It’s Not Cultural Appropriation If the Culture is Your Own

Hold on, and brace yourselves for the following post, because it may ruffle some feathers…

A couple of weeks ago, my youngest daughter wore the cutest dress. I wanted to share a picture of it on social media, but I hesitated. Why? Fear. Fear of someone seeing my see-thru-white, strawberry blonde baby in a Mexican dress and wagging a finger at me in the name of Cultural Appropriation.

What’s cultural appropriation (or CA as it is sometimes abbreviated)? Go google it. I know just enough to get myself into trouble, but not enough to explain it well. Basically, if someone from another culture “steals” a piece of a culture not their own, it is called cultural appropriation. If you’re white and wear dreds: CA. White and wear a Kimono? CA. White and paint a sugar skull on your face? CA. 

My daughter, as I mentioned before is suuuuuper white. But the dress she is wearing is from a culture her own, not stolen. My mother is Mexican. Her first language is Spanish. She was raised alongside her 12 siblings in the home of 2 Mexican American parents who spoke Spanish and had/have dual citizenship. My mother bought this dress from Mexico. For another one of her very white looking grandchildren, and this was passed to each of them, and now it is my little girl’s turn to wear it.

At any other point in my life, I would have posted this with pride! Look at my daughter looking adorable in this Mexican dress! Isn’t she cute? Isn’t she sweet?! But in today’s social media insanity, I hesitate. Because someone who doesn’t know me, may accuse me of stealing a culture that is my own.

Here’s the deal, it’s really, freakin’ important for me to expose my children to the rich Mexican culture my mother comes from. My mother married a white man, and I married a white man. My children have 1/4 of Latino blood in them. Growing up, I assumed I would marry someone who was also Mexican because I wanted my children to be steeped in Mexican culture. But that didn’t happen, so my white husband and I do our best to teach our kids about their Mexican culture. We teach them words in Spanish, and we use the correct pronunciation for words in Spanish. I practice rolling “Rs” with them, I say Spanish vowel sounds with them, we read bilingual children’s books. Putting my daughter in a Mexican dress is just another way I can introduce them to our rich culture.

I fear my generation has gotten so steeped in their separation of cultures, that many in the next generation are going to miss out on learning about mine. I refuse to tell my children that since they look white, they may not practice and enjoy Mexican food, dress, and culture for fear of offending someone. I refuse to hide in shame for putting my child in something that rightfully belongs to her. I refuse to bow to what my generation says is acceptable and not when it comes to this topic.

 I guess my point in posting this is to say, unless you know the exact ethnic or cultural background someone is from, save your judgement. It’s simply not your job to assume where someone has come from. And if we are told we cannot ask about someone’s gender, then you certainly aren’t free to ask someone what their cultural background is. It’s just not your business. It’s hard enough being mixed race without being constantly asked about it.

So now, after all that: Enjoy this adorable picture of my 1/4 Mexican daughter wearing a Mexican dress and playing with her full Mexican grandmother! Isn’t she adorable?

In Between 

I’ve been quiet around here. It’s strange, and perhaps makes no sense, but the busier and more stressed I am, the more I tend to write. I suppose it’s a little escape, or, much like the pressure valve on my new instant pot (who else got one for Christmas??) a release from all the craziness that gets trapped inside when life is jam packed.

I’m in between. Our home for the last 2+ years is going to have the rent raised high enough that we can’t possibly afford to sign on another year. I’m packing up the house with out much of a clear picture of where we are headed next. We have reached one month without a Foster placement. Every day I wake up and wonder if today is the day we will get a call, and each day it doesn’t ring. 

But though I’m in between, I’m also soaking up the cuddles with my 3 bio kiddos. Captain is enjoying being read aloud to. We are currently working through Mr. Popper’s Penguins and just finished Little House in the Big Woods. I love how he tells Milkman about what we read later on. Mamitas is as sharp as ever. She’s a never ending source of Disney movie facts, and has a myriad of imaginary friends (one named Bubblegummy and another named after herself– who has an astonishingly similar life to her own.) Peachy is a wild child. Wordless jokes, funny faces, and the ability to play her parents like a deck of cards. She’s brilliant and every time she does something new (be it naughty or clever!) I am in awe of her.

