I have been doing this Stay at Home Mom thing for almost 6 years. Its been a struggle at times, its been a choice I have had to defend without totally believing myself, and it has been the absolute most life-changing decision I ever made. I have questioned myself so many times, been my own worst critic, and only now am I seeing that, in addition to being hard, being home with my children in this way is the best. I can't imagine having done it any differently (well, maybe planning ahead financially would have helped, but it is what it is). So why? What makes the sacrifices and isolation and exhaustion worth it? The answer is my boys. This life does not give daily or weekly or even monthly progress. It does not give back every other week the amount of money my time is worth. There are no vacation days or sick days or mental health days. There is no one to tell me if I am doing everything completely wrong...at the end of the day the most I can usually point to is the continued existence of my kids. But they have shown me, over the course of these years, that they do hear me, that they do benefit from my time and attention. They have blossomed into amazing little people with (strong) opinions and preferences, and there are things I can point at and say, I taught them that!
Last year was difficult for many reasons...more difficult than this current year has been. A big part of that was the frustrating and disgusting process of potty learning that I began with my oldest son and continued on to the second one. There were days when I sat in the bathroom with my sweet boy as he screamed at me, too many times that I cleaned poo out of underwear, and so many nights when I wondered if it would ever sink in. Suddenly, just as I wanted to throw in the towel and stay in diapers indefinitely, he got it. I sat in shock as my 5 year old walked to the bathroom all by himself and went with complete independence. That was the turning point; within a few weeks, I didn't need to remind him to stop playing and go, nor did I have to clean any wet or poopy clothes. When I accompanied him on his class trip this past October, his teacher praised him for his independence and explained that he is the only student in his class who does so. In that moment, it was all worth it. Amazingly, all the trouble and stress and just gross-ness disappeared as I looked at my son with pride. It was hard, but we made it through to the other side. That perspective has served me well ever since. I remind myself of how long it took to get to this place of independence, and how worthwhile it is now that we are here. As I continue to work with the younger two all day, I can think ahead to what wonderful people they will be in just a few years, after the tantrums and the crying fits and the dependence subside.
And another thing...taking a break from working and having kids has really made me a terrible employee. When I am home, I am completely, unilaterally, Joseph-Stalin-in-charge. I determine everything, from the menu for the day, what we will play, what we will wear (although James has finally started having some input on that one), and most of the time, my attitude and mood affect everyone else in the house. So to put on a corporate shirt and put myself under the management of another person is hard. Especially when so few managers earn respect these days. And its really hard to get yelled at by some stupid person about something over which I have no control, nor did I cause, while thinking about my children at home without me. I mean, yes, they yell at me over things which I can't control...they ask me for snow in August and candy at bedtime and for Lightning McQueen to be real...but they're children and I expect them to be irrational and impatient. I hope that our time together and the coming years teach them to let go of these childish ways so they can treat people in the service industry with respect. But I would rather face their tantrums than those of a 50 year old businessman. I like that I can spend five days in a row wearing sweatpants when I have my period, that I can go outside when the weather is nice and stay in when it is not, and I really like not having to answer to anyone else about how I spend my day (I asked my hubs recently what he thought about me being home and did he wish I had a job or was going to get one in the future, and he said he trusts me completely with how I spend my time, he knows I'm an active person who will always make good use of it...isn't he the best?). So, while being a full-time mom is tough, in comparison to any other job I've had, its the best.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Staying Home: Why its Hard
Every woman faces a choice when she gives birth: do I work or stay home? For some, the choice is easy. Perhaps you are already at home, or perhaps you have a job that is important, that you love, that pays the majority (or all) of your bills. But if you are like me, you faced a Fork in the Road. A point when you decided to become a stay at home mom, rather than continue at a job that paid too little to afford daycare, that daily put you in the line of fire for an ignorant person to take their frustration out on you, that didn't seem worth sacrificing time with your child. I didn't know many stay homes when I was growing up. My mom worked throughout my childhood, and I never doubted that she loved me and cared about the person I was becoming. And just as I assumed that I would have a natural at-home birth like my mom, I also figured I would just keep on working after. But as I saw my friends have babies and return to work after six weeks, it became apparent that maternity leave was not long enough to adjust to all the changes motherhood brought...nor was it long enough for breastfed babes to sleep through the night, thus allowing their milk source to sleep. My job was nothing special; I'd been starting to look for something different when I got the two pink lines on the pregnancy test. I also met some real stay at home moms, and saw that they were making one income work. So I decided to give it a try, and my husband supported my decision.
In the last six years, I have at times taken part-time employment to help pay the bills or provide a little extra Christmas money, but I have never stopped thinking of myself as a SAHM, because ultimately my little jobs have gotten the absolute last priority in my time, attention, and work ethic (which, yes, made me a bad employee). For the last 12 months, I have been completely at home, and there are days and weeks and sometimes even months when IT IS HARD. The difficulty boils down to adjusting. How do I adjust to the additional time I have with no outside work to do? How do I adjust to the lowered income with no more paychecks coming my way? How do I adjust to the lack of interaction with other adults, losing the time I spent by myself going to and from work, and the relentless demands of young children?
TIME
One of my working moms commented, after spending a week off work at home with her child, how even if she stayed home full time, she would still struggle to get everything done. This is so true. Although in the beginning, with just a newborn baby and a small duplex to care for, there was plenty of time to read and watch TV and take personal time, the pace accelerated by the first birthday, so that I am falling into bed at night listing off all the tasks that remain undone. Most days I have to decide whether to shower or fold laundry during nap times, because attempting either while my young children are unattended will quickly result in an injury or property damage (or both). Besides which, the whole point of staying home is not to win a Martha Stewart award, but to spend time with my children as they grow and develop, to play a prominent role in that, before they head to school for a majority of their day. This has become more clear to me this past year, as my oldest has embarked on his all-day school career, and I am realizing that it won't end until he's ready to move out. Although we still have nights and weekends and breaks (not to mention copious sick days), I am now sharing much of the work of teaching and molding him with his teachers and classmates. There are days when I miss the duties of outside work, the sense of accomplishment in doing something (even if its just cashing a check or serving a drink) and the reward of having others recognize your role. I have a wonderful husband who tries to do this for me...for instance, the other day he came home and called to me from another room, "Oh, did you vacuum today?" Thinking he noticed how much cleaner the house looked, I walked toward him, ready to receive my praise, only to find him returning a rug to its rightful place on the floor. "So you only noticed because things were out of place, not because it looks clean?" I asked. Yep. Its hard to wash the same clothes and dishes over and over and not feel done. Its hard to make three meals a day for people who can't even talk, although when they do, they still don't say thank you.
MONEY
Its hard to change from two incomes to one. Americans are much better at spending than cutting back, and I am an excellent American. I'm still figuring out ways to make ends meet, finding cheaper alternatives to products and services, and ultimately, giving up quite a bit. New clothes are a thing of the past. New toys are starting to go that way too. Coloring books still have to be new, although I've gotten great deals at the One Spot and other discount places. Chris and I loved to eat at restaurants whenever possible in the pre-baby days, but that was another sacrifice to the single income lifestyle, especially once our baby decided he would rather throw a tantrum than sit in a high chair. Its more enjoyable to sit across our kitchen table at mealtimes, while the children crawl and run and jump around us than to take turns walking a kiddo around until the food comes and take turns eatimg alone at Fridays. One of my husband's coworkers told him she will always be a working mom, because she doesn't want to give up the beach vacations and the new cars. She had an easy decision, because those are so far down our list of things to save for, I don't even know when they will happen again. Its hard to go from shopper to thrifter.
HELLO? IS ANYONE ELSE THERE?!
The thing I loved most about outside employment was spending time with coworkers. My last job, the one I described so grimly at the outset, was working in a bank with six other women. We had so much time between customers, sorting cash, shredding old documents, and we filled it with endless conversations. These ladies were so different and colorful and open, and my first months at home I ached to go sit with them for just an hour, to tell someone else what was going on with me, and to hear what was happening outside my little house. I missed the 55 year old grandmother, who would actively listen to me gripe about some problem, then offer the most compassionate, insightful response. I missed the manager, a feisty little woman barely five feet tall, who loomed over us all with her confidence and authority. She would say the funniest things when she got worked up, which was at least once a week, and I always knew where I stood with her. In contrast, my babies would at times cry for no reason, would not respond to my attempts to comfort them, would be more calm in the arms of others or even alone in their cribs. Its hard not to take that as rejection. Its hard to have perspective on your own life without someone to be a mirror, to call you on your crap or show you the way. I spent a long time trying to find mom friends and mom mentors, anyone who understood the life I had chosen and could offer support or solutions. I think I've found that at last, and it has much to do with the moments of peace I find throughout the day. Its hard to be alone with my kids. Its hard to spend all day talking to myself.
In the last six years, I have at times taken part-time employment to help pay the bills or provide a little extra Christmas money, but I have never stopped thinking of myself as a SAHM, because ultimately my little jobs have gotten the absolute last priority in my time, attention, and work ethic (which, yes, made me a bad employee). For the last 12 months, I have been completely at home, and there are days and weeks and sometimes even months when IT IS HARD. The difficulty boils down to adjusting. How do I adjust to the additional time I have with no outside work to do? How do I adjust to the lowered income with no more paychecks coming my way? How do I adjust to the lack of interaction with other adults, losing the time I spent by myself going to and from work, and the relentless demands of young children?
