We recently relocated to Europe. My daughter hadn't had night terrors for some years, but, when we moved, she began waking up for no apparent reason in distress. We were faced with the question: Is it an adoption thing or a kid thing? I will never know for sure. And I tend to over index on the adoption answer in ambiguous situations. 

I was concerned that this transition to a new home and school was bringing back hidden memories of other transitions that might not have been positive. We kept her bedroom door open at night; we left a light on in the bathroom and in the backyard. Our boys refer to it as a Narnia light since it is a solo lamppost in the middle of the yard, which does look like it should take you to another world. We also read her extra bedtime stories and let the family pup sleep with her.

I explained my concerns to my eldest, who is a high school sophomore. He is very connected to his little sister, as seen in the photo of the two of them playing pat-a-cake. He patiently listened to my explanation of how memories from early years can be hidden and triggered by seemingly unrelated events. He looked at me with a look I get too often these days; it appears to be a mixture of pity and amusement. He said, “I remember having night terrors, too. Couldn’t hers be just like mine? Why does it have to be related to her being adopted?” 

I find this son, in his very direct manner, often gives me good food for thought. I don’t know if he is correct. But since both he and his younger brother also had these childhood nightmares, I know it might just be a kid thing, and that is comforting. And, fortunately, my daughter's night terrors only made a brief reappearance. But all the rituals we put in place to make her feel more comfortable seem to be here to stay. 

Her brothers even noticed it and said, "You need to talk to Leyla. Her hair is awesome, but she wants hair like yours."

I adore my daughter’s amazing curls. She is told frequently how beautiful they are. I want her to love them and I hope she chooses to embrace her natural hair when she grows up.

When we recently accepted an international assignment, life got a bit more hectic than usual and I often find myself short on time. As a result, one day I left for work with wet hair and let it dry on the walk there. When I arrived, my hair displayed all its natural, wavy (uneven and frizzy) glory -- not the kind of waves you see in magazines. It struck me, looking at my hair in the bathroom mirror as I wondered what to do with it -- I am a hypocrite. I blow-dry and flat iron my locks straight because I don’t really like their natural state. I had to look through a lot of pictures to find this one from a few years back, with my waves on display. I remember teasing my blonde hair mercilessly as a teenager so it would look like my best friend Trish’s, who had thick, straight hair. I also talked to a number of moms of color who all told me they wanted different hair growing up, and pretended to have long, straight tresses as part of their play too.

I am now trying to be a bit more honest and balanced in my conversations with my daughter. Her pipe curls are lovely, but challenging to take care of, and I acknowledge that. I also tell her, "Mommy’s hair is wavy, and sometimes I wish I had hair like yours or like my friend Trish." I know hair is an important part of most women’s identity, and, for women of color, possibly to an even great degree. But I am coming to appreciate that I have more to offer my daughter than I first thought. I also realize that each of us, while unique, shares the desire for our hair and our appearance to reflect what we would like others to see us to be.

My daughter recently started a new school. During orientation, I noticed the principal was of African descent with a lovely English accent. I was thrilled to have this new role model be part of my African born child's life. When we discussed the orientation, she mentioned the pretty lady who talked to them AND had “fancy hair like me” -- this time she said it proudly. She also has a Scottish teacher, and commented that she loves the way this woman speaks. It makes my heart swell to see my daughter growing up and embracing the similarities and the differences she sees in those around her.

• 1. Having to make a thoughtful decision about what country to adopt from and what type of child we were open to made me honestly consider what we could take on as parents. I was aware there were no guarantees, as with birth, but adoption forced me to do the soul searching. What are our capabilities and limits? What is best for our family?
   
• 2. Going through the homestudy's self-assessment made me articulate how my relationships in the past would influence me as a parent. When I first became a mom, I blogged about how my then complicated relationship with my mother would impact me in this new role. But this inquiry probed deeper, and it involved a stranger leading the discussion. I could not comfortably avoid truths I did not want to examine.
   
• 3. The homestudy also forced me to explore how my husband's and my different upbringings and beliefs shaped us as parents and could be brought together for our child. I learned things about my husband I never knew, and we had been married for 16 years. I shared things I don't think I had told anyone before. We came away with an even closer relationship.
   
