Next weekend is the 9th Annual Little Ethiopia Cultural Street Festival and International Unity Parade. Here’s an interesting blog post about the thriving Ethiopian community in L.A.
We’ll be there chowing down on wat, getting jacked up on coffee and dancing our butts off. Join us!
As a Leo mom who is still technically a licensed cosmetologist in the state of California, I love Tariku’s hair long. But my fantasies of him looking like the newest member of the Jackson 5 have been at war with my dread of the daily battle to detangle. So we decided that we’d just take a tiny bit off the ends and hope that made it easier to comb through.
I’m not sure what traumatized me most about the experience. First, I showed up at the salon and was told by the stylist (after having cancelled on me last week) that she was running behind and I’d have to wait an hour. An hour. With my two-year-old. Needless to say I was heading out the door when the owner walked in and offered to do it. I threw caution to the wind and let her cut it. Tariku liked her and she did an okay job, though when I pick it out he looks a little bit like a lopsided bonsai. Plus it’s shorter than I would have liked.
T was a trooper and he was just happy that I brought his muppets DVD. He LOVES Miss Piggy. He doesn’t care one way or the other about his hair. I, however, have been randomly crying ever since.
I have to remind myself that it’s not the end of the world and that childhoods are chock-full of bad haircuts. But it was so hard watching her cut his hair and thinking that it had been a part of him for his whole life.
It’s also hard to explain the pressure that accompanies being a white mom dealing with black hair. It’s a loaded subject and everyone has an opinion. I have actually been stopped in the street by a barber who offered to cut it for me. I thanked him but told him that I’m kind of a hippie and my kid is going to go to hippie schools where no one is going to tease him because he has an afro.
As a mom, how can you always know that the choices you’re making are going to foster a positive self-image? I just want him to love his awesome hair. I want him to keep loving all of himself as much as he does today. I’m not exactly sure how to foster that kind of self love, but I’m committed to trying.
We are a family who love to be on the road, though until now Tariku has only driven for long distances in what is essentially a rolling hotel room. So we were unsure of how our drive to the Weezer show at the Del Mar Racetrack last weekend was going to go.
Well, for starters it took a full four hours through crawling traffic. Tariku has a strict no-car-sleeping policy, so about three hours into the drive I had just about run out of songs and snacks and we had a mutual mini-meltdown, but I have to say that for the most part it was a joy. Tariku is a born adventurer and loves to just drive and drive with the window down, smelling the sea air and heading to someplace new
As for the concert, as someone who has been watching Weezer shows for eight years, I think the guys have turned some kind of a corner recently. The shows seem more electric than ever and I’ve even held my breath a few times wondering if Rivers was going to take a spill off of his precarious perch on a high speaker. They’re creatively and energetically out on a limb and it’s thrilling to watch. And T-bone, as usual, partied wildly for the whole show. The only full sentences he says so far are song lyrics.
Legoland on the other hand- not as thrilling. More like a Sartre play come to life. I guess I’m going to be one of those awful moms who grudgingly shuffle through Disneyland while making sarcastic comments about gender-brainwashing and consumerism. That should get me a starring evil role in T’s memoir.
But at least he’s been to like a million rock shows already and he’s only two. That has to count for something, right?
T-Bone partied all day at the video shoot for the new Weezer single “Memories.” The band shot it at the Pink Motel with the Jackass Crew as well as a bunch of pro skaters and BMX guys. T thought the skaters were rad and the feeling was mutual. I had to stop him repeatedly from attempting to hop on a skateboard and drop into the pool. It’s an awesome song and if the vibe on set was any indicator, this video is going to be a cult sensation.
I went with some of my closest, oldest friends and their kids to the Weezer show on the Williamsburg Waterfront last Friday. In the words of my friend’s ten-year-old, it was freakin’ phenomenal. The venue was magical and the kids gave the evening a whole new shine.
I also had a reunion with John Collins, a veteran of the Samuel’s Major Problems (the Richard Foreman play I acted in a million years ago) crew and now a formidable director in his own right.
My old boss from the world of high-fashion hairstyling showed up with his daughter as well. A bunch of disparate phases of my life were represented but it all made sense somehow, as parts of a whole. I spent years keeping everything compartmentalized, but publishing the memoir cured me of that. It’s been hard to weather the exposure of the past few months but it’s also been tremendously freeing. All of my life, past and present, can comfortably exist in the same room now. Even better if that room is the backstage area of a Weezer show.
Here’s a video of Tariku rocking out to “If You’re Wondering if I Want You To I Want You To.” For those of you who are obsessed enough with how adorable he is to watch it through to the end, he gets upset because the giant beach balls bouncing through the crowd are out of reach. Just when you think life is nothing but a party, it all suddenly gets so cruel.