TIME
One of my working moms commented, after spending a week off work at home with her child, how even if she stayed home full time, she would still struggle to get everything done. This is so true. Although in the beginning, with just a newborn baby and a small duplex to care for, there was plenty of time to read and watch TV and take personal time, the pace accelerated by the first birthday, so that I am falling into bed at night listing off all the tasks that remain undone. Most days I have to decide whether to shower or fold laundry during nap times, because attempting either while my young children are unattended will quickly result in an injury or property damage (or both). Besides which, the whole point of staying home is not to win a Martha Stewart award, but to spend time with my children as they grow and develop, to play a prominent role in that, before they head to school for a majority of their day. This has become more clear to me this past year, as my oldest has embarked on his all-day school career, and I am realizing that it won't end until he's ready to move out. Although we still have nights and weekends and breaks (not to mention copious sick days), I am now sharing much of the work of teaching and molding him with his teachers and classmates. There are days when I miss the duties of outside work, the sense of accomplishment in doing something (even if its just cashing a check or serving a drink) and the reward of having others recognize your role. I have a wonderful husband who tries to do this for me...for instance, the other day he came home and called to me from another room, "Oh, did you vacuum today?" Thinking he noticed how much cleaner the house looked, I walked toward him, ready to receive my praise, only to find him returning a rug to its rightful place on the floor. "So you only noticed because things were out of place, not because it looks clean?" I asked. Yep. Its hard to wash the same clothes and dishes over and over and not feel done. Its hard to make three meals a day for people who can't even talk, although when they do, they still don't say thank you.
MONEY
Its hard to change from two incomes to one. Americans are much better at spending than cutting back, and I am an excellent American. I'm still figuring out ways to make ends meet, finding cheaper alternatives to products and services, and ultimately, giving up quite a bit. New clothes are a thing of the past. New toys are starting to go that way too. Coloring books still have to be new, although I've gotten great deals at the One Spot and other discount places. Chris and I loved to eat at restaurants whenever possible in the pre-baby days, but that was another sacrifice to the single income lifestyle, especially once our baby decided he would rather throw a tantrum than sit in a high chair. Its more enjoyable to sit across our kitchen table at mealtimes, while the children crawl and run and jump around us than to take turns walking a kiddo around until the food comes and take turns eatimg alone at Fridays. One of my husband's coworkers told him she will always be a working mom, because she doesn't want to give up the beach vacations and the new cars. She had an easy decision, because those are so far down our list of things to save for, I don't even know when they will happen again. Its hard to go from shopper to thrifter.
HELLO? IS ANYONE ELSE THERE?!
The thing I loved most about outside employment was spending time with coworkers. My last job, the one I described so grimly at the outset, was working in a bank with six other women. We had so much time between customers, sorting cash, shredding old documents, and we filled it with endless conversations. These ladies were so different and colorful and open, and my first months at home I ached to go sit with them for just an hour, to tell someone else what was going on with me, and to hear what was happening outside my little house. I missed the 55 year old grandmother, who would actively listen to me gripe about some problem, then offer the most compassionate, insightful response. I missed the manager, a feisty little woman barely five feet tall, who loomed over us all with her confidence and authority. She would say the funniest things when she got worked up, which was at least once a week, and I always knew where I stood with her. In contrast, my babies would at times cry for no reason, would not respond to my attempts to comfort them, would be more calm in the arms of others or even alone in their cribs. Its hard not to take that as rejection. Its hard to have perspective on your own life without someone to be a mirror, to call you on your crap or show you the way. I spent a long time trying to find mom friends and mom mentors, anyone who understood the life I had chosen and could offer support or solutions. I think I've found that at last, and it has much to do with the moments of peace I find throughout the day. Its hard to be alone with my kids. Its hard to spend all day talking to myself.
Monday, December 17, 2012
The Little Things
Yesterday I baked cookies. Its become a fun ritual this school year, spending Sunday afternoons in the kitchen baking goodies to pack in the lunches all week. Its a little time to myself, although a few weeks ago I got James in on the action by measuring out ingredients and letting him toss them into the mixer. He really liked it, and hopefully its something we do more often. But for now, its mostly for me. Its a nice time to be productive and let my mind wander. I have been planning which of my cookies I think are the best, which I want to share with my friends and the people I appreciate this Christmas. I do this every December, but sometimes I talk myself out of actually giving out cookies. I think, this is such a little thing, people won't care if I do it or not, they'll think I'm weird, over and over in my head until I talk myself out of doing something I wanted to do to be nice. A few years back, our pastor challenged us to find someone who serves us regularly, whether it be a waiter or barista, or some other job that gets done for us, and do something nice. Give the person a $5 gift card. Let them know that you appreciate what they have done for you the whole year. I sat in church trying to think if there was a service person who I saw often enough to do this for, and then I realized that the same young woman made me a burrito at Chipotle every other Wednesday. She was always friendly and recognized me, and I stopped off and bought a candy bar and wrapped it in ribbon and put it in the car. Then I agonized for about a week whether or not to give it to her. I seriously need to get out of my head sometimes, my husband had no idea what to do with the wreck of a wife I had left him with. So finally, the Wednesday before Christmas, I took a deep breath and brought the candy bar into Chipotle. But I didn't see her! As the other person made my burrito, I asked about the red-head who usually worked. "Who, Jaime? She's on her break right now." Actually...that's perfect. So I asked her to give Jaime the candy bar and wished her a Merry Christmas, and stumbled out into the cold, shaking from my nervousness. I did it! Phew. Now....would Jaime think I was nuts? Would she eat the candy bar or eye it suspiciously? Fast forward another two weeks, and I am back at Chipotle to pick up my burrito. There is Jaime, once again manning the salsa, and she looks up at me with a bright smile. "Did you bring me candy a few weeks ago?" she asked. "Oh, um, yeah." And she smiled a little bigger and said, "Thank you so much, that seriously made my day." Aww! I explained about my pastor and how I thought of her and how she is always nice to me and I just wanted to let her know I appreciated it. I think about that exchange sometimes, how very little it cost me to do something for her, and yet how much it brightened her face. How much does it take to send an encouraging text or email? How much effort is required to give a smile and make eye contact with the people around us? How much does it cost to make a batch of cookies and give them away? The answer is VERY LITTLE. And yet, how much does it mean to the recipient? Why do we hold ourselves in, as though we are risking anything to give love and kindness freely every day?
After James left for school today, I loaded a few plates with the cookies I made yesterday and drove to his school. I had been thinking for a few weeks that I should make a plate for his teachers, for all the wonderful work they've done this year. But as I baked yesterday, my idea grew. I thought of the faculty at Sandy Hook Elementary. I thought of the principal who gave her life issuing a warning to the rest of the school. I thought of the teachers hiding children so their young lives could continue. There is nothing I can do for those wonderful people, but I am just a few streets away from a school full of educators willing to do the exact same thing for my child and my neighbors' children. And so I wrote a note, thanking the office workers for all they do, and I dropped off my plates with the secretary. She asked, "You made these for us?" as though no one had ever brought her cookies before. I struggled to get words out without bursting into tears, but yes, I made these for you, for all you do, and to let you know that I appreciate you. Merry Christmas.
*I kind of hate that this blog post sounds like a "Look at me, look what I've done", but I only mean it to say these are easy things that we can all do regularly. In a court of generosity, there are many who surpass me in the ways they give, but in doing these little acts, I hope that a bigger sense of giving can grow in my heart and in my family. Let's make the world a better place, right now.
After James left for school today, I loaded a few plates with the cookies I made yesterday and drove to his school. I had been thinking for a few weeks that I should make a plate for his teachers, for all the wonderful work they've done this year. But as I baked yesterday, my idea grew. I thought of the faculty at Sandy Hook Elementary. I thought of the principal who gave her life issuing a warning to the rest of the school. I thought of the teachers hiding children so their young lives could continue. There is nothing I can do for those wonderful people, but I am just a few streets away from a school full of educators willing to do the exact same thing for my child and my neighbors' children. And so I wrote a note, thanking the office workers for all they do, and I dropped off my plates with the secretary. She asked, "You made these for us?" as though no one had ever brought her cookies before. I struggled to get words out without bursting into tears, but yes, I made these for you, for all you do, and to let you know that I appreciate you. Merry Christmas.
*I kind of hate that this blog post sounds like a "Look at me, look what I've done", but I only mean it to say these are easy things that we can all do regularly. In a court of generosity, there are many who surpass me in the ways they give, but in doing these little acts, I hope that a bigger sense of giving can grow in my heart and in my family. Let's make the world a better place, right now.
Friday, December 14, 2012
2012 A Year of Lists
Don't you just love end of the year lists? Top 100 songs...The best books of the Year...even Facebook will helpfully remind you of your top events from the past year (how do they decide that? the most comments on a status? frequently used words?). So here's a very lazy post comprising of my own lists...
Favorite TV shows I started watching in 2012
*not necessarily shows that were new this year
1. The Mindy Project
2. Smash
3. The Guild
4. Downton Abbey
5. Raising Hope
My Biggest Moments of the Year, that most likely never were posted to Facebook
1. Finalizing our adoption
2. Joining Family Village
3. Finding a new resource and reassurance from Mommy Bloggers
4. Taking my family to Texas for the first time
5. Sending my oldest baby to school all-day!
Biggest moments for the Kids, therefore amazing moments I got to witness
1. Two fully potty-trained kids!
2. James and Winston both starting to read
3. All of baby's firsts, from crawling to saying "mama" to walking!
4. First plane trip (which really was their first 4 plane trips)
5. Expanding communication that led to beautiful exchanges between me and my children...and also some really annoying arguments.