• 4. We struggled to decide: Were we equipped to raise a child of another race and culture and give her everything she needed and deserved? Having a candid dialogue with our social worker about what that would entail made us dig deep on issues that had touched us only in an arm's length fashion. I gained a deeper appreciation for how much race defines the way people view others. Love is not a cure all.
   
• 5. I had to complete a questionnaire about the resources available in my community, should my child require special assistance. This was highly valuable information, but it had never occurred to me to seek it out. It also made me really think about what it might mean to raise a child with special needs. This is a likelihood with international adoption, given the rough start many of these children have. I had preferred to stay in the land of cute pictures and happy thoughts until then, but if I was going to be a good mother to our child, I had to be prepared for her reality, whatever it might be.
   
• 6. Since our daughter has another set of parents, I could never, nor would I want to, claim her as solely "mine." She has another mother who gave her life and shares her biology. But this realization made me think about my other two children. It really drove home that none of my children are "mine," even if they share my DNA. They are only mine to parent, to love, and to cherish for my lifetime. They are their own people.
   
• 7. Becoming a parent was one of the most terrifying decisions I made. I wanted to do it, but I didn't know if I would be good at being a mother. And the decision was irreversible. Generally, I like the possibility of undoing a decision if things don't work out. So, as a coping mechanism, I avoided thinking about or doing anything to acknowledge the momentous change about to happen. With adoption, this was not an option. I had to embrace the preparation and face my fear (no, having two children did not make me sure I would be a good mother to this third).
   
• 8. Adopting made me think about defending our family and our choices with rational rather than emotional responses. Many people judge what is different or what they don't understand. I learned to provide balanced and thoughtful responses. I try not to assume cruel intent unless that seems the only possibility. I also find myself judging others less for choices I may not have made.
   
• 9. I had to face an ugly truth. I, as a parent, cannot make everything OK for my children, no matter how much I wish I could. My daughter lost the chance to be raised by her biological family, in her country, and in her culture. I cannot make up for those losses. All I can do is honor them and do my best to integrate her culture into our family. I can be open to what she needs when she reaches the point in her life when discovering "who am I" involves some complex questions and relationships.
   
• 10. Adoption showed me that becoming a parent impacts many people. I felt this to a great degree with our boys, but it was more limited to family and friends. With our daughter, I saw the impact to our larger community and people who share her culture. Children are amazing teachers and ambassadors for what is good in the world. I have a number of community members, family, and friends who are now fundraising with me for Ethiopia, have become more open to adoption, or just have a broader view of family because of our daughter.

We pursued adoption because we wanted another child and knew there were many in the world who needed a family. And in the process, I grew to have a deep understanding of motherhood, family, and community. For that, and because of our amazing daughter, I am forever changed and grateful.

I shared a bit about my experience visiting Leyla's orphanage in my last post. Among the realizations I was struck by while I was there: Kids are kids. No matter what their situation, or where in the world they are, youth appears to carry with it the ability to rise above circumstances and just be.

While planning our trip to Ethiopia, we were worried we wouldn't be able to connect with this part of our daughter's early history because our adoption agency no longer worked with her orphanage. The primary director's mother had recently died, so he was not available to make the arrangements for us, either. Luckily, representatives from our efforts to raise funds to build libraries in our daughter's name were able to arrange a visit through their local contact. We were elated when confirmation came through the day before our arrival.

The morning of the visit, we sat nervously in the small waiting room with the very serious assistant director. His expression remained unchanged as he asked many pointed questions about Leyla's past. He carefully noted each answer I gave him in a book he had pulled out of a desk drawer. I felt my husband stiffening next to me. He had much trepidation about this part of our trip. As I sat there answering question after question, I could feel panic rising from my belly, but I did my best to not let it show. I began wondering if I should have examined my husband's concerns more thoroughly, though I tried to dismiss this fear as irrational. Since then, I have learned of legal guardian who lost custody to the girl's biological father while visiting her birth country (a different land than my daughter's). The circumstances were unique, but I now realize that deepest fear can and does happen, however rarely. Then the assistant director abruptly stopped his questioning and put away the notepad. His face broke into a big, toothy smile and he asked, "Would you like to meet the children now?"

We eagerly said yes, hoping our extreme relief was not obvious. My eldest son was not well and had been led to a spare room when we entered. We passed him, laying on a small twin bed in a room just off the entrance. (The reason for his condition is a subject for another post.) My daughter clung tightly to me and took in everything with her liquid black eyes.

