.
How do I know? Because I DO live some days to make Son1 squirm into a near-teen sweat. Treat me like a jerk in front of your friends just because you think it's more cool, and I assure you, every girl you date will learn I call you Cocoa Bear, be tipped off you will be 30 and still playing video games with a Dath Vader helmet on, and hear about your incessant need to run around naked as a jaybird still. So don't push me, Cocoa Bear. ; )

Kids smell.
Really, they do. They start out with that powdery baby smell and any stray odors are blamed on the diapers. This is only so you can bond with them. And then when they realize they smell, the overcompensate with toxic fumes like Axe. Had they smelled at 2 and 4 the way my laundry does now, I would have gagged and done a rethink.

And lastly... You will suck as a mom, and that's ok.
Whenever I come clean on some massive parenting fail point, I'm always amazed at the kind responses. I'm assured (ok, sometimes astounded) by the volume of equally bad flashes of judgment confessed by you all. It does my heart good to know we all suck at this at times, and that life goes on.

Boys, we love you and adore you more than you could ever know. You make my heart soar. My blood pressure could use a break. But even with all the madness, noise and mayhem, I am so thankful to God for each day you're in my life, for each day I am blessed to call you "sons."

Things Adoptive Moms Want To Say

I was very excited when Our Mommyhood asked me to write a guest post! This great site has such a wide range of content. I was asked to write about adoption or being an adoptive mom, so thought I'd take a chance to set some records straight. Big thanks to editors Liz and Betsy!

While I’m an adoptive mom, and would gladly extol its virtues, I wouldn’t say I’m expert material. A passing glance at my blog would call key parenting skills into question. So while “expert” is beyond reach, “adoptive mom who lost it a couple of times on strangers” is pretty accurate. “What is there to lose it about after adopting?” you rightfully ask. Well, apart from all the lovely stressors parenting brings, there are some comments you field that are unique to your situation. Sometimes, they just get rub you the wrong way. I really don’t think people mean any harm. They just don’t think or realize. My plan here isn’t to make you feel uncomfortable, but rather to help you see some things through the eyes of an adoptive parent. One less foot in a mouth… that’s what I’m all about here.

I’ll start out with the biggie:

 

Loving them as much as children by birth

My husband had two daughters when we married. I asked him repeatedly if he’d feel differently about his new sons vs. his daughters. After weeks of denial, he cracked. “Of course I’ll have a different relationship with them!” That saddened me, until he quickly clarified, “I was in my 30’s to 40’s for the girls but will be in my 50’s to 60’s for the boys. I don’t have the same career demands now. I probably won’t need to sit by a Barbie playhouse much.” It was really that simple to him, a question of lifestyle and gender play preferences. When I hear people talk about different feelings toward adopted kids, I go back to him since he’s poised to know the truth. He doesn’t get people who can’t believe you feel the same toward an adoptive child as one by birth. He’s really baffled by men’s reactions. “It’s not like you’d be breastfeeding yourself.” They’re just “his kids,” and by “they” I mean all four, all viewed the same way.

We clean up after kids who get the flu at 2:00am. We cry when we open hand drawn Mother’s Day cards. We stare at our sleeping kids, awed by their beauty, and befuddled that they can look so angelic in sleep while being so devilish when awake. We leave the house at 6:00am to schlep to gymnastics meets 100 miles away. Yep, we’re absolute idiots for our kids too.

“Real” Kids:

This was the phrase that put me over the edge on several occasions. I finally gave up, sarcasm taking over. To the woman in McDonald’s, the mom at my son’s preschool, the family friend at a party, and anyone else my flip tone offended at the time, I’m kinda sorta sorry. Eventually to comments such as, “They look just like your real kids,” I replied:

• "He’s not go strings to hold him down."
• "And yet, faux really is more humane."
• "We decided real was best since the holograms were too expensive.
• "Nope, he’s real. I lost the Nerf one years ago. The hubs was so pissed." 
• "Madame Tussaud’s mail order~ what can’t they do?!" 
• "Yeah, but the replacement parts are a bitch to find."

When you become a parent, God gives you the kids you’re meant to have. Everyone in our family believes this. My stepdaughters have repeatedly said it to me. Physical similarities, personality traits, talents, crazy flash temper (huh? who said that?)… my sons share some of these with me, and I love it. But it’s not what makes them “real” to me. Love alone does that.

“Bet you’re happy you missed that!”
This usually refers to morning sickness, swollen ankles, insomnia, labor pain. The paper pregnancy has its own set of challenges. There are things adoptive moms go through that can tear you down emotionally, then in turn, physically. For starters, births have a due date. You knew, much like a road construction warning, that “on or about January 10…” you would be a parent. In the majority of cases, adoption has no due date. Even when couples are working with a birthmother, there are legal milestones of equal significance, or an undying fear that minds could be changed. When you give birth, there’s no real fear the baby’s going to change his mind.

 

Adoption brings all kinds of chances for uncertainty until final court approval. Don’t get me wrong- I’m ok with skipping some of the less than fun pregnancy highlights. Anxiety and doubt, though, can torment your stomach and sleep for months on end. Trust me, in the long run, the roller coasters of birth and adoption even out to a dead heat. One other snag I’ll mention that can hurt feelings is the issue that many women who have adopted REALLY wanted those experiences you’re joking about. You never know, so least said, best said sometimes.

“They’re so lucky to have you”
No. Not really. I feel very blessed that I was approved by the caretakers, judge, Russian Education Ministry, and above all, God, to be their mom. But no one walks around thinking, “WOW are my kids suuuuuuuper lucky that I’m their mom! I mean, I am FABULOUS” Whether you gave birth or adopted, you simply don’t think in those terms. Ok, maybe you do. No really, you don’t. I hope.

 

And while I’m on a roll
The last little tidbit I have is something I wish I could scream at every reporter everywhere. I don’t walk around calling my sons my “adopted sons.” They’re just “sons.” Did you ever notice that in a story about any celeb who’s adopted, the kids are always labeled? Read an article about the Jolie-Pitts, Sandra Bullock, Sheryl Crowe, etc and their children are labeled when adopted. Curiously, the genetic Jolie-Pitts are not labeled. They are simply their kids. All of them are “their kids.” Period. If you happen to be a journalist, please keep that in mind. If you know one, please share this. Feel free to message People.com stories. Lord knows I do.

At the end of the day, however they ended up in our arms, they are our children. They imprinted in our hearts, like the werewolves do in Twilight. God sent me to them and them to me, not via a stork, but via Boeing. The humorist Art Buchwald was a parent via adoption. He once said, “You’ll know they’re your kids when you want to kill them.” On any given day, laundry, noise, and bickering floating through my home, I’m with him. I love them more than life itself, yet want to murder them in frustration at times. So I assure, you see, we are all the same. We are moms.

Extending the reach of Jersey (insert sinister laugh)

Great big thanks today to two ladies who've opened up their blogs to guest posts.

Amy's Afternoon Reading is a "digital coffee break." Amy threw down the gauntlet with a guest post challenge seeking insight into keeping focus for your blog. I, ever the contrarian (nightmare), retorted that my blog IS what helps increase focus for me. So there.
 
The Travel Mommy is a great site (simply because she picked me) sharing views of a life half way around the globe. My travel related post today is all about my trip to meet the most amazing gifts I've ever received, my sons.

Please check out these posts and their sites... then spread the love ; )