0...Number of hospital bills for the year!
1...Number of nights we slept soundly with no kids in the house.
3...Number of foster parent training classes I took.
9...Number of mice we killed in our own home...eww!!
25..Number of tomatoes I grew off just one plant this past summer...up from 7 the previous year.
365...Number of days I went to bed completely blessed.
Favorite TV shows I started watching in 2012
*not necessarily shows that were new this year
1. The Mindy Project
2. Smash
3. The Guild
4. Downton Abbey
5. Raising Hope
My Biggest Moments of the Year, that most likely never were posted to Facebook
1. Finalizing our adoption
2. Joining Family Village
3. Finding a new resource and reassurance from Mommy Bloggers
4. Taking my family to Texas for the first time
5. Sending my oldest baby to school all-day!
Biggest moments for the Kids, therefore amazing moments I got to witness
1. Two fully potty-trained kids!
2. James and Winston both starting to read
3. All of baby's firsts, from crawling to saying "mama" to walking!
4. First plane trip (which really was their first 4 plane trips)
5. Expanding communication that led to beautiful exchanges between me and my children...and also some really annoying arguments.
0...Number of hospital bills for the year!
1...Number of nights we slept soundly with no kids in the house.
3...Number of foster parent training classes I took.
9...Number of mice we killed in our own home...eww!!
25..Number of tomatoes I grew off just one plant this past summer...up from 7 the previous year.
365...Number of days I went to bed completely blessed.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
My Big Sister
In honor of 32 successful years on this planet, I am here today to share my sister with you. How do I explain my connection to someone who has been there all of life? Like literally, our mom had both of us at home, and when I was crowning, my sister wandered in from the living room and when the photos were developed, you could see her blond head standing at the edge of the bed as my mom pushed me out. I guess she experienced some jealousy early on, because soon enough my parents would respond to me crying in my crib only to find tiny bite marks on my arms. If she was trying to scare me off, it didn't work; in fact, it just bonded us together. She was such an extension of myself that for years I refused to call her by her name, but only called out "Sister!" My parents tried to teach me her name. They would spell E-L-I-Z-A-B-E-T-H, and I would say part of it, then change my mind and say "Sister!"
There were only the two of us growing up, a little over a year apart in age, and we did many things together, at the same time, as if we were twins instead. My mom certainly treated us that way, dressing us alike whenever she could find (or make) two outfits that matched. The only problem being that my sister was so tall at an early age, that we looked a little more like Arnold Schwarzenegger/Danny DeVito "Twins" than Mary-Kate and Ashley twins. Unfortunately, I never "caught up" height-wise, and for my entire life she has made me feel small, juvenile, and dorky by proxy (even in high school when I borrowed her clothes...but if she'd actually driven me to school like she was supposed to, she could have stopped me before I left the house, so I think we're even). Before I was clear on the birds and the bees, she again tried to discredit me as a member of our family by telling me that I was adopted, which meant that I really had no mom or dad, these nice people just found me and brought me home one day (thankfully we had those very explicit birth photos to prove the truth).
She was my first hero and role model. I know there is a perception that younger siblings are snoops and don't respect the privacy of others, but how could I resist sneaking into her backpack in middle school and reading the treasure trove of notes that she and her friends passed back and forth? They had actual boyfriends, they mocked their teachers and their classmates with a ferocity, there were BAD WORDS written on some of them! I wanted to figure out how to be like them, so they would invite me along to go to the movies without our parents. I remember one time, hearing about my sister's plan to meet up with her friends (was it heard through a doorway or a phone extension cleverly picked up mid-conversation? that's not important), and I thought if I could just look really cool for once, she might see me as an equal. So I dressed my best, quickly and efficiently, then sat at the kitchen table knowing she would pass me on her way out the door. I hoped so fervently that some shred of loyalty or kindness would stir in her heart, but when she came down and headed out, she just said goodbye and left. I was crushed, and I cried for a little while, until my parents told me to get over it.
The older I get, the more people I meet, the more special my sister becomes. Because I realize that not everybody has her take charge persona; in fact, some people spend all day talking about what they want to do...meanwhile Liz has gotten up and done it, then stopped off for a latte and a manicure on the way back. She decided to be a doctor, but if she ever decides she doesn't like it, she could always be a computer programmer or interior decorator instead. How many people can boast that broad of a skill set? Certainly not her little sister...I can do a blog or cross-stitch a Bible verse though! And I love that the older we get, the more our similarities come out, like how we've bought the same pair of shoes independent of each other three times now, or watched the Royal Wedding two time zones apart. And we can share books and movies, or trade our kids' toys.
I love my big sister. I love her heart and her generosity, and I love her most when I am not living directly in her shadow :)
There were only the two of us growing up, a little over a year apart in age, and we did many things together, at the same time, as if we were twins instead. My mom certainly treated us that way, dressing us alike whenever she could find (or make) two outfits that matched. The only problem being that my sister was so tall at an early age, that we looked a little more like Arnold Schwarzenegger/Danny DeVito "Twins" than Mary-Kate and Ashley twins. Unfortunately, I never "caught up" height-wise, and for my entire life she has made me feel small, juvenile, and dorky by proxy (even in high school when I borrowed her clothes...but if she'd actually driven me to school like she was supposed to, she could have stopped me before I left the house, so I think we're even). Before I was clear on the birds and the bees, she again tried to discredit me as a member of our family by telling me that I was adopted, which meant that I really had no mom or dad, these nice people just found me and brought me home one day (thankfully we had those very explicit birth photos to prove the truth).
She was my first hero and role model. I know there is a perception that younger siblings are snoops and don't respect the privacy of others, but how could I resist sneaking into her backpack in middle school and reading the treasure trove of notes that she and her friends passed back and forth? They had actual boyfriends, they mocked their teachers and their classmates with a ferocity, there were BAD WORDS written on some of them! I wanted to figure out how to be like them, so they would invite me along to go to the movies without our parents. I remember one time, hearing about my sister's plan to meet up with her friends (was it heard through a doorway or a phone extension cleverly picked up mid-conversation? that's not important), and I thought if I could just look really cool for once, she might see me as an equal. So I dressed my best, quickly and efficiently, then sat at the kitchen table knowing she would pass me on her way out the door. I hoped so fervently that some shred of loyalty or kindness would stir in her heart, but when she came down and headed out, she just said goodbye and left. I was crushed, and I cried for a little while, until my parents told me to get over it.
The older I get, the more people I meet, the more special my sister becomes. Because I realize that not everybody has her take charge persona; in fact, some people spend all day talking about what they want to do...meanwhile Liz has gotten up and done it, then stopped off for a latte and a manicure on the way back. She decided to be a doctor, but if she ever decides she doesn't like it, she could always be a computer programmer or interior decorator instead. How many people can boast that broad of a skill set? Certainly not her little sister...I can do a blog or cross-stitch a Bible verse though! And I love that the older we get, the more our similarities come out, like how we've bought the same pair of shoes independent of each other three times now, or watched the Royal Wedding two time zones apart. And we can share books and movies, or trade our kids' toys.
I love my big sister. I love her heart and her generosity, and I love her most when I am not living directly in her shadow :)
Friday, November 16, 2012
A Month of Thanks
Happy November! My favorite thing to do in November is to practice a month of thanks...to think of something new every day that I am thankful for, whether it is something mundane like cupcakes or profound like the blessings that come from my family or my faith. Usually, I can cobble together a thanks post in 140 characters or less, and therefore post most on facebook, but the best thing in my life, the person I am thankful for every day of the year, takes up too much room, so now he gets his own blog post.
I AM THANKFUL FOR MY HUSBAND.
I am thankful that he makes love and fidelity look easy, and that his dedication to our marriage makes both of those things easy for me.
I am thankful that he can diffuse my anger and frustration with a clever joke.
I am thankful that he makes me feel loved, beautiful, and perfect just as I am, which makes me want to be even better for him.
I am thankful that we are friends, partners, that we pick up where the other left off when it comes to parenting and maintaining our home.
I am thankful that there is always room to grow.
I am thankful for all the ways he takes care of me, from earning our family income to cooking tasty dinners to getting up in the middle of the night to wrangle children who refuse to stay in their beds.
I am thankful that he lets me be myself, and that he trusts me enough to be himself.
I am thankful for his warmth, especially as the weather gets colder.
I am thankful that he instills a respect for me in our children that I hope to always deserve.
I am thankful that he makes me feel safe.
I am thankful that he comes home every day.
Thank you Chris, for all you do every day. Thank you for making me the wife that I am.
I AM THANKFUL FOR MY HUSBAND.
I am thankful that he makes love and fidelity look easy, and that his dedication to our marriage makes both of those things easy for me.
I am thankful that he can diffuse my anger and frustration with a clever joke.
I am thankful that he makes me feel loved, beautiful, and perfect just as I am, which makes me want to be even better for him.
I am thankful that we are friends, partners, that we pick up where the other left off when it comes to parenting and maintaining our home.
I am thankful that there is always room to grow.
I am thankful for all the ways he takes care of me, from earning our family income to cooking tasty dinners to getting up in the middle of the night to wrangle children who refuse to stay in their beds.
I am thankful that he lets me be myself, and that he trusts me enough to be himself.
I am thankful for his warmth, especially as the weather gets colder.
I am thankful that he instills a respect for me in our children that I hope to always deserve.
I am thankful that he makes me feel safe.
I am thankful that he comes home every day.
