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Melissa Fay Greene - No Biking in the House Without a Helmet

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Melissa Fay Greene No Biking in the House Without a Helmet

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Dispatches from the new front lines of parenthood
When the two-time National Book Award finalist Melissa Fay Greene confided to friends that she and her husband planned to adopt a four-year-old boy from Bulgaria to add to their four children at home, the news threatened to place her, she writes, among the greats: the Kennedys, the McCaughey septuplets, the von Trapp family singers, and perhaps even Mrs. Feodor Vassilyev, who, according to the Guinness Book of World Records, gave birth to sixty-nine children in eighteenth-century Russia.
Greene is best known for her books on the civil rights movement and the African HIV/AIDS pandemic. Shes been praised for her historians urge for accuracy, her sociologists sense of social nuance, and her writerly passion for the beauty of language.
But Melissa and her husband have also pursued a more private vocation: parenthood. We so loved raising our four children by birth, we didnt want to stop. When the clock started to run down on the home team, we brought in ringers.
When the number of children hit nine, Greene took a break from reporting. She trained her journalists eye upon events at home. Fisseha was riding a bike down the basement stairs; out on the porch, a squirrel was sitting on Jesses head; vulgar posters had erupted on bedroom walls; the insult niftam (the Amharic word for snot) had led to fistfights; and four non-native-English-speaking teenage boys were researching, on Moms computer, the subject of saxing.
At first I thought one of our trombone players was considering a change of instrument, writes Greene. Then I remembered: they cant spell.
Using the tools of her trade, she uncovered the true subject of the saxing investigation, inspiring the chapter Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex, but Couldnt Spell.
A celebration of parenthood; an ingathering of children, through birth and out of loss and bereavement; a relishing of moments hilarious and enlighteningNo Biking in the House Without a Helmet is a loving portrait of a unique twenty first-century family as it wobbles between disaster and joy.

Melissa Fay Greene: author's other books


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Table of Contents Yes my children know Im doing this Yes my - photo 1
Table of Contents

Yes , my children know Im doing this.
Yes , my children have had veto power.
Yes , there are incidents that never saw print, having been throttled in the infancy of their composition.
No , Im not going to talk about those incidents in public; that would defeat the purpose of the children having had the last word.
Note: Yosef thinks that the book is essentially a biography of his heroic life thus far, with eight siblings filling in the background through minor and supportive roles. Im the star of your book, right? he asks me to confirm every week. Please try not to disabuse him of this notion.
Note: Jesse did grant permission for me to quote his childhood semi-Bulgarian statement regarding a swimsuit/bathroom mishap: Penis ne stuck. He prefers, however, that this quotation never be repeated in polite company.
Note : The No Biking in the House Without a Helmet rule is hereby extended to outlaw Rollerblading and skateboarding in the house, even with helmets.
Thank you to: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, especially Sarah Crichton, publisher of Sarah Crichton Books, with whom it has been a joy to work;and to Daniel Piepenbring, Kathy Daneman, Jennifer Carrow, Jeff Seroy, and Amanda Schoonmaker, who wittily sped the process along.
Thanks to: Donny, Molly, Seth, Lee, Lily, and Helen for proofreading, fact-checking, copyediting, and editing, all work provided free of charge and in great good humor. Thanks to Sol, Daniel, and Jesse, and to Garry Greene, for sharing history and memories. Thanks to Yosef for being the hero of this important sports biography. (See note above.)
Thanks to: my readers Kathryn Legan, Andrea Sarvady, Alex Kotlowitz, John Baskin, Judith Augustine, and Tema Silk for their literary sensibility, criticisms, laughter, and encouraging words.
Thanks to: the David Black Literary Agency: David, Dave Larabell, Susan Raihofer, Leigh Ann Eliseo, Joy Tutela, Antonella Iannarino, and Allie Hemphill. David, this ones for you.
Praying for Sheetrock