The director suggested we take a picture with the kids. I knelt down and they happily crowded around us. I felt the press of little bodies on three sides and I struggled to remain upright in my crouched position. I clutched Leyla tightly. I could sense that she wasn't enthused by this sudden and extreme violation of her personal space. As you can see, from the kiss, she was more focused on me than on those around her. I smiled and laughed almost giddily as my husband snapped away. Part of me wanted to believe that this happy photo op represented these children's reality. Although, as I blogged previously, their tenuous future, dependant on a family coming for them, was not lost on me at any moment while we were there.

When Melissa Faye Greene was promoting her latest book, No Biking in the House Without A Helmet, I took my three children with me to a book talk. My 11-year-old and three-year-old  daughter, Leyla, adopted from Ethiopia, enjoyed the funny anecdotes about life with nine children, including some who had grown up needing different survival skills. Being goat herders in Ethiopia lends itself to knowing how to use slingshots and bows and arrows in ways that kids who grow up here can only imagine. My two youngest then happily joined other kids making crafts and playing in a back room of the Ethiopia Community Mutual Center in Seattle.

My teenager, Dimitri, who was reluctant to come and had pleaded to bring his Kindle, was rapt when the conversation turned to more serious issues involved in adoption -- bonding, hoarding, post adoption depression, and realities of orphanages and older child adoption. I looked at him and could see the wheels turning. Melissa shared her bout with post adoption depression in a brutally honest yet humorous fashion. She also shared the gut-wrenching story of meeting one of her son's birthmothers whom she had understood to be dead. This is not such an uncommon occurrence, if the stories from various adoption groups are to be believed. Dimitri leaned over to me at one point and said, "I am so glad you brought me. This is more grown up stuff than I expected and it is very interesting." In the tumultuous teenage maelstrom, I cherish moments like these, that give me a glimpse of the man he is becoming.

Melissa opened herself to questions and a woman at the back of the packed room stood up. She identified herself as an orphan who had suffered greatly as a young girl and had been brought to the U.S., though it wasn't clear to me whether she was an adoptee. She offered her opinion that the son Melissa talked about, who had a mother, should never have been adopted. The woman concluded with a statement to the effect she did not think it was worth losing your culture to gain a brighter future, because culture can never be replaced.

A hush came over the room, composed mostly of adoptive parents of Ethiopian children. I felt my son stiffen next to me as he prepared to defend our family, even if only in his mind. His loyalty is one of his best qualities. All eyes turned to Melissa. She began with, "I respect your point of view and I respect the importance of culture." Her words were spoken carefully and appeared deliberately chosen. "However," she continued, "Every child wants and needs a family first." She then described her experiences with orphanages in Romania and Ethiopia and concluded with, "In an orphanage, there is only orphanage culture -- not the culture of the people of that land."

After the talk, I made my way over to the woman who made the thought provoking comments and thanked her. I know it is not easy to raise these questions in a setting where most would prefer not to consider their children's losses. I appreciated the courage and candor it took to speak her truth, even if I did not agree with all of it. The responsibility of raising a child who has lost a great deal weighs heavy on me. It was one of the driving forces behind our library planting and other efforts to keep our daughter connected to her birth country. As I explained a bit of what we were doing, the woman nodded enthusiastically and said, "That is so good. Don't just take the babies; help the children there have a better future in their country." Her words felt like a gift, validating what we were attempting. Melissa's words also gave me a different perspective and additional comfort. I too believe that, in the hierarchy of children's needs, having a family comes before culture, although I had not thought about it before in those terms.

I did not fully appreciate Melissa's statement about the culture of an orphanage until last summer, when we visited the place where my daughter spent her early days. (On our adoption trip, we met her at our agency's transition house in Addis Ababa.) But when we traveled to Leyla's hometown and visited her orphanage, the understanding of Melissa' words hit me like a thunderbolt. Every second that we toured the clean, well-run grounds, orphans' eyes followed us hungrily. I felt sucker punched. I knew deep in my gut that these children desperately wanted nothing more than a family and a brighter future, no matter where in the world that might be.

The process of adopting from Ethiopia has changed a lot since we adopted our daughter in 2008. Prospective adoptive parents now make two trips and the waits are much longer. Allegations of one kind or another are swirling and it seems people are questioning whether adoptions from Ethiopia will even continue. For the children's sake, I sincerely hope they do. Adoption is not a solution for all orphans. International adoption, by its very nature, is and should be a last resort. But I believe that these children, who live in such dire situations, deserve the chance to know the love and security of a family now, while governments and other concerned groups work to address the underlying root causes of their plight.