Thank you Chris, for all you do every day. Thank you for making me the wife that I am.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Adoption: Part 2 From Foster to Family
(Small fist-pumping self-congratulatory moment...I made it to part 2! I can actually accomplish things!)
I'm reflecting more and more on how this whole thing got started, now that the legal-paperwork-official aspects of our adoption are getting close to an end. I am remembering fondly the manic month of squeezing twelve 3 hour classes into 4 weekends, although at the time I know it was stressful and exhausting. I am thinking of our teacher, Ms. Jan, who reminded me of a blond pitbull in a gray sweater, and all of the valuable lessons she imparted, which have helpfully come to mind in our 14 months of being foster parents. We learned about the factors that lead to bad parenting decisions, like poverty, cycles of dysfunction and abuse, and we learned what children need to help them deal with and recover from the terrible things that have happened to them. I mentioned in Part 1 the curiosity about The Birth Parents that wasn't really part of the curriculum, and it made me think about the other question that kept coming up in training: How are we supposed to give the kids back?
I still don't have an answer to this one; thankfully, no one has ever given me a child and then come back a few weeks or months later to take that child to live somewhere else. But that's the whole point in the first place, to temporarily have custody, with the hope that the parents will get what they need (education, sobriety, stable housing) so that the kids can go back and the family can go forward together. In the event that the parents can't or don't complete their case plan, the agency tries to find blood relatives to try to minimize the disruption to the child's life, and after exhausting that avenue, they turn to the licensed foster families. My husband loves to say that we are all crazy in the same way, that we knowingly open our hearts and our homes to these kids, when most likely they will go from our lives and maybe never be heard from again. So sometime in our first training class, after Ms. Jan has patiently answered the Birth Parent question, another person asks, "How?" How do you love a child with only part of your heart? How do you care for someone you know will leave? And how do you do it a second, third, tenth time? Ms. Jan squares her shoulders, a tic she seems to have whenever she is conveying her personal recollections, and tells us about the year her family hosted a foreign exchange student. We heard plenty about Jan's family over the course of our training, what it was like to be the white spouse in an interracial marriage, the birth of her "beige" kids, and the presence of her husband's "brown" kids from his previous marriage, her grandson who plays college football, and her struggle to keep up with everyone "out there on the internet". But this story was about the Australian teenager who lived with them for 10 months, and how she woke up every day, looked in the mirror, and told herself that it was temporary. Of course you fall in love, she said. Of course they start to call you Mom and Dad. Of course you can probably provide for them better than the Birth Parents. But you know what you are signing up for. You know that it is temporary. And the worst thing you can do is play with the emotions of a child who has already been through so much. So remember your place. You have no legal rights. You have to honor the parents' choices about religion and hairstyles and dietary restrictions. And you have to give the kid back when the agency says so, without the promise of continuing your relationship.
Fast forward to our placement (RIIIIINNNGGG, we have a baby for you!) and the first time I was allowed to see and hold this amazing child, so small and so peaceful. Here is the truth: I fell in love before I even held him. I was probably already in love with him before he was even born. But I looked at him there in his bassinet, and I felt my heart contract to make a spot for him. When I held him in my arms moments later, I thought about adoption. I really did. I thought about What if... and even decided what names I would put on his new birth certificate. I would keep his first name, because he shared that with his dad. I would replace his middle name with his mother's last name. And then I would give him my last name, so that he would take a piece of each of us with him in his life. Seconds later, I remembered Jan's advice, and I thought, Oh boy, I'm in trouble. Because at that time, his parents were very much in the picture. They were taking steps to complete their case plan. And foster parent lesson #2: everybody wants a baby. If the Birth Parents couldn't do it, a relative was sure to step in and thank us for the few months that we cared for the little guy, then hastily scramble out the door, celebrating their good fortune. So I pushed the thoughts back. I told myself This is temporary. We brought him to his visits on time, we printed photos to give the parents so they could see how well he was doing and how happy he was, I even signed him up for WIC because the social worker told me that the coupons could be transferred once the parents got custody back, and it would be a big help to them to have that already established (it turned out to be a big help to us too, his appetite growing as he did, and DANG is formula expensive!). I took photos of the baby with his parents at a family visit and printed copies for him to look at while with us, and copies for them to show to the rest of their family. Our family worker gave us an "inventory" of the child's possessions, which I guess helps them determine if he needs more clothes, but also helps keep track of what needs to go with him to his next placement, and when I filled it out, in my mind I pictured putting his things, his blankets and toys and clothes, in a bag and loading him in the social worker's car. It was by no means as fun a fantasy as the adoption one, but it was necessary.
Then the parents fell off the wagon...and the earth, apparently. They stopped coming to visits, stopped contacting the caseworker, and I began to hope. Vicki, the worker, was completely transparent as she explained that she was contacting all the relatives she could find to see if anyone would take him. I kept picturing the suitcase and the goodbye. One day, she called to tell me she had located an uncle who lived an hour away and might be interested in taking custody. He and his wife were still talking it over, but they thought they should meet the little guy. My heart sank. I knew once they set eyes on him, with his chubby cheeks and easy smile, his big blue eyes and tiny hands, they would fall for him as quickly as I had, and it would be over for us. I remembered Jan, and her marching orders. So I helped Vicki decide where would be a good meeting place in our area, and prepared to tell my husband. I knew better than to call him at work, as he might not be able to finish the day or focus enough to drive home. Instead, I prayed. I thanked God for the time we got to have, for the life we were able to foster, and I prayed that what happened would be what was best for HIM, not for us. Reminded myself that a kinship placement would more likely allow him to know his birth parents and extended family better than he would with us. For 24 hours, I stomped on the little hope that had grown. Then the social worker called again to say the relatives spent all night talking about the situation, and after asking her about us, the family who had taken him in, and if he was bonded to us, decided that it would be best to not even see him, because they didn't want to disrupt the life he had already established. And then she said, I'm so glad he gets to stay with you! That was the last relative, the last person with more rights to him than we had. The hope shot through me, more thoroughly than before, until I could no longer deny the simple fact that I WANT HIM. Its already been 8 months since then, and its still not official on paper, but its been official in our hearts. He is so fully integrated into our family that I think he'll be shocked to realize he wasn't born into it.
Now we have to ask the question, how do we do this again? And I don't think Ms. Jan has the answer to that one.
I'm reflecting more and more on how this whole thing got started, now that the legal-paperwork-official aspects of our adoption are getting close to an end. I am remembering fondly the manic month of squeezing twelve 3 hour classes into 4 weekends, although at the time I know it was stressful and exhausting. I am thinking of our teacher, Ms. Jan, who reminded me of a blond pitbull in a gray sweater, and all of the valuable lessons she imparted, which have helpfully come to mind in our 14 months of being foster parents. We learned about the factors that lead to bad parenting decisions, like poverty, cycles of dysfunction and abuse, and we learned what children need to help them deal with and recover from the terrible things that have happened to them. I mentioned in Part 1 the curiosity about The Birth Parents that wasn't really part of the curriculum, and it made me think about the other question that kept coming up in training: How are we supposed to give the kids back?
I still don't have an answer to this one; thankfully, no one has ever given me a child and then come back a few weeks or months later to take that child to live somewhere else. But that's the whole point in the first place, to temporarily have custody, with the hope that the parents will get what they need (education, sobriety, stable housing) so that the kids can go back and the family can go forward together. In the event that the parents can't or don't complete their case plan, the agency tries to find blood relatives to try to minimize the disruption to the child's life, and after exhausting that avenue, they turn to the licensed foster families. My husband loves to say that we are all crazy in the same way, that we knowingly open our hearts and our homes to these kids, when most likely they will go from our lives and maybe never be heard from again. So sometime in our first training class, after Ms. Jan has patiently answered the Birth Parent question, another person asks, "How?" How do you love a child with only part of your heart? How do you care for someone you know will leave? And how do you do it a second, third, tenth time? Ms. Jan squares her shoulders, a tic she seems to have whenever she is conveying her personal recollections, and tells us about the year her family hosted a foreign exchange student. We heard plenty about Jan's family over the course of our training, what it was like to be the white spouse in an interracial marriage, the birth of her "beige" kids, and the presence of her husband's "brown" kids from his previous marriage, her grandson who plays college football, and her struggle to keep up with everyone "out there on the internet". But this story was about the Australian teenager who lived with them for 10 months, and how she woke up every day, looked in the mirror, and told herself that it was temporary. Of course you fall in love, she said. Of course they start to call you Mom and Dad. Of course you can probably provide for them better than the Birth Parents. But you know what you are signing up for. You know that it is temporary. And the worst thing you can do is play with the emotions of a child who has already been through so much. So remember your place. You have no legal rights. You have to honor the parents' choices about religion and hairstyles and dietary restrictions. And you have to give the kid back when the agency says so, without the promise of continuing your relationship.