And then there’s been time with Milkman. We’ve had 2 dates in the last month, as dates are hard to come by once we have another foster placement in our home. We’ve spent a lot of time talking, cuddling, and indeed– staring at our phones waiting for a call. 

We feel the same way. Thankful that we haven’t gotten a call while our own kiddos have been sick almost constantly this cold and flu season. Thankful for the time spent focusing on our children, and on our marriage. But also mourning the empty room in our home, just waiting for someone else to take it over.

We know God’s timing isn’t our own. We know patience is the key to surviving fostering, whether you have a full or empty home! We know that the right child will be here when the right time comes. 

But in the moment, we feel very much in limbo. Very much in between. 

One Last Week

One week from today, I will be waking up to your cries for the last time. We will be wearing you in your favorite carrier for the last time. When it is time to go, your temporary siblings will kiss you and say goodbye–not really understanding what it all means. 

I will take you to your new home. I’m not sure how I will be able to say goodbye. I can’t even imagine turning my back after I have kissed you for the last time. As cliché as it sounds, how do you willingly leave a part of your heart behind?

I will go home and while my house will be filled with the sound of 3 young children, it will be too quiet without your steady snoring underneath my chin and you will not be asleep strapped close to my heart. There will be no bottles to heat, wash, or sanitize. Your bassinet will sit empty in the living room. Your clothes will sit cold in their drawers in the nursery. The Rock’n’play still and undisturbed by chubby toddler hands trying to rock you to sleep. There will be no middle of the night bottles to feed you, no songs to sing to you. 

I will worry that you aren’t swaddled how you like, that you aren’t buckled in your seat properly, that you aren’t held in just that special position we’ve found you like. I will wonder if you are confused by your new environment, by the new people in and out of your day, the new sounds, smells, and environment. I will pray constantly that you are safe, loved, and well-cared for.

I’m sure for a week or two I’ll come across a tiny sock, a burp cloth, or a renegade pacifier and the loss will wash over me afresh. My children will see my weep. They will learn what it is to give sacrificial love. They will learn that defending the fatherless is a hard but worthwhile job. They will learn how to mourn, how to grieve. They will learn that loving as the Father loves is a great risk. Just as their father and I are learning.

But for the next week, I will hold you close, I will give you an extra kiss every night before bed and tell you it’s from your mama, I will sing to you, call you by the nickname you will no longer hear once you leave, and rub my cheek against your fuzzy little head, soaking it all in, before you are taken away and we never see you again…

Transitioning 

visitation days 

You look like you

You cry like you

You smile like you

But you don’t smell like you

You smell like them

And soon you’ll be part of them

And not part of us

And a little part of my heart will break off in your hand

And you’ll take a little of me

And a little of them

And you’ll be all of you

Willing to Risk

To be a Foster parent does not take incredible strength, it does not take super powers, or special gifts. The right timing isn’t needed, nor is a perfect home. It does not require great wealth, a heart of gold, or above average patience.

What fostering takes is much simpler. It takes the ability to love someone who needs love, when you aren’t sure if that love will be reciprocated or how long that love will last. So, it basically takes what you need for any relationship, whether it be of a romantic, friendly, or parental nature, as my friend Jessica put it to me today, it’s being willing to risk a piece of your heart. 

One thing I hear from a lot of people is, “Wow, you foster? I could never do that, I would get too attached.” It’s always such a strange statement to me, as nothing in life is ever certain. I suppose we could say the same thing when people get married: “you pledged your life to someone? Man, what if s/he dies and leaves you a young widow? I could never do that, I would get too attached.” And the same goes for friendships and biological children. Getting too attached isn’t really the problem of fostering, because as a foster parent you SHOULD get “too attached.” 

If you loved everyone you love with a guard up to keep you from getting too attached, you would not know real love. Loving people is always a gamble. But it’s what we are made to do and called to do. 