Turning my back on those children and walking out to our waiting van felt like I was taking a bit of their hope away with me. As I put one foot in front of the other, I tucked my face into my precious daughter's neck so she would not see the tears.

This time, I felt strangely exposed while explaining how adoption touched each member of the family in a unique way.  I shared anecdotes of both sons’ questions and responses, my husband’s unique perspective, and my own concerns.  After answering questions, I wished them luck and rose to leave when a man in the group asked, "Can I ask you one more question?  Has your circle of friends and acquaintances changed since you brought home your daughter?"

I stopped. After reflecting a moment, I answered honestly, "Yes and no." We entered the process of transracial adoption thoughtfully. Both my husband and I have a diverse set of friends and acquaintances, and we considered the unique challenges that our child and our family might face. We wondered if we could help a child navigating prejudices we never experienced ourselves. Our social worker had a reassuring answer, "If you recognize the challenge and are struggling with how to best address it, you are good candidates to parent transracially.  Those who don't do that have a harder time helping their children."

I read books about transracial adoptees' experiences.  "Black Baby White Hands" and "In Their Own Voices" both helped me anticipate what our daughter might need from us. One big take-away: I needed to look outside our family to make sure she connected with others who shared her cultural and racial identity.

I also examined the diversity of culture within our family and our community.  We love travel, have friends from many countries, and enjoy being part of a global community.  I have embraced my immigrant parents’ Dutch culture as part of who I am.  I embraced my husband’s Greek culture when we married as part of our families’ identity.  After our daughter came home, our hearts embraced her Ethiopian one, too. I began my first blog to raise awareness about Ethiopia's beauty and to explore ways of weaving this new culture into the fabric of our lives.

Through the blog, I met many people who shared a love of Ethiopia. I raised awareness and funds – leading to our Ethiopia Reads' first library in Leyla's town of birth, Bahir Dar, plus our current effort to raise money for a second and a more general literacy program in Addis Ababa.  I also found the exercise of writing helped me truly exam and bring clarity to various adoption related issues. Our ties to Ethiopia are now quite tangible, far reaching and continuing to grow.

Recently, a mother asked an on-line group how she could meet people of color on behalf of her child. The question was thought provoking for me – I never really thought about it in those terms.  Instead, I found ways to bring Ethiopia – its beauty, its history and its need -- into our family's consciousness.  We weren’t looking for Ethiopian acquaintances – we wanted a deeper connection. Once we showed a dedication to our daughter’s birth country, relationships germinated with like-minded people whether they were Ethiopian, born in Ethiopia, or just grew to love this east African country. 

My dad was born in Indonesia, then lived in Australia and the Netherlands before settling in the US.  He is Dutch but his cultural identity is different than my mother, who lived her whole life in the land of tulips before immigrating. My husband is the only member of his family who lives outside of Greece. He is still fully Greek but he embraces the U.S., the Netherlands, and Ethiopia as part of who he is too. And in doing so, he separated himself to some degree from those who remain in his homeland.  Through watching their experiences, I came to realize how culture fits into identity is a individual and evolving experience.

To my darling daughter, I owe her a commitment to cherish her culture as part of our family, to genuinely learn and connect with her birthplace, and give her the best of both her father’s and my cultures. The mosaic of those different elements will then be available as she molds her own identity and makes her own peace.

This summer our family had the amazing experience of traveling back to Ethiopia, our daughter Leyla’s birth country. We went with a number of objectives in mind: to spend time getting to know Ethiopia, including the community where Leyla was born, in a way we couldn’t during our frenetically anxious first visit when we adopted Leyla; to connect Leyla, 3, to her country as she grows up—starting with this trip; to have our (biological) sons view Ethiopia as a part of our family’s shared heritage; and to see the seeds sprouting from our library planting efforts. As you can imagine, we felt a number of emotions and had so many amazing experiences—it's a lot to process, so it will take a number of blog posts to fully explore how well we met these objectives over the course of our stay. 