Fast forward to our placement (RIIIIINNNGGG, we have a baby for you!) and the first time I was allowed to see and hold this amazing child, so small and so peaceful. Here is the truth: I fell in love before I even held him. I was probably already in love with him before he was even born. But I looked at him there in his bassinet, and I felt my heart contract to make a spot for him. When I held him in my arms moments later, I thought about adoption. I really did. I thought about What if... and even decided what names I would put on his new birth certificate. I would keep his first name, because he shared that with his dad. I would replace his middle name with his mother's last name. And then I would give him my last name, so that he would take a piece of each of us with him in his life. Seconds later, I remembered Jan's advice, and I thought, Oh boy, I'm in trouble. Because at that time, his parents were very much in the picture. They were taking steps to complete their case plan. And foster parent lesson #2: everybody wants a baby. If the Birth Parents couldn't do it, a relative was sure to step in and thank us for the few months that we cared for the little guy, then hastily scramble out the door, celebrating their good fortune. So I pushed the thoughts back. I told myself This is temporary. We brought him to his visits on time, we printed photos to give the parents so they could see how well he was doing and how happy he was, I even signed him up for WIC because the social worker told me that the coupons could be transferred once the parents got custody back, and it would be a big help to them to have that already established (it turned out to be a big help to us too, his appetite growing as he did, and DANG is formula expensive!). I took photos of the baby with his parents at a family visit and printed copies for him to look at while with us, and copies for them to show to the rest of their family. Our family worker gave us an "inventory" of the child's possessions, which I guess helps them determine if he needs more clothes, but also helps keep track of what needs to go with him to his next placement, and when I filled it out, in my mind I pictured putting his things, his blankets and toys and clothes, in a bag and loading him in the social worker's car. It was by no means as fun a fantasy as the adoption one, but it was necessary.
Then the parents fell off the wagon...and the earth, apparently. They stopped coming to visits, stopped contacting the caseworker, and I began to hope. Vicki, the worker, was completely transparent as she explained that she was contacting all the relatives she could find to see if anyone would take him. I kept picturing the suitcase and the goodbye. One day, she called to tell me she had located an uncle who lived an hour away and might be interested in taking custody. He and his wife were still talking it over, but they thought they should meet the little guy. My heart sank. I knew once they set eyes on him, with his chubby cheeks and easy smile, his big blue eyes and tiny hands, they would fall for him as quickly as I had, and it would be over for us. I remembered Jan, and her marching orders. So I helped Vicki decide where would be a good meeting place in our area, and prepared to tell my husband. I knew better than to call him at work, as he might not be able to finish the day or focus enough to drive home. Instead, I prayed. I thanked God for the time we got to have, for the life we were able to foster, and I prayed that what happened would be what was best for HIM, not for us. Reminded myself that a kinship placement would more likely allow him to know his birth parents and extended family better than he would with us. For 24 hours, I stomped on the little hope that had grown. Then the social worker called again to say the relatives spent all night talking about the situation, and after asking her about us, the family who had taken him in, and if he was bonded to us, decided that it would be best to not even see him, because they didn't want to disrupt the life he had already established. And then she said, I'm so glad he gets to stay with you! That was the last relative, the last person with more rights to him than we had. The hope shot through me, more thoroughly than before, until I could no longer deny the simple fact that I WANT HIM. Its already been 8 months since then, and its still not official on paper, but its been official in our hearts. He is so fully integrated into our family that I think he'll be shocked to realize he wasn't born into it.
Now we have to ask the question, how do we do this again? And I don't think Ms. Jan has the answer to that one.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Adoption: Part 1 The Birth Parents
November is National Adoption Month! And, according to Wikipedia, also Pancreatic Cancer Awareness Month, Native American Heritage Month, National Write A Novel Month, National Pomegranate Month, and International Drum Month. Hmm. I know a little about some of those other things, but right now, I am living adoption. Literally have a stack of papers on my counter to further our adoption, packets of information gathered by our wonderful caseworker, and just had two home visits last week. In honor of this special month, and the process going on in our own home, I wanted to post some blogs about our experience. I am therefore (very ambitiously) calling this Part One, which I know will cause you to expect AT LEAST a part 2, and possibly a part 3. I hope to live up to your expectations, but really, don't expect a part 4, I don't think I have it in me.
Every adoption story is as unique as the child and family involved. As we have had just one placement and are currently working through our first adoption, my experience is fairly limited. But I thought I would start with what I've learned about Birth Parents. To be honest, I didn't consider the adults involved in foster/adopt cases until we had already decided to go through with it. We attended an information meeting at Children Services that gave an overview of the licensing process and answered questions about foster care and adoption through their agency. The first question was this: Will the birth parents know where I live? Oh. Every head turned from the questioner to the very perky social worker leading the meeting. Her answer: We will not give out your personal information to birth families. But their children will. You'll show up at your first family visit, and the children will proclaim, "We live in the orange house on Main Street!" Next question: What do we do if the birth parents show up at our house?! Her answer: This won't happen. The crowd begs to differ. Again, she emphasizes: Birth parents don't show up at the foster home. I've been here 30 years. Its NEVER happened. But but but, we protest. Okay, she says. If birth parents come to your house (but they won't), call the police and let them know you're a licensed foster parent with a birth parent on your lawn. Then yell through the door what you've done. If they were stupid enough to come to your house, they'll realize at this point the error of their ways and high tail it out of there before the cops show up. The conversation eventually shifts to other subjects: If I have a drug arrest from high school, can I still get licensed? etc. but my mind is buzzing with this never-before-thought-of possible danger in what we are planning. We move forward in the process and attend the state's required 36 hours of training. The subject comes up again, and again, and again. If there is one universal concern for potential foster parents, it is The Birth Parents. After all, we are (mostly) straight-laced, rule-following, mentally sound (again, mostly) competent adults. People who lose custody of their children are criminals, drug addicts, mentally unstable...and that's before the cops forcibly remove a 2 year old from the home! They are capable of anything!! Again, the social worker teaching our class, who also has 30+ years of experience, dismisses the concern. She explains further: birth parents are mad at their worker, they are mad the judge, they are mad at almost everyone involved in the removal of their child. They are NOT mad at you. You are taking care of their child. And if they want their kid back, showing up places they are not allowed, like the foster home, will only get them back in court, back in jail, further behind in working their case plan. DON'T WORRY. I try to believe her, and remind myself that I can always call the cops.
There is so much information to take in, so many forms to fill out, that over the next several months as we are completing our home study, I forget about these concerns. Then the day comes...RIIIIINNNGGG! We have a child for you! I spend a day preparing the house, the nursery, the car. The caseworker calls to tell me that she is heading to the hospital to "serve the mom"...the woman who just gave birth. She is about to be told that her baby will not go with her when she is discharged. OH. Now I am thinking about The Birth Parents, but now they are real people. I try to imagine what they look like. I try to imagine what they are thinking, feeling. I realize that I have no idea. The next day, after signing the official custody papers, I head to the hospital to meet the baby and find out if there is a firm discharge date. I am nervous about doing something for the first time, meeting a child I didn't give birth to, but am now expected to care for and raise just like my own boys. I enter the building behind a short woman with her hair pulled back in a ponytail. We get on the same elevator, and I realize she is also heading up to the nursery. She has the belly of a woman who has recently given birth...and I wonder, what if she's the Birth Mom? My heart starts hammering in my chest, my palms are sweating, and I feel light-headed. I have no idea what I am supposed to say to her, or even how this custody thing works while the child is still in the hospital (foster parent lesson #1: neither does the hospital staff!). The woman walks to the nursery and notifies them that she is there to see baby -----, the same name listed on my pink custody papers. So yeah, its HER. I wait an endless minute while she heads back to see her baby (after all, its still HER baby. I haven't even laid eyes on him, and she gave birth to him!), then inform the nurse that I am also here to see baby -----, I am the foster mom, and yes, I'm aware the birth mother just went back, what should I do? The nurses decide they don't know how the mom will react, and they don't want a fight to break out, or even have yelling or ugly name-calling, so I have to sit in the hall and wait for a nurse to come out and explain baby's situation. Although I am the one with custody, for now, I am not welcome while the Mom is bonding with her child. This changes in a few days, when the caseworker calls and explains that the foster parents need to meet the child, learn about his situation and prepare to take him home. So the Birth Parents are given a specific time of day when they can visit, and I am welcome to come after and stay as long as I like, to learn how to give baby his medicine and bottle and to hold him and get to know him.
We had so little information about The Birth Parents in those early days of our placement. The caseworker shared only what we needed to know, which was not much. Starting the day baby came home from the hospital, I became hyper-vigilant about locking doors and closing the garage and not leaving keys in the locks. I was certain the parents would come by, looking for their baby. The less I knew about them, the wilder my imagination got. When we started bringing the baby for visits, I was a mess of nerves and had no idea what to say or how to act. Then I worried that I was coming off as rude. Eventually, after talking with the caseworker and telling myself to JUST CALM DOWN, I came to realize that they were just as nervous as I was. I'm sure they have no idea how much (or little) information the caseworker shared with me, and the general feelings among Birth Parents are shame and embarrassment that their bad choices have gotten them to this point. What I noticed when I finally stopped looking at the ground and leaving quickly, is that they were looking at the ground and leaving quickly too. When we showed up one week with a toy dangling from the baby's carrier, the mom nodded and said she thought that was a good idea, and another week she sat next to me and we talked about how he was doing. All the while, I was trying to make the person in front of me fit with my preconceived notions of Birth Parents, but I couldn't. She wasn't a crazed low-life or a character from Law & Order. She was just a mom, just like me, whose life had gone a different way. In that moment, I was able to release my fear and open my heart, to love her for who she is. I realized the risk of people showing up at my house was pretty low when they didn't even have their own car. With all the struggles they were already facing, tracking us down was never high on their list. Eventually, they stopped coming even to the visits, and now they have lost custody. Now all we have of them is a binder, a medical history, a case history. I know all about them, yet I wish I had the opportunity to really KNOW them. I wish things had worked out differently, that they could be reunited with their child and be daily witnesses to the wonder and beauty that he is.