If you’re reading this on facebook or RSS feed, you’re gonna have to get your tush over to jillianlauren.com to see the outrageous cuteness.
Also- I promise soon to post a shot of Scott in the kilt he’s been wearing on stage, because he looks HOT.
We try to keep Tariku on West Coast time when we travel, so we’re often faced with the unique problem of trying to find something to do with an energetic two-year-old at midnight (never fails to draw dirty looks from judgmental strangers). Two nights ago, we came up with the genius idea of walking across the Brooklyn Bridge and back. Tariku was so mesmerized by the spectacular view that he walked smack into a cable and bloodied his lip but he’s used to it. He gets a bloody lip about once a week. Other than that, it was fantastic.
Tariku, Jen (babysitter extraordinaire) and I boarded a plane to NY just as the second half of the World Cup was starting. People were gathered six deep around the TV screens at the airport bars. I enjoy the energy of events that draw people together in odd places, but I’m a terrifically fickle sports fan. I was routing for The Netherlands because they’re flying me out to do press for Some Girls in a few weeks, whereas Spain hasn’t even bought the rights yet. We found out the outcome when we approached the Queens-Midtown Tunnel and saw the Empire State Building lit red and yellow.
T and I aren’t going along for the whole tour this summer because it was too impractical, but we decided to rendezvous with Scott in NY for a week. When we got to the hotel, Tariku was so excited that we didn’t get to sleep until 3:15PM. Scott arrived from Canedaigua a couple of hours later.
In spite of being exhausted, the NY mojo inspired us to go on an adventure the next morning. We took Tariku on his first subway ride up to the Intrepid museum, which is based on a WW2 aircraft carrier. I haven’t been there since I was a little girl and it was fascinating. I’m hardly one for glorifying militarism, but it’s difficult to stand on the deck of the Intrepid and not marvel.
So, in essence, we took a CHOO CHOO (all-caps indicates Tariku screaming at the top of his lungs) to a huge BOAT with AIRPLANES all over it. What?!?!? Tariku will never forgive me for taking him back to L.A. That is, until he gets back to the BEACH.
Then Scott put T down for his nap while I took a much needed break by reading in the tub. I didn’t bother with the water part, as I had already taken a shower. I just lay down in the dry tub and finished my book while occasionally looking out the window over the downtown rooftops. I steal my reading moments however I can get em.
Jen took T while we had a romantic dinner and grocery shopping date and if you think I’m being sarcastic, I’m not. Whole Foods in Soho is actually an excellent date spot if you like people watching and pricey chocolate, which is kind of my equivalent of CHOO CHOOS and AIRPLANES.
I was bummed that we missed Weezer playing on the Jumbotron in Times Square today, but we settled for the Electric Mayhem (The Muppets band) on my laptop instead, as this it what it looked like outside:
Besides having the best name in the world, Kristen Howerton’s blog, Rage Against the Minivan, is one of my adoption touchstones. They re-aired her appearance on The View today and her blog post about all the things she wishes she had said is a mind blower.
Here’s a tidbit:
I wanted to talk about the deficits that we will have as a white couple raising black children. I wanted to compare it to a single mom raising boys . . . how we will need help from others. I wanted to talk about how painful it can be as a parent to know that, while I can empathize, I will never fully understand my sons’ experiences as African Americans, or as transracial adoptees. I wanted to talk about how every adoptive parent needs to suck up their pride and admit that we can’t do it alone.
I wanted to talk about how much I have learned from reading the writings of adult adoptees, and how their experiences of loss and isolation inform me as a parent, and also break my heart.
I wanted to talk about the persistent question I hear asking why people adopt internationally instead of taking care of “our own kids” in the US. I wanted to talk about how every child, in every nation, is deserving of a family, not just American children. I wanted to say how petty I find this question.
We were so excited for our little July 4 getaway in Ojai this weekend (can’t you just hear the ominous undertones?). As usual, we packed Beverly Hillbillies style, our truck bed piled high with bikes and backpacks and dog beds and clothes and food and music equipment. And if that weren’t enough, we brought along Tariku’s two aunties and their dog and bikes and backpacks etc etc.
We arrive after driving through nearly three hours of holiday traffic– four adults, two trucks, three dogs and one toddler who had just had an unfortunate poop explosion– to find that our favorite little inn had lost our reservation. Not only that, the desk clerk looked me in the eye and snottily said, “I suggest you call ahead next time. If the computer reservation system doesn’t work, it’s not our fault.”
Friends, I lost it. Scott later confirmed that in the eight years we’ve been together, he has never seen me blow my stack like that. I used language that I hope my son never has to hear out of my mouth again. I was so furious that my whole body was shaking.