As the trip unfolded, I realized I had another objective for myself that I hadn’t as clearly articulated or thought through. I was trying to imagine and appreciate what Leyla’s life might have been had she grown up in Ethiopia and what it was like for many children in her country. The logistics of our first visit shielded us from much of these considerations. We met Leyla at the transition house of her adoption agency, WACAP, in Addis Ababa and spent most of our time visiting with her there, traveling with WACAP staff, or completing the required adoption paperwork.

Leyla was born in Bahir Dar—an especially lovely part of a very beautiful country. It sits on the banks of Lake Tana in the northern part of the country. The Blue Nile Falls are not far outside the city. It is not far from Addis Ababa but the terrain is so difficult, a plane ride is your best option for getting there. Our first day there was a whirlwind of experiences and emotions. We began with a visit to the school where Leyla would likely have attended. It was there we planted our first library, set to open in the fall.

We then set off on a boat ride across the third-largest lake in Africa. We saw a number of sizeable boats with tourists taking off on the two-hour trip to some of the islands in the center. We were excited waiting for our turn. Then we saw our boat—it was small, battered and did not inspire confidence it could make it across the watery expanse. You can see a bit of it in the picture above. We sat uncomfortably perched on its edges since there were no real seats except for the driver’s. A haze hung over the lake, which gave an otherworldly feeling—like that evoked in the stories of The Lord of the Rings and The Chronicles of Narnia. The foliage was lush and green and the airborne fowl, diverse and plentiful. We were headed toward a monastery on an island deep inside the lake. 

About halfway there, the boat stopped. Neither the driver nor the guide seemed concerned. I did notice at that time I did not see any life jackets. The driver pulled a spare gas can out from the back of the boat and filled the tank. He then attempted to start the boat again but instead it sputtered and quit. I had visions of being stranded in this enormous body of water halfway around the world from our home. Thankfully, the sound of the angry chopping of the engine springing to life jolted me back to reality.

When we arrived, we gratefully stretched our cramped legs. As we climbed up the mountain toward the monastery, children selling handmade goods surrounded us. My sons wanted to buy everything, but my husband and I declined. We learned from past experience that unless we wanted to spend the little time we had haggling with many prospective sellers, we needed stay close to our guide who could help us navigate quickly.

In the entryway to this ancient place of worship, we saw more children. A number of pairs of large, liquid-black eyes peered curiously out at us from inside makeshift tents. The guide told us that they were the orphans supported by this monastery. They survived on handouts from those living on the island who had a bit to spare. The priest and monks helped with their education. Many were painfully thin, with well-worn clothes and broken plastic shoes, if they were lucky enough to have any. A pair of kids, whose faces were covered in flies, sat outside the tents, appearing not to have the energy or will to bat the insects away.

Within minutes, my sons announced they needed to use the bathroom. This is a particular challenge in Ethiopia since public toilets are far from the norm.  Fortunately, this was a rare occasion when there was one nearby. With Leyla in my arms, I waited outside attracting a small group of locals. One man confidently approached and asked me, “Is she yours?” pointing to Leyla who was taking it all in with her own liquid-black eyes. I said, “Yes, she is my daughter.” He looked from her face to mine and back at hers again. He responded, “She is black and you are red.” 

He didn’t appear to be making a judgment but rather a statement of fact. Leyla appeared nonplussed by the exchange. She gazed closely at my face while we talked to see my reaction. At 3, I don’t know how much she comprehended. This man, like many Ethiopians we encountered, then reached out to touch her arms. She turned her body away. She does not care to have unfamiliar people lay their hands on her. My boys found the man’s description of me beyond funny when I recounted. I am definitely quite pale but have never been called red before. As we walked on, I talked with them about how varied experiences and cultures can create different perceptions.

The monastery was beautiful, but the orphans who made their home at its entrance lingered in my mind through the remainder of our tour there and the long return ride. When we brought Leyla into our lives, I was struck by how different our life experience was from her birth family's. Now I saw with my pale green eyes a bit of what her life might have been like had she remained. 

And those children were some of the lucky ones. Her life now is a world apart from theirs—the geography and being raised by a "red" mother are only the most obvious differences. I saw the evidence in even something as simple as the flies—she will not let one come near to landing on her without making a fuss. The immense need was palpable when I looked at these children who shared my daughter's eyes.