So here is my little kernel of wisdom: Birth Parents are people too. They are not as bad as you can imagine them to be, nor as good as they would like to be. They have issues, struggles, obstacles to overcome. They may not be able to, but this in no way diminishes their humanity. And because I acknowledge these things, when a stranger tells my son that, "He looks like his mommy," I can smile and agree and know that he is beautiful.
Every adoption story is as unique as the child and family involved. As we have had just one placement and are currently working through our first adoption, my experience is fairly limited. But I thought I would start with what I've learned about Birth Parents. To be honest, I didn't consider the adults involved in foster/adopt cases until we had already decided to go through with it. We attended an information meeting at Children Services that gave an overview of the licensing process and answered questions about foster care and adoption through their agency. The first question was this: Will the birth parents know where I live? Oh. Every head turned from the questioner to the very perky social worker leading the meeting. Her answer: We will not give out your personal information to birth families. But their children will. You'll show up at your first family visit, and the children will proclaim, "We live in the orange house on Main Street!" Next question: What do we do if the birth parents show up at our house?! Her answer: This won't happen. The crowd begs to differ. Again, she emphasizes: Birth parents don't show up at the foster home. I've been here 30 years. Its NEVER happened. But but but, we protest. Okay, she says. If birth parents come to your house (but they won't), call the police and let them know you're a licensed foster parent with a birth parent on your lawn. Then yell through the door what you've done. If they were stupid enough to come to your house, they'll realize at this point the error of their ways and high tail it out of there before the cops show up. The conversation eventually shifts to other subjects: If I have a drug arrest from high school, can I still get licensed? etc. but my mind is buzzing with this never-before-thought-of possible danger in what we are planning. We move forward in the process and attend the state's required 36 hours of training. The subject comes up again, and again, and again. If there is one universal concern for potential foster parents, it is The Birth Parents. After all, we are (mostly) straight-laced, rule-following, mentally sound (again, mostly) competent adults. People who lose custody of their children are criminals, drug addicts, mentally unstable...and that's before the cops forcibly remove a 2 year old from the home! They are capable of anything!! Again, the social worker teaching our class, who also has 30+ years of experience, dismisses the concern. She explains further: birth parents are mad at their worker, they are mad the judge, they are mad at almost everyone involved in the removal of their child. They are NOT mad at you. You are taking care of their child. And if they want their kid back, showing up places they are not allowed, like the foster home, will only get them back in court, back in jail, further behind in working their case plan. DON'T WORRY. I try to believe her, and remind myself that I can always call the cops.
There is so much information to take in, so many forms to fill out, that over the next several months as we are completing our home study, I forget about these concerns. Then the day comes...RIIIIINNNGGG! We have a child for you! I spend a day preparing the house, the nursery, the car. The caseworker calls to tell me that she is heading to the hospital to "serve the mom"...the woman who just gave birth. She is about to be told that her baby will not go with her when she is discharged. OH. Now I am thinking about The Birth Parents, but now they are real people. I try to imagine what they look like. I try to imagine what they are thinking, feeling. I realize that I have no idea. The next day, after signing the official custody papers, I head to the hospital to meet the baby and find out if there is a firm discharge date. I am nervous about doing something for the first time, meeting a child I didn't give birth to, but am now expected to care for and raise just like my own boys. I enter the building behind a short woman with her hair pulled back in a ponytail. We get on the same elevator, and I realize she is also heading up to the nursery. She has the belly of a woman who has recently given birth...and I wonder, what if she's the Birth Mom? My heart starts hammering in my chest, my palms are sweating, and I feel light-headed. I have no idea what I am supposed to say to her, or even how this custody thing works while the child is still in the hospital (foster parent lesson #1: neither does the hospital staff!). The woman walks to the nursery and notifies them that she is there to see baby -----, the same name listed on my pink custody papers. So yeah, its HER. I wait an endless minute while she heads back to see her baby (after all, its still HER baby. I haven't even laid eyes on him, and she gave birth to him!), then inform the nurse that I am also here to see baby -----, I am the foster mom, and yes, I'm aware the birth mother just went back, what should I do? The nurses decide they don't know how the mom will react, and they don't want a fight to break out, or even have yelling or ugly name-calling, so I have to sit in the hall and wait for a nurse to come out and explain baby's situation. Although I am the one with custody, for now, I am not welcome while the Mom is bonding with her child. This changes in a few days, when the caseworker calls and explains that the foster parents need to meet the child, learn about his situation and prepare to take him home. So the Birth Parents are given a specific time of day when they can visit, and I am welcome to come after and stay as long as I like, to learn how to give baby his medicine and bottle and to hold him and get to know him.
We had so little information about The Birth Parents in those early days of our placement. The caseworker shared only what we needed to know, which was not much. Starting the day baby came home from the hospital, I became hyper-vigilant about locking doors and closing the garage and not leaving keys in the locks. I was certain the parents would come by, looking for their baby. The less I knew about them, the wilder my imagination got. When we started bringing the baby for visits, I was a mess of nerves and had no idea what to say or how to act. Then I worried that I was coming off as rude. Eventually, after talking with the caseworker and telling myself to JUST CALM DOWN, I came to realize that they were just as nervous as I was. I'm sure they have no idea how much (or little) information the caseworker shared with me, and the general feelings among Birth Parents are shame and embarrassment that their bad choices have gotten them to this point. What I noticed when I finally stopped looking at the ground and leaving quickly, is that they were looking at the ground and leaving quickly too. When we showed up one week with a toy dangling from the baby's carrier, the mom nodded and said she thought that was a good idea, and another week she sat next to me and we talked about how he was doing. All the while, I was trying to make the person in front of me fit with my preconceived notions of Birth Parents, but I couldn't. She wasn't a crazed low-life or a character from Law & Order. She was just a mom, just like me, whose life had gone a different way. In that moment, I was able to release my fear and open my heart, to love her for who she is. I realized the risk of people showing up at my house was pretty low when they didn't even have their own car. With all the struggles they were already facing, tracking us down was never high on their list. Eventually, they stopped coming even to the visits, and now they have lost custody. Now all we have of them is a binder, a medical history, a case history. I know all about them, yet I wish I had the opportunity to really KNOW them. I wish things had worked out differently, that they could be reunited with their child and be daily witnesses to the wonder and beauty that he is.
So here is my little kernel of wisdom: Birth Parents are people too. They are not as bad as you can imagine them to be, nor as good as they would like to be. They have issues, struggles, obstacles to overcome. They may not be able to, but this in no way diminishes their humanity. And because I acknowledge these things, when a stranger tells my son that, "He looks like his mommy," I can smile and agree and know that he is beautiful.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
That was depressing
There is something very special that happens when I blog. I write what is in my heart, and I read it over and I say, "Yes!" And then I post it, and usually at least my husband reads it, and then he says, "Yes!" He gets it. Sometimes I see my lovely friends and they say, "I read your blog, and I really liked it." (thanks for that!) But what is so magical about those moments is that someone else outside of me, outside of my house, gets me. It takes courage to take what is inside me and put it here, for anyone to see. It is difficult for me to share myself, because I worry that I am alone in my feelings, that when I am insecure or scared or crazed that its just me who feels that way. So when you read it and you understand me, I feel relieved that my fear isn't true. And it feels like a gift that I can put my essence into words and it makes sense. But there are a few things about myself that I struggle to fit into language. I can't say these things out loud, I can't write them down, even somewhere that no one else will read. They are painful. They are wounds. They are the very dark inner recesses of myself. But this week I feel challenged to try...so here goes.
Imagine with me that we are on a beach. Well, I am on a beach, and maybe you are hovering overhead watching me. I am born on this beach, and for many years I move forward, with the water on my left and nothing really on the right. I move with my loving parents, my sister, and I am joined by friends along the way. Sometimes they disappear from the beach after a while, but the really worthwhile ones, like Melissa, come along side me and never leave. I think this is a fine way to grow up; it seems that most parents want to protect their children and let them grow up and then send them along the beach on their own when they are adults. And that is what happens... I turn 18, I graduate from high school, and I really see the beach, the whole world ahead of me with my own eyes for the first time. My parents stop walking, they stay back as I keep going forward, and my sister and Melissa head to their own beaches, and I am excited and nervous to discover what is next. But suddenly I am on a beach that looks too different from the beach I grew up on. This beach is chaotic and confusing and scary. I lose my footing and kind of stumble back and find my feet in the water. I never really noticed it before, but now I see that there is a whole ocean and it is still and my feet start to experience a numbness that is not totally unpleasant, especially since the rest of me is still reeling from shock of the beach. I'll admit it, I stay in the water. I prefer it to the beach. I don't know how to deal with everything that is going on there, and so I wade out a little further, I let the water numb me a little more. I start to think, maybe I'm not supposed to be in the water, but I let the water get higher and higher. And what happens at the beach when you are wading out and get too far? I take one last step, and suddenly the ground disappears beneath me and I sink beneath the surface.