The Temple Bombing

Last Man Out

There Is No Me Without You: One Womans Odyssey
to Rescue Her Countrys Children
Melissa Fay Greene is the author of four books of nonfiction on civil rights and on the African HIV/AIDS pandemic, a two-time National Book Award finalist, and winner of the Robert F. Kennedy Book Award, the Salon Book Prize, the Chicago Tribune Heartland Prize, and the ACLU National Civil Liberties Award, among others. Her books have been translated into fifteen languages. She and her husband, Don Samuel, live in Atlanta and (obviously) are the parents of three daughters and six sons.
Please visit her online at www.melissafaygreene.com .
Room for One More?
Lee at ten was the first in the family to mention adoption He tore out of a - photo 2
Lee, at ten, was the first in the family to mention adoption. He tore out of a friends backyard at dusk when I honked from the driveway and clattered in cleats into the backseat, rosy and dirty under his baseball cap. I have a surprise for you! I said as he buckled in.
Are you pregnant? he happily cried.
What?! I stopped and turned around to look at him in amazement. It was 1998. I was forty-five. Lee, no.
Oh! he said with disappointment, but then offered knowingly, But did you find someone really, really sweet to adopt?
I pulled into traffic and silently swung my arm over the seat to deliver a paper bag containing a brand-new bike lamp that had suddenly lost most of its sparkle.

It was uncanny that hed asked this. A few years earlier I had struggled with the question of whether I was too old to give birth to a fifth child, and as it turned out, Donny and I were but a few months away from wondering if we might adopt a fifth child.
Id been surprised, as I turned forty-one, by a sudden onset of longing and nostalgia. The older children were thirteen, ten, and six. Lily wasonly two. But shed moved to her big girl bed, and the crib stoodnow and forever?empty. Why did I hesitate at this moment to leap across the great dividefrom childbearing years to non-childbearing years? Sometimes, standing at the kitchen sink, looking out the window into the front yard and the shade of the massive tulip poplar where the children lay in the deep grass, chewing on weed stalks, I wanted it never to end. If our home were a houseboat, wed started to throw off the ropes and rumble away from the dock, but what if one last child were racing down to the pier, hoping to leap onto the deck?
On my mothers side, I have one female first cousin, Judy: she gave birth to her fourth child at forty-two. That long-ago baby had been greeted by merriment and snickering among the medium and upper branches of the family tree. As I turned forty-one, I knew that having a last baby at forty-two was within the bounds of physiological possibility and ancestral sanction. At forty-one and a half I pressed myself to make a now-or-never decision.
Donny was surprised.
I kind of feel were set up to handle a larger population here, I said. To assist, he wordlessly extracted from a closet shelf an explicit wooden figurine hed lugged home from a summer trip to Europe twenty-four years earlier. Shops offering African jewelry, sculpture, and dashikis werent then ubiquitous in American shopping malls, and this item had struck the shaggy backpacking seventeen-year-old as a real find. A foot and a half tall, the rough-hewn fertility man-woman had sharp, pointy breasts, a pregnant belly, and an erect male genital. Young Donny, back at home in suburban White Plains, had glued tangles of black thread to key locales to serve as the statues pubic hair. Now he brought it down from behind his sweaters (Id forgotten the thing existed) and stood it up on his night table beside the clock radio.
Having his/her sharp parts all aimed at me felt threatening rather than encouraging. And I felt deeply undecided.
Other than Donny, I could find no one who thought it was a good idea to try for a fifth child at forty-one. The months scrolled by, narrowing my window of opportunity. Then I turned forty-two. Then I was forty-two years and one month old. I made my first-ever appointment with a psychologist. I need help deciding whether to get pregnant again, I told her. I have two months left to decide. But she wanted to talk about every sort of unrelated thing! She wanted to hear about mymarriage. She said, You know, I used to be afraid of empty nest, too, but it can be an absolutely wonderful time for you and your husband to find each other again.
I havent lost my husband, I said. Were very close. Can you just tell me yes or no here?
Many women find that once their children are raised, they have a chance to discover their own gifts and to pursue their own career aspirations.
Yes or no? asked Donny that night.
Shes not telling me until next week. Meanwhile, could you please turn that thing to face the wall? I dont like the way its looking at me.
The following week the therapist wanted to explore my relationships with my parents. Youre not going to give me a yes-or-no answer, are you? Honestly, I knew this wasnt how therapy worked; still, Id hoped for just a slender clue about which path to take.
The empty-nest years can be a very fulfilling time of life for a woman, she replied.
The answer is NO, I told Donny that night.
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