I some times wonder if people think you have to be a robot to be a foster parent. Foster parents aren’t people who have a special switch they can turn on and off that keeps them from getting too attached. By saying *you* couldn’t do it because *you* would get too attached, insinuates that I don’t get too attached.

I currently have a 3 week old baby sleeping on my chest. I feel his chest pushing into mine as he takes breaths. A little whistle in his nose squeaks as he does so. His head is soft, with the most delicate blonde fuzz, and has that newborn smell that causes oxytocin to flow whenever you breathe his scent in. Every now his little feet dig into my tummy to readjust himself, 10 itty bitty toes, delicious and sweet. When I move my face towards his, he opens his mouth like a baby bird for what I like to imagine are baby kisses (but actually are just lips in search of milk!) Some times when he’s asleep, he smiles and laughs– don’t tell me that’s gas, it’s a smile and every time we see it we ooh and ahh. When he cries at night, Milkman interrupts his sleep and leaps up to change his diapers and feed him his bottles. During the daytime we wear him hours each day close to our hearts so he can learn how to bond and form healthy attachments, we seldom put him down. I some times weep when I stare at him, completely overtaken with his innocence and beauty.


Do I sound like someone who isn’t too attached? Do we sound like people who can just take care of an innocent human life and then not shed a tear when we get the call that it’s time for him or her to leave us? Of course we are attached. We love our foster children. 

I am not special. I am not more gifted than you. I do not produce some sort of magical half love reserved for fatherless children. I do not find goodbyes to be easy. What I am is willing. I am willing to have my heart broken for those who have broken lives. I am willing to get attached. I am willing to risk the pain of saying goodbye. I am willing to love. 
Can you be willing to love too? It could mean the world to a child. 

24 Hours 

It’s been 24 hours since I first laid eyes on you. Red-faced and screaming so loud I could hardly hear anything else. You were a stranger to me, just one day ago.

You were placed in my arms by our wonderful social worker, and immediately I needed to protect you. I shushed you out to the car where we picked up your things. 2 paper bags with some clothes, diapers, wipes, and a can of formula. 

It is the strangest thing to have a newborn without postpartum bleeding, nursing cramps, cracked nipples, and a whacked out hormone drop. But, some how my body is wanting to feel these things when I hold you. You do not smell like you came from me. Your scent is entirely different, but my body let’s down milk when I hold you close, my womb aches when I feed you your bottle. The sun is setting right now, and I sense that old postpartum blues feeling creep up where I am homesick in my own home. 

It’s so familiar to have a newborn in the house and yet this time it’s also different and unknown. I’ve never fed a newborn formula in a bottle, and certainly not at the same time while nursing my biological baby. Having to watch the clock for feeds and log ounces in and diapers out feels formulaic (no pun intended!) and foreign. Trying to distinguish between your cry for comfort and your cry for hunger is something I’ve not had to do, since a breast has always fixed either problem in the past. 

You’ve not been alive very long, and you’ve been with me for less than that, but some how I love you so much, my heart could burst. And whether you are here for 1 day, 10 days, or many more I’ll keep loving you. 

Two.

Today we will get cupcakes. We will buy 4 helium filled green balloons from the grocery store. 

This evening, we will drive to the beach, unload happy children from the van, and head to the sand. We will sing happy birthday, and eat cupcakes. I will whisper happy birthday, and let go of one green balloon, and watch it soar into the sky. The kids will run and play in the sand. We will eat a special birthday dinner. After, we will get the kids dressed into their pajamas, and head home.

We will unload them from the car, place them into their beds, and kiss them. And when I crawl into bed tonight, I will look up at the top shelf of my closet, where there is a royal blue, velour drawstring bag. In that bag is a box that holds what is left of my son. And I will fall asleep to the sounds of 3 healthy children sleeping rather than 4. And I will wonder how my heart can feel so full and so empty all at the same time.