In the water, it is quiet. Unlike the real beach, there are no waves pushing me back to shore, only stillness that holds me in place. I am alone, completely alone for the first time in my life. And it is dark. There is nothing to see, and so I sleep. There is no way to mark the passage of time in the water. Even looking back now, I can't say how long I was under. Maybe a month...maybe four. Then somehow I manage to push myself up, and I break the surface of the water. I didn't realize how far away from the beach I got, but now I see it is a great distance. I try to swim back, but all that time that I spent asleep has atrophied my muscles, and I don't get far before I am exhausted and sink beneath the surface again. How much time passes? Again, I don't know. But again, my head gets above the water and I look toward the beach. This time, I see my mom there on the shore, and I start to cry, because she has seen me, she has really looked at me and she sees that I am drowning out here. She throws a life preserver. And for this, I have never thanked her, but I am eternally grateful that she looked for me, and gave me a way to come back to shore. I grab the life preserver, because by now I know that the water is not safe, it might just be more dangerous than the chaos on the beach. It takes me a long time to get back to shore, in part because I am so tired, and partly because it always seems to take longer to go back than it does to go out. But eventually, I make it. Now the beach is quiet. I am alone, so I start walking down the beach again. The water stays on my left, I can see it there now, although I step carefully so that I don't get wet. It is here that I look up and see the sun. Its another thing that I never really noticed before, but there it is, shining down on me, and the warmth helps to dry me off and the numbness finally goes away for good. I can see that I need to keep walking down the beach, and as I go, I start to think less about the water and more about the sun. My feet get wet occasionally, the water rushes up to me and I feel the numbness, but I say NO, I am not going in again, when I am on the beach I can see and feel the sun and that is where I am staying. I know that the sun is a gift, it is something that I get to enjoy without doing anything to keep it there. The sun is steady and it doesn't rise or set, it stays overhead. I still have people in my life, my parents, Melissa, now a family of my own, but they aren't here with me. Because unlike before I went into the water, there is no one keeping me away it. It is the sun keeping me on the beach now.
If this post makes me sound like I have mental problems (as Allison used to say), well, yes, that's exactly what happened. I spent my time in college in a state of depression, and it took counseling and determination to get out of it. My aunt remarked at one point that my bad grades reflected how much fun I was having, and I smiled and let her misinterpretation stand, because it sounded much better than the truth. But perhaps the craziest thing of all is the realization I had this week, 12 years later, that instead of looking at that time under water as a mistake, a regret, that maybe I needed to go under. Maybe knowing the very depths of darkness that are possible make me rejoice my ability to stand in the light. Maybe I needed to drown to rid myself of all that was there before so that I could re-fill my heart with what is good and honest. Maybe this is not a point in my life where I got off-course, but the path that I was meant to travel.
Imagine with me that we are on a beach. Well, I am on a beach, and maybe you are hovering overhead watching me. I am born on this beach, and for many years I move forward, with the water on my left and nothing really on the right. I move with my loving parents, my sister, and I am joined by friends along the way. Sometimes they disappear from the beach after a while, but the really worthwhile ones, like Melissa, come along side me and never leave. I think this is a fine way to grow up; it seems that most parents want to protect their children and let them grow up and then send them along the beach on their own when they are adults. And that is what happens... I turn 18, I graduate from high school, and I really see the beach, the whole world ahead of me with my own eyes for the first time. My parents stop walking, they stay back as I keep going forward, and my sister and Melissa head to their own beaches, and I am excited and nervous to discover what is next. But suddenly I am on a beach that looks too different from the beach I grew up on. This beach is chaotic and confusing and scary. I lose my footing and kind of stumble back and find my feet in the water. I never really noticed it before, but now I see that there is a whole ocean and it is still and my feet start to experience a numbness that is not totally unpleasant, especially since the rest of me is still reeling from shock of the beach. I'll admit it, I stay in the water. I prefer it to the beach. I don't know how to deal with everything that is going on there, and so I wade out a little further, I let the water numb me a little more. I start to think, maybe I'm not supposed to be in the water, but I let the water get higher and higher. And what happens at the beach when you are wading out and get too far? I take one last step, and suddenly the ground disappears beneath me and I sink beneath the surface.
In the water, it is quiet. Unlike the real beach, there are no waves pushing me back to shore, only stillness that holds me in place. I am alone, completely alone for the first time in my life. And it is dark. There is nothing to see, and so I sleep. There is no way to mark the passage of time in the water. Even looking back now, I can't say how long I was under. Maybe a month...maybe four. Then somehow I manage to push myself up, and I break the surface of the water. I didn't realize how far away from the beach I got, but now I see it is a great distance. I try to swim back, but all that time that I spent asleep has atrophied my muscles, and I don't get far before I am exhausted and sink beneath the surface again. How much time passes? Again, I don't know. But again, my head gets above the water and I look toward the beach. This time, I see my mom there on the shore, and I start to cry, because she has seen me, she has really looked at me and she sees that I am drowning out here. She throws a life preserver. And for this, I have never thanked her, but I am eternally grateful that she looked for me, and gave me a way to come back to shore. I grab the life preserver, because by now I know that the water is not safe, it might just be more dangerous than the chaos on the beach. It takes me a long time to get back to shore, in part because I am so tired, and partly because it always seems to take longer to go back than it does to go out. But eventually, I make it. Now the beach is quiet. I am alone, so I start walking down the beach again. The water stays on my left, I can see it there now, although I step carefully so that I don't get wet. It is here that I look up and see the sun. Its another thing that I never really noticed before, but there it is, shining down on me, and the warmth helps to dry me off and the numbness finally goes away for good. I can see that I need to keep walking down the beach, and as I go, I start to think less about the water and more about the sun. My feet get wet occasionally, the water rushes up to me and I feel the numbness, but I say NO, I am not going in again, when I am on the beach I can see and feel the sun and that is where I am staying. I know that the sun is a gift, it is something that I get to enjoy without doing anything to keep it there. The sun is steady and it doesn't rise or set, it stays overhead. I still have people in my life, my parents, Melissa, now a family of my own, but they aren't here with me. Because unlike before I went into the water, there is no one keeping me away it. It is the sun keeping me on the beach now.
If this post makes me sound like I have mental problems (as Allison used to say), well, yes, that's exactly what happened. I spent my time in college in a state of depression, and it took counseling and determination to get out of it. My aunt remarked at one point that my bad grades reflected how much fun I was having, and I smiled and let her misinterpretation stand, because it sounded much better than the truth. But perhaps the craziest thing of all is the realization I had this week, 12 years later, that instead of looking at that time under water as a mistake, a regret, that maybe I needed to go under. Maybe knowing the very depths of darkness that are possible make me rejoice my ability to stand in the light. Maybe I needed to drown to rid myself of all that was there before so that I could re-fill my heart with what is good and honest. Maybe this is not a point in my life where I got off-course, but the path that I was meant to travel.
Monday, October 29, 2012
What is your Strength For?
A few weeks ago, I was scrolling through my email, and saw one from our Village leaders. They send the most random stuff, I'm always curious when I see their names in my inbox. This email was an assignment for each family to complete a box:
Boxes - If you weren't at the last family village, each family decorated a box. It is an example of something plain made into something beautiful, just like when the Holy Spirit comes to live in our hearts and transform us into something beautiful. Also, it was a chance for each family to spend some time together, working on something, together. We asked that each family fill their box with something to tell the Village more about who they are as a family. Different families will be sharing their boxes at each village. If you were unable to join us this past village, use a box that you already have and decorate it at home.
Filling the box :) Take the opportunity, as you fill your box, to think about how you would sum up your family. Maybe ask questions like - what's important to our family? what's our mission, as a family? what are the priorities of our family? How could it be summed up in a phrase or a few sentences? When you have come up with something then talk it over with your kids or present it to them. What can you put in the box to tell the village about your family motto/vision? Also, get your kids involved in filling it with some fun stuff - a favorite game, toy, food or movie. Whatever they come up with - kids are going to probably be way better at it than we are! Take this box and use it as a way to spend time with your family :). Our awesome teachers are sharing their box next village. We will ask for volunteers for the village after so be thinking!
I stared at the screen, dumbfounded. A family theme? Putting stuff in a box to explain who we are? What?! I felt, not for the first time, that the Codispotis are waaay more organized and intentional than we are. How on earth were we going to come up with something? Because when they ask for volunteers, it doesn't help to look at the carpet.
But just a few hours later, it hit me. Or hit my child, actually. Because we actually do have a family theme, although I never thought of it that way before. What is your strength for? When we were expecting our first baby, and reading lots of books and getting plenty of advice (wanted or not), Chris came across this phrase as something you could say to instruct your child. We told our friends, who had a 3 year old son at the time. The father turned to the boy, and sternly said, "That's not what your strength is for!" then promptly burst out laughing and admitted he just couldn't say that. But Chris and I thought it was perfect. And when we gave birth to a little boy, we found plenty of times to use it. Throwing the fire poker at a window...That's not what your strength is for. Kicking or hitting in anger and frustration...That's not what your strength is for. Taking a toy from a smaller child...That's not what your strength is for. We continued to have boys, and continued to have opportunities to impart this lesson. Carrying groceries in from the car...That's what your strength is for. Opening the door for Mommy, whose hands are full of baby...That's what your strength is for. Pushing your brother around the yard in his little car...That's what your strength is for.
Because our boys are constantly getting messages from all around about what it means to be a man, and how the world defines strength. And I will cheer them on if they excel at sports or grow terrific muscles, if they decide to spend their lives rescuing people from fires or making sure that their community has justice. But we will have failed them as parents if they use their strength to take from those who are weaker, if they don't honor their commitments to their families and neighbors, if they walk away from someone who needs their strength to cover her own weakness.
We included in our box some representations of the kind of strength we want our sons to emulate: Batman and Superman figures, The Lord of the Rings trilogy, Harry Potter, and Where the Wild Things Are. And two books that we love to read together in the evenings, The Tiny Bears' Bible and the Mighty Warriors Devotional book. Because all of the superheroes and legends ultimately lead to the true source of strength: Our God in Heaven, who used His strength to sacrifice His Son for the good of all.
