Mihiretu has taken to wearing a purple tutu. The rightful owner is Lana. It was a present for her fifth birthday. But it's Mihiretu who's the avid fan. He has worn other rather girly things over the past year, managing somehow to look very punk rock, but the tutu is an all-time fave. He wears it anytime that both Lana and I permit it (and Lana is the harder sell). That has included the daycare at the gym, meandering around the neighborhood and dropping off Lana at school. What everyone makes of this little brown boy in this very full and luxurious tutu, I don't know.
I often feel that, by virtue of our transracial adoption, we are always verging on circus sideshow, at least in the eyes of the general public. Add to that a purple tutu, say, or Mihiretu on the back of the rather unusual utility bike or the two of us getting down to "Isn't She Lovely" as we wait in line at Old Navy to buy his new pink flip-flops ("fop-fops" in Mihiretu lingo) and we've got a spectacle on our hands. Not that I care. Clearly I don't if I'm allowing him out of the house in his tutu, if I'm buying him pink fop-fops, if I've adopted an African child to begin with. But sometimes I'm aware of the picture we make and it makes me giggle a little. On the inside. On the outside I'm an extremely somber woman grooving publicly to Stevie Wonder.