I felt, too, the power of community—doing its best to care for and provide hope to the most vulnerable among them. Seeing this combination of need and hope reminded me of one of the reasons we came: to be a part of the extended village that sees providing hope to children in these circumstance as their global responsibility. Adopting Leyla connected our hearts to Ethiopia—we saw, and continue to see, through having her brighten our lives every day, so much beauty and potential there. And we believe we owe much to her homeland and its children who are still in need of hope.   

After my husband and I had our first child, I marveled at the miracle of birth. Before we brought home our daughter, adopted from Ethiopia, I had not thought about adoption in those same terms.

It isn’t that adoption is uncommon in my life. My best friend from my childhood was adopted. Family friends from my youth adopted children, and many of my adult friends also became adoptive parents through domestic and international adoption. I saw it as a wonderful second chance for couples who wanted to build their families but struggled to do so or as a priceless opportunity for orphaned or vulnerable children to gain a family—more utilitarian than the stuff of miracles.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

As we labored through the extensive paperwork and qualification process, I continued to focus on the utilitarian aspect, how each step of the journey had been designed to better prepare us to parent than any biological process. Each of the many questions asked forced us to search deep in our souls. Topics that rarely are discussed openly with strangers needed to be brought forth and examined—my relationships with my parents and siblings, my conflict-resolution style, and how I would handle challenges my adopted child—as well as our whole family—might encounter.

I felt the first tingle of something beyond my ability to explain the week before we received our referral. I called my caseworker because I knew we were next in line. I was incredibly excited to be so close to seeing our daughter. But I was also worried. I had seen other families in the program receive referrals recently for children as young as 4 months old. At the time, our sons were 7 and 11. My husband and I discussed our adoption plan at length and decided we were open to a child up to 2 years old, with a preference for children between the ages of 1 and 2. When I saw these referrals for very young babies, I panicked a bit. We were long past the diaper stage. And bringing a toddler into our home felt more manageable with our current family life.

So I called my caseworker and asked her if it was likely we would receive an infant referral. She paused and pulled out our file. She replied, “Yes, your coversheet says you requested a child up to a year old.” I was stunned and said, “There must be some mistake. We said up to 2 years old and were told we would likely get the higher end of the range.” She checked the file again and confirmed that while the remainder of our file said up to 2 years old, the coversheet had inadvertently been marked that we would take a child up to 1 year old.

She then asked me a potentially life-altering question. “Do you want me to change it back? We can wait for an older child to become available.” I hesitated, but I thought, Things happen for a reason. We decided to leave things as they were. Three days later, we received the referral of our precious little daughter, Leyla.

When I looked at a photo of Leyla’s face next to a picture of our youngest son Damian, a stronger sense of wonderment came over me—there was a striking resemblance. I thought to myself, You are just seeing things. Then my Greek mother-in-law, in her limited English, looked at Leyla’s picture and without prompting confirmed, “She looks just like Damian, only black.” Later, at an event at our local Ethiopian Cultural Center, an Ethiopian man remarked that Leyla and I have a similar face structure.

Since Leyla joined us, similarities with family members have continued to present themselves making me marvel with each one. She is a funny, outgoing, very verbal child who in many ways resembles her brothers when they were her age. (The common assumption that boys are less verbal did not apply in our house.) I watched her sleeping one night and noticed she slept on her back with frog legs, a rather uncommon sleeping position with legs bent at the knees and flat against the bed forming a perfect diamond in the center, just like I did as a kid. How is that possible?

She is a mama’s girl who is shy when you first meet her. But when she warms up, you will discover a wicked sense of humor, which my mom tells me is how I was as a child. Leyla has an intense love affair with shoes (mostly mine for the moment) that she shares with her father’s sister. Leyla and Dimitri (his name comes from the Greek goddess Demeter, lover of the earth), our eldest, both have an innate respect and love for animals. In addition to their looks, Damian and Leyla adore sweets (and both find sneaking them makes them taste even better). In so many unexpected ways, she fits perfectly into our family. In fact, Leyla fits so perfectly with us that a friend once observed after watching her antics at one of her brother’s soccer games, "She is such an Angelidis!"

I thought biology explained why my boys had many family characteristics, whether from my husband, one of our parents, our siblings, or me. But how can I explain all the characteristics my Ethiopian daughter shares with members of our family? She came into our lives with a similar strength of will and determination as her father. And he likes to joke, “She is as odd as her brothers. Now we know the reason they are all that way is nurture.”