My sweet, Ezra Eugene. Today is your 2nd birthday. You aren’t here to celebrate it, and while that is tragic for me, I know you are safely held in the arms of our Father, you are feeling no loss, only complete contentment in the presence of the One who formed your tiny, little body. I miss you every day, baby boy. I can’t wait to hold you, again. But in the mean time, I will honor your memory, never forgetting that on September 26th, you were born breathless and still, but completely loved and cherished.

And so, sweet Ezra, I do not say rest in peace, but rather, play, run, laugh, dance, and sing JOYFULLY in the presence of the Lord!

Why Did We Bother Going to Church Today?

Some Sunday mornings are blessed with quiet children, happily coloring or munching on snacks while listening to the sermon, a sleeping baby, and a toddler who wants to go to the nursery.

Then there are days like today, where I ask myself, “Why did we even bother to show up today if we weren’t going to hear a single word of the sermon because all 5  kids are screaming, fighting, crying, filled with energy, and all around going crazy??” I couldn’t wait to leave church today, because the kids were such a handful! I felt like today was a total waste.

So why do we still go to church, when we end up pacing the lobby with children having difficult mornings, and we don’t hear any of the preaching? 

We go because we are setting an example to our kids. We go to show our children that even on rough Sundays, God is the priority. That some times obeying really sucks, and we would rather stay home in our Jammies and hermit, but being with God’s other kids delights him. We go to show them that we don’t get to throw out the commandments that we don’t think are important. We go because God’s word never returns void, and even if they caught one sentence of the sermon today, it may stick with them later. We go because it’s not about us. It’s about God. It’s His day. And what better place to spend His day, than with other people who love Him, too!

Introducing HoneyBuns Baby Lotion! (And a GIVEAWAY!)

I know, I know… I’m just a little obsessed with Era Organics. I can’t help it. The products are great quality– and they work! I mean, that’s the combo we look for in any great skincare product.

 
You’ve heard me talk about their HoneyBuns line for babies before. I love it, you guys. It smells like a dream, it’s gentle, and a little goes a long way.

 

 

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I’ve been hoping they would formulate a baby lotion since I first tried their baby body wash. I use the healing balm for really rough spots on my children’s skin, but I wanted something for daily after bath use. My dreams have come true! Tyler and Nikki from Era Organics reached out to me and asked if I would like to try their new baby lotion, and of course I obliged. Any chance I get to test some Era Organics products, and I’m jumping on that!

 

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We’ve been using it on all 5 of the children after baths for a couple of weeks, and Milkman and I are loving it. Our younger foster child, Cheekies, has really sensitive skin. It’s been a long process to try and get her skin healed and soft. The HoneyBuns healing and diaper balms have helped on the super bad patches she had, but now that those are healed up, the HoneyBuns baby lotion is keeping her skin from being itchy and her sweet little pudgy arms and legs are deliciously soft.

 

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I have been stealing a pump here and there after shaving my legs, and my skin is loving it, too! Oh and the fact that it’s a pump? What parent doesn’t love a pump cap body wash or lotion? One handed, easy peasy, done! And when you have 5 children to get ready for bed, you appreciate every little time saving feature you can get.

 
I like this lotion so much, that I’m joining up with Era Organics once again to give one of our lucky readers a HoneyBuns skincare bundle including HoneyBuns baby wash, HoneyBuns Diaper Balm, and HoneyBuns NEW baby lotion!

 

 

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Head over to my Facebook page to enter the contest!

 
Don’t wanna wait? Here’s where to order! HoneyBuns is on Prime! 2 days and it’s on your doorstep!  Use the code CRADLE25 to get 25% off!

Nice To Meet You

We were both wearing black shirts, blue jeans, and had our hair up in black bandanas tied at the top of our heads. Her children ran to her. I hung back so she could greet them. I came closer and held out my hand tentatively for a handshake, and was pulled into a hug. 

One child holding on to both our legs, one child between us being held in the middle of our embrace. Tears fell, our bodies shook with emotion as we hugged. The words of trust she spoke softly in my ear will not soon be forgotten. 

She is their mother, they are her children. I am their caretaker, I am her cheerleader in the sidelines. We are on the same team. We are on their team.

This is Foster Care.