**Giving each child half a mother.
**Shortchanging one almost all of the time.
**Putting the younger in the line of fire of an emotionally immature and unstable boss.
**Breaking up a tug of war over a favorite toy 12 times a day.
**Trying not to laugh when the little one ruins the older one’s elaborate tower of blocks and then looks at me and smiles.
**Consoling the little one when the older one tells him to "Go away!"
**Never having any time for yourself.
**Hearing them giggle every morning in the room they share.
**Satisfaction in knowing that they have each other.
**Being immersed in motherhood. One kid was dabbling.
**Crazy -- what were we thinking?
**Lucky -- we were thinking one of each would be nice.
**A family, one was an accessory.
**Holding them both in my arms and knowing I need nothing else.
**The little one adoring the older one.
**The older one adoring the little one, when it occurs to her.
**Seeing them smile at each other like they never do at anyone else.
**The older one teaching the little one how to play their new game.
**The older one reading to the little one.
**The little one watching every move the older one makes and trying to imitate her.
**The older one muscling in whenever the baby is getting attention and succeeding.
**Ganging up on Mom.
**A second chance to parent without nearly as much anxiety and paranoia.
**Watching the two of them run across the room to give each other a hug.
**Knowing that you love them both equally, but it was having your first that turned on a special light deep down inside you.
**The younger one keeping that flame going, when you think you have nothing more to give.
**Knowing that your second will never receive the massive amount and intense quality of attention that your first did, though you really, really try.
**Finally forgiving your own mother if you were a second child.

By Meeta Arcuri

Labels: Meeta Arcuri, mothers, older child, two kids, younger child

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“You consider yourself white, don’t you?” a college dorm mate of mine asked me my sophomore year.

“No," was my reply. "Do you consider yourself Indian?"

That was almost twenty years ago, and I know now what she meant was, “You consider yourself one of us, don’t you?”

And the answer is: I consider myself American.

As a child of Indian immigrants, I’ve spent thirty-seven of my thirty-nine years here, watched my parents become U.S. citizens, and have tried to integrate into mainstream American society.

I consider myself American, even though people tell me at dinner parties how much they love “my” country. I consider myself American, even though my father wears a turban and I would ask him to pick me up a block away from school so the other kids wouldn’t see him. I consider myself American, though strangers still ask me if I speak English.

I thought I would be considered more American if I married what most people thought of as a “real” American -- a white male of northern European descent. For a while, I think I was. But he is adopted and has a slight Asian quality to his eyes. So we both feel without country at times.

And now we have children.

My daughter came out pink, with Asian eyes. When they brought me to her, I did not believe at first that she was mine. In Spain, my son is Spanish. In Greece, my son is Greek. In Egypt, they think he is Egyptian.

What culture will they identify with?

Will they be confused, or empowered?

I hope that they will be culturally sensitive, yet feel more accepted than I was. What I hope for most is that my children will be comfortable in their own skin.

By Meeta Arcuri

Labels: Meeta Arcuri

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