For me, all kidding aside, I have only one answer as to why Leyla fits so seamlessly into our family—the miracle of adoption. In some ways, I have found adoption to be more miraculous than birth because the treasured gifts it revealed were so much more unexpected.

When my first son was born, I thought he was absolutely perfect. (I know, what mom doesn’t think that about her kid?) And frankly, I wasn’t sure I wanted more children. My husband, on the other hand, was sure we should have two. His sister is much younger than he is, and I think he missed having a close sibling and didn't want our son to lose out in the same way. When my eldest was 3, my thinking changed. With a little gentle nudging from my spouse, we decided to add child number two to our family.

Once I had my second son--born on his brother’s fourth birthday--I was sure we were supposed to have three. I still recall a bright sunny day in June when I was playing with my 6-month-old. He was a butterball with such an amazingly sunny disposition that my friends called him "hunk of baby love." I was holding him above my head and looking into his big, liquid brown eyes with impossibly long lashes when it felt like I was hit with a thunderbolt. He can't be my last! I thought. There is one more child in our future.

At different times over the subsequent years, my husband and I discussed adoption as a way to continue to build our family. We liked the idea of helping a child who needed a family. We gravitated toward international adoption since our heritage is already multicultural. However, when my sons were 3 and 7, I was diagnosed with a serious illness. Our focus turned to dealing with that and protecting my sons from the scary maelstrom that accompanied--surgery, doctor’s appointments, waiting, hoping, and worrying.  

Six months later, I was laid off when my company merged with another. Within a few months, with the worst of my health issues addressed, I was moving with the boys across the country after landing a great job in a distant city. My husband stayed behind for the first 10 months. Once reunited, we focused on bringing stability and peace back to our family after reeling from all the change. Adoption still whispered to me, but there were louder voices--my job responsibilities, the boys’ increasingly active school and sports routines, adjusting to a different part of the country and a new family routine after months of living in multiple states--demanding my attention.

We settled into a routine after a period and again began discussing adoption. But life intervened with another medical scare, which caused us to put our adoption plans back in limbo. But this time, the thoughts of adopting would not be relegated to whispers. Instead, they were like the loud, persistent ping ping of water hitting a metal sink from a faucet that has not been completely turned off.

My life motto has always been "No regrets." I can accept failure, although obviously it is not my preference. But regret is different. I didn’t want to wish I had taken the risk or made the choice after those options were gone. I wanted to avoid that hopeless, helpless feeling if at all possible. I asked myself, “If we don’t pursue adoption and try to get our little girl, will I regret this later?" 

As I reflected on this inquiry, I fast-forwarded in my mind to my later life. I imagined my boys grown with their own families. I imagined thinking back to this time and this decision. I felt the searing sting of regret when I contemplated the hole in my heart where my daughter, our third child, was supposed to be. I had my answer. Although I knew there was no certainty we would get the outcome I desired, I believed we needed to start down the adoption path. The decision gave me peace.

Obviously, we know how things turned out (although as I blogged previously—my health history led us down a different path than we originally planned for ourselves). We recently celebrated our daughter's third birthday at a local Ethiopian restaurant. The picture above was taken outside with my two youngest. She has brought amazing joy to our family.

If you're a biological parent who has also adopted, what made you decide adoption was the right path for your family? Tell us by leaving a comment below.

Yes, she touches upon many adoption-centered themes, ones that large families, international families, transracial families, and families who have adopted older children will relate to. She addresses the idea that children can have two mothers, that siblings can be the same age but not be twins, what life is like for orphans raised in institutions, and the past life and culture older children bring to adoptive families—such as the idea that a child can start life as a goat herder, become a star soccer player, and have an older brother who is still a goat herder (a true story for one of her sons). But there was something more.

Courtesy of Farrar, Straus & Giroux

As I pondered my reaction to this book, I was first struck with the ways that Greene and I are similar. She was 42 when she first adopted internationally, as was I. She's a mom to bio and adopted children, as am I. She is a fellow working mother and someone who also expresses herself through her writing. She is not a natural athlete, is quite introspective, and has insecurities and fears—all of which are quite familiar to me.

And I then was struck by the differences. I have three children; she has nine. I am Christian; she is Jewish. Her roots extend to Israel, mine to the Netherlands. Her husband is a criminal defense lawyer, mine is a Greek ex-pro basketball player turned coach and math teacher. Sports came to her house through her kids and were amplified through adoption, whereas they've always played a central role in our family. She is a professional writer; I am a lawyer.

