Now... There's the Future

Behold... the jollof. I made a big batch of jollof rice with snapper to celebrate our "family anniversary," a year since we met Avena and our family was born. Maybe I'm part Ghanaian, because that rice turned out darn good. Check out the top photo for evidence. The second photo is from a trip to the Discovery Museum in Sausalito, where we jammed to Chinyakare, a group that performs songs and dances from Zimbabwe. Today Avena and I were walking out of Target with a random assortment of goodies (everything from a hardy succulent to arts and crafts supplies), when we met the loveliest older African-American gentleman. He walked up to us, gestured to Avena sitting in the cart, and said, "Now, there's the future." I could feel his good intentions behind the statement, and I think it was just about the nicest thing anyone has ever said to us. As one half of a white mama/black baby combo, I've become pretty accustomed to receiving unsolicited advice and wacky comments from strangers (i.e., from the girl bagging our groceries, "She's so pretty, what is she mixed with?", or from someone in Home Depot, "Is she adopted? If not, you must have no gene pool."). Seriously? What a nice change of pace to run into this gentleman.

The third photo is from a trip to the Little Farm, a farm just the perfect size for kids in Tilden Park in Berkeley. Avena is in a major farm phase, and repeats the word "tractor" about fifty times a day. She didn't embrace her rubber rain boots until she saw a picture of rubber boots in her farm book, and re-branded them tractor boots (see bottom photo). Now they are quite the hot commodity.

Avena is finishing up a round of amoxicillin after being sick, and Ben and I are looking forward to some quiet after having the roof replaced on the house this week.

One more thing for those of you who have navigated an adoption, or pulled off a similarly complicated legal feat, and need a good laugh. A couple of weeks ago a clerk at the county called our adoption agency and told them that there was information missing on our readoption paperwork and it couldn't be sent on to the state until it was completed. As expected, our agency asked what was missing. The clerk said she couldn't tell them, because adoption cases are confidential. So, someone from our agency called me and asked me to contact the clerk. I called back immediately. I didn't have the woman's name, but I had her phone number and our case number. I explained the situation to the receptionist who answered the phone. "Well, what's missing from your paperwork?" the receptionist asked me. "I don't know," I replied. "That's why I'm calling." "Well, we can't tell you what's missing, adoption cases are confidential." What? How can I fix it if you can't tell me what's missing? I tried again. Was there any way she could connect me to the person working on my paperwork? "Well, who called you?" she asked me. "I don't know," I replied. This conversation continued in a circular fashion until I literally started cracking up. Finally I asked the woman how she suggested I figure out what was wrong with our paperwork if she couldn't either tell me or connect me to the person who had just called. She said, and I am not joking, "Maybe she will call you back." At that point I got off the phone, left work, drove down to the county courthouse, went through the metal detector, and waited in line at the bank of windows. The fix was minor (one address was missing from one box) and the paperwork may even have arrived in Sacramento by now.