The thing is, I’ve had a date with a massive meltdown for a few weeks now. I had exactly three days of transition time between a mad book tour and the mad final revisions for my next book. I haven’t had enough time with my family; I haven’t had enough time to properly care for myself; I haven’t been getting enough sleep. I’m having hair trigger migraines that fell me in minutes. I’d say that my breakdown in Ojai is a red flag letting me know that I need to actively seek a better balance in my life.
I was able to sponge off Tariku on the lawn and then find us a couple of rooms for the night at a motel where the health department had shut down the pool, the floors were so dirty that the bottoms of our feet were black, and the continental breakfast was made up of three jelly donuts individually wrapped in cellophane. And when I tried to take advantage of the jacuzzi that was next to the bed, I apparently did something wrong, because the jets shot epic blasts of water clear across the room, completely soaking the comforter and traumatizing my son. He was crying and screaming, “FOUNTAIN! SCARY!”
Then, to ice the cake, the July 4 parade we had come to see was actually held on July 3 this year (no parades on Sundays in Ojai apparently), so we missed it. It didn’t seem worth it to stay another night, so we turned around and went home. We got back in time to eat a few Dorito crumbs left over at our neighbor’s party.
How did my life turn into an eighties movie starring Chevy Chase? And Scott is really curious to know when the Christie Brinkley part happens…
On Monday, I decided to have a vacation day at home instead. I turned off the iPhone and partied with T-bone all day long, first at Griffith Park and then at the Santa Monica Airport. Check out my brave cowboy on his first pony ride.
The truth is, all those romantic getaways that seem blissful in retrospect were overshadowed for years by how badly we wanted a family. Now we have one, and I guess that with a family comes a much higher probability of disastrous vacations.
I’ll take it.
A few weeks ago, an acquaintance gave me an advance copy of her upcoming novel, which has adoption-oriented themes. I’m not going to mention the book by name because the author is actually a lovely woman with good intentions, but as I read the book I felt my throat tightening and a cold pit growing in my stomach.
The book reinforced negative stereotype after negative stereotype of people in the adoption community. There is a mercenary, dishonest agency owner with ten “souvenir” children adopted from all over the world, for whom “home schooling” is synonymous with neglect. There is a rich, racist, neurotic prospective adoptive mother and her racist, whoremonger, absent husband. The prospective fathers at an adoption information picnic exchange derisive asides as their wives anxiously wring their hands and angle for the best caseworker. The birth mothers involved in the domestic adoptions are either tragically wronged angels or criminal, money-grubbing skanks.
I read the book through to the end because I kept wanting to find something redeeming but there wasn’t a shred of positivity to be had.
I was so upset that I had a hard time sleeping that night. I was disturbed at least partially because the book wasn’t meant to be anti-adoption. In fact, the woman had given it to me knowing that Tariku was adopted. When I discussed it with her later, she insisted that she was just trying to explore the complexities around domestic adoption and look at the fact that someone always gets their heart broken. Negative stereotypes around adoption are so acceptable that a major publishing house apparently agrees with her.
I don’t believe in either art police or thought police and I don’t believe that it is our responsibility as artists to portray positive imagery of anything. It is our responsibility as artists to tell truth. I don’t say “the truth” because I believe there are many different truths. I know that the author did her best to tell truth as she saw it.
However, my truth about adoption is so radically different from hers that it cost me sleep. The glorious thing about being a writer is that I have a forum for telling my version of the story (next book idea? Perhaps…).
Adoption is indeed complex and imperfect and at its core there is loss and heartbreak. My son has lost his birth family, his birth country, his culture, his language. There has already been so much sorrow in his 27 months on this earth that I sometimes lie in bed next to him while he sleeps and cry just thinking about it.
But that is not the end of the story; it’s the beginning. I can’t erase the loss from his life, but today and every day after, I can offer him a safe and loving home where his feelings are respected and his history is treasured. Nor can I erase the loss of a birth family too besieged by famine and poverty to care for a little boy, but I can honor their sacrifice.
The channels through which children are adopted are imperfect and need vigilant examination. And adoption isn’t the answer for world problems like poverty and lack of health care, but that doesn’t change the fact that children need homes and they need them now. Adoption isn’t a solution for Ethiopia’s challenges, but it was a solution for Tariku and it was a solution for us.
So do we really need another book with reprehensible characters in the adoption world? Do we really need another horror movie where there is a bad seed orphan running around with sharp kitchen utensils? There is so much suspicion of difference and unfortunately still so much stigma around adoption.
We don’t need any more bad press.
So I’d like to share some good press. Adoption is imperfect, but I’m wildly passionate about it and one of the reasons is the incredible people it’s introduced into my life. Here are links to honest, intelligent blogs from some amazing adoptive families. Some are my faves and some were pitched in by my mama girlfriends.