And then it hit me: I connected with Greene and her book because she told her family stories in a completely relatable way. It doesn’t matter where you are from, what you do for a living, how many children you have, or what your religious faith is: Family is elemental. 

I was also drawn in by Greene’s honest, mom-centric perspective. She is the narrator and we look at her family’s adventures through her lens. Greene does not sugarcoat: Although she is the glue keeping her home together, she is at times overwhelmed and unsure of her choices for her family. In describing how her family was affected after she brought her son home from Bulgaria—he struggled to adapt to life outside an institution as she simultaneously coped with post-adoption depression—Greene shares how she wondered if she had ruined her family.  

In another part of the book, Greene writes about how she needed to help her children adopted from Ethiopia deal with their history of loss—being the sole caregiver for a dying parent and living with deprivation of basic needs like adequate food. She also shares how these stories didn't come easily, especially from children who couldn't always clearly communicate their needs—for not just emotional reasons but also because of language-learning challenges and cultural barriers. In some instances, her children would deal with this inability to communicate their feelings by acting out in problematic ways through fighting, tantrums, or by giving the silent treatment.

Each parenting challenge (adoption-related or not) is nestled in her family’s context and is shared not as something to fear but rather as something to understand and appreciate. Hearing this raw honesty from a mother of nine and a successful author is affirming for me as I wrestle with my own insecurities as a parent—it's comforting to know that not only am I not alone, I am in good company.

There's room for laughter, too. With No Biking in the House Without a Helmet, Greene takes full advantage of the fact that families provide unique opportunities to highlight the humorous and absurd. Her large one provides ample fodder. Is it OK to arrive late to a friend’s wedding because your daughter is begging you to save baby hamsters? How do you counter four determined teenage boys who want to learn about “sax”? (Hint: They couldn’t spell the word correctly because they were just learning to read in English.) Even with the book's title—drawn from something she told a son after he brought a bike into the house without thinking whether that advice made sense—Greene uses humor as a sword and a shield to survive the challenges of raising a family and to laugh at herself in the process.

In reading Greene’s There Is No We Without You and No Biking in the House, I was profoundly moved. Neither one did I speed through. They are not page-turners in that respect. I wanted to linger over each chapter. I wanted to examine everything she learned and shared, her sense of humor, and her openness in the context of my life. Greene is not one to indulge in the superficial (in fact, she consults her daughters for fashion advice before attending any formal event) or offer quick fixes. Instead, the stories she shares are about the power of family to heal, to stretch you beyond your perceived limits, and to open your heart. 

She is careful not to present answers—as her message is about the need for families to find our own answers—but rather her perspective and personal insight. But in sharing her doubts, her fears, her failures, her joys, and her journey, she allows us the benefit of walking down the path with her and coming away armed with information and understanding.

Her family is both completely normal in their bonds and the experiences they share as well as completely unique, as is each family. A section at the end summed it up for me: She describes how members of her family are both similar to and different from one another in a variety of both serious and funny ways—some related to adoption and many not. For example, “shiny hair that blows in the wind” could describe two of her daughters (one bio and one adopted from Ethiopia), while “Brillo-like hair remains unmoved by wind, water, hail, or ice” could describe four of her sons (one bio and three adopted from Ethiopia). “By joining this family through birth or adoption, family life was re-gained or enlarged, enlivened, and enriched" describes all 11 members of the family.

I find such truth for my family in that statement, and I'm guessing many of you will feel the same. This book is definitely worth a slow, careful read—you won’t want to miss anything.

Interested in reading No Biking in the House Without a Helmet? Post a comment below sharing an anecdote about your family. We'll randomly select one respondent to receive a copy of the book. You can read an excerpt here.

Rules: No purchase necessary. Void where prohibited. Subject to all laws. All entrants must register a valid e-mail address with AdoptiveFamiliesCircle (see Terms and Conditions). Giveaway begins at 5 p.m. EDT on May 4, 2011, and ends at midnight EDT on May 31, 2011. Limit one (1) entry per person. Approximate value of the prize, one copy of No Biking in the House Without a Helmet, is $26. Odds of winning are based on the number of eligible entries received. Sweepstakes sponsor: New Hope Media, LLC, 39 W. 37th St., 15th Floor, New York, NY, 10018.