And when we searched the Bible for verses containing the word "strength", we found an exhaustive list. Some we already knew, like, "I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me." But some were intriguing, especially, "My life has been an example to many, because You were my strength." Each day, I try to find an opportunity to praise my sons for their strength, their courage, or their gentle kindness. I'm proud of the man I chose to be their father, who sets the example for strength through sacrifice. But most importantly, I look at myself, and try to show them the kind of strength a woman possesses. After all, at the end of Proverbs 31, which describes the woman of noble character whose children and husband praise her, it says, "She is clothed in strength and dignity."
Now its my turn to give the challenge: what are you using your strength for?
Boxes - If you weren't at the last family village, each family decorated a box. It is an example of something plain made into something beautiful, just like when the Holy Spirit comes to live in our hearts and transform us into something beautiful. Also, it was a chance for each family to spend some time together, working on something, together. We asked that each family fill their box with something to tell the Village more about who they are as a family. Different families will be sharing their boxes at each village. If you were unable to join us this past village, use a box that you already have and decorate it at home.
Filling the box :) Take the opportunity, as you fill your box, to think about how you would sum up your family. Maybe ask questions like - what's important to our family? what's our mission, as a family? what are the priorities of our family? How could it be summed up in a phrase or a few sentences? When you have come up with something then talk it over with your kids or present it to them. What can you put in the box to tell the village about your family motto/vision? Also, get your kids involved in filling it with some fun stuff - a favorite game, toy, food or movie. Whatever they come up with - kids are going to probably be way better at it than we are! Take this box and use it as a way to spend time with your family :). Our awesome teachers are sharing their box next village. We will ask for volunteers for the village after so be thinking!
I stared at the screen, dumbfounded. A family theme? Putting stuff in a box to explain who we are? What?! I felt, not for the first time, that the Codispotis are waaay more organized and intentional than we are. How on earth were we going to come up with something? Because when they ask for volunteers, it doesn't help to look at the carpet.
But just a few hours later, it hit me. Or hit my child, actually. Because we actually do have a family theme, although I never thought of it that way before. What is your strength for? When we were expecting our first baby, and reading lots of books and getting plenty of advice (wanted or not), Chris came across this phrase as something you could say to instruct your child. We told our friends, who had a 3 year old son at the time. The father turned to the boy, and sternly said, "That's not what your strength is for!" then promptly burst out laughing and admitted he just couldn't say that. But Chris and I thought it was perfect. And when we gave birth to a little boy, we found plenty of times to use it. Throwing the fire poker at a window...That's not what your strength is for. Kicking or hitting in anger and frustration...That's not what your strength is for. Taking a toy from a smaller child...That's not what your strength is for. We continued to have boys, and continued to have opportunities to impart this lesson. Carrying groceries in from the car...That's what your strength is for. Opening the door for Mommy, whose hands are full of baby...That's what your strength is for. Pushing your brother around the yard in his little car...That's what your strength is for.
Because our boys are constantly getting messages from all around about what it means to be a man, and how the world defines strength. And I will cheer them on if they excel at sports or grow terrific muscles, if they decide to spend their lives rescuing people from fires or making sure that their community has justice. But we will have failed them as parents if they use their strength to take from those who are weaker, if they don't honor their commitments to their families and neighbors, if they walk away from someone who needs their strength to cover her own weakness.
We included in our box some representations of the kind of strength we want our sons to emulate: Batman and Superman figures, The Lord of the Rings trilogy, Harry Potter, and Where the Wild Things Are. And two books that we love to read together in the evenings, The Tiny Bears' Bible and the Mighty Warriors Devotional book. Because all of the superheroes and legends ultimately lead to the true source of strength: Our God in Heaven, who used His strength to sacrifice His Son for the good of all.
And when we searched the Bible for verses containing the word "strength", we found an exhaustive list. Some we already knew, like, "I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me." But some were intriguing, especially, "My life has been an example to many, because You were my strength." Each day, I try to find an opportunity to praise my sons for their strength, their courage, or their gentle kindness. I'm proud of the man I chose to be their father, who sets the example for strength through sacrifice. But most importantly, I look at myself, and try to show them the kind of strength a woman possesses. After all, at the end of Proverbs 31, which describes the woman of noble character whose children and husband praise her, it says, "She is clothed in strength and dignity."
Now its my turn to give the challenge: what are you using your strength for?
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Halloween
In some ways, I didn't have a normal childhood. I think I lucked out with a loving family and parents who instilled strong values from an early age, and I remember being happy as a kid. But there were a few things we did without. One of them is the annual tradition of Trick-or-Treating. I'm not sure the exact emanation of this restriction, whether it was a result of living in a large metropolitan area which made unsupervised kids prowling the streets at night (yes, ours was always the night of the actual Halloween, not this safe afternoon of family togetherness practiced in the Ohio suburbs), or if it had to do with religious convictions (after all, we did manage to attend our church's "Fall Carnival" in costumes). Either way, my sister and I were safely at home during Trick-or-Treating, sometimes passing out candy to the groups of children whose parents permitted them outside in the dark. One year, my sister decided we needed to at least have a photo of us going door to door begging for free candy, so one afternoon we put on costumes and walked down the street to a house that had just been constructed but was still vacant, and took turns posing for the camera like we were actually knocking on the door and treats were forthcoming. We moved to Ohio when I was 12, apparently not too old to keep participating in Halloween, and so I asked my mom to bring home scrubs and a lab coat from her hospital, put red paint on my hands, and walked around the block collecting candy. It didn't really seem fun, especially since that year it SNOWED on the afternoon in question, and I didn't know to put on extra layers under my costume to keep me warm. The next year, I joined my best friend, Melissa, and we went around her neighborhood. This time I dressed in the poodle skirt my mom had made for a choir performance the previous spring and a warm sweater, although the sun shone brightly and it was not so miserable to be outside. But then an old man yelled at me for walking on his grass, and I have been baffled ever since at someone chiding me for walking on grass. I mean, what is it for, except to play on and walk through? Otherwise cement your lot and paint it green. It's grass, not your collection of 45s dude.
So that was it. That was my lifelong experience of Halloween. When I had children of my own, it didn't seem like a necessary tradition to take part it; after all, the weather is sketchy most years, and why do we want to fill a basket with candy for our kids? It makes them hyper and cranky, and we spend 364 days a year trying to prevent them from eating it, then one day go out and let them load up on it. This makes no sense. But I think the ultimate reason for my embargo on Halloween is that I didn't do it as a kid. There is no special place in my heart for chilly walks in a thin Batman suit to talk to complete strangers, all for the purpose of collecting a hit or miss supply of free candy. But my husband does. As I posted previously, I value our differences. So every October, I put together costumes for my children (and luckily with boys, its pretty easy to find thick, fleecy ensembles that cover heads and hands), I charge the battery in the camera, and we stroll through the neighborhood trick-or-treating. I had to miss last year, due to my debilitating ankle sprain, and so I rested at home in a Vicodin haze while Chris carted around 3 little boys. This year, so far, I have stayed out of the hospital, and was therefore on hand to witness some Halloween fun. In the rain. With the temperature hovering right around 40 degrees. I watched my five year old confidently strut up driveways and collect candy and say "Thank you" as he was turning away, then pull his pant legs up so they wouldn't get wet around the bottom. Winston, my fearless boy, marched up to one lady and wished her a "Happy Ween". When she asked "How are you?", Winston spoke in a voice so loud I heard it in the street, "I'm 3!" And he proudly held his bucket in front of him and declared, "Oh, I get so much candy!" Our little Bubby, who is not yet walking and fell asleep after about 20 minutes outside, charmed everyone in his penguin suit. This is what I would have missed if I did everything my way. Even though I can't wrap my mind around the point of it, I forget to question when I have a Charms BlowPop in my mouth. Someday, my boys will decide for themselves what they want to do at the end of October. And I can go back to being the crank who turns off her lights and treats it like any other Sunday afternoon.
So that was it. That was my lifelong experience of Halloween. When I had children of my own, it didn't seem like a necessary tradition to take part it; after all, the weather is sketchy most years, and why do we want to fill a basket with candy for our kids? It makes them hyper and cranky, and we spend 364 days a year trying to prevent them from eating it, then one day go out and let them load up on it. This makes no sense. But I think the ultimate reason for my embargo on Halloween is that I didn't do it as a kid. There is no special place in my heart for chilly walks in a thin Batman suit to talk to complete strangers, all for the purpose of collecting a hit or miss supply of free candy. But my husband does. As I posted previously, I value our differences. So every October, I put together costumes for my children (and luckily with boys, its pretty easy to find thick, fleecy ensembles that cover heads and hands), I charge the battery in the camera, and we stroll through the neighborhood trick-or-treating. I had to miss last year, due to my debilitating ankle sprain, and so I rested at home in a Vicodin haze while Chris carted around 3 little boys. This year, so far, I have stayed out of the hospital, and was therefore on hand to witness some Halloween fun. In the rain. With the temperature hovering right around 40 degrees. I watched my five year old confidently strut up driveways and collect candy and say "Thank you" as he was turning away, then pull his pant legs up so they wouldn't get wet around the bottom. Winston, my fearless boy, marched up to one lady and wished her a "Happy Ween". When she asked "How are you?", Winston spoke in a voice so loud I heard it in the street, "I'm 3!" And he proudly held his bucket in front of him and declared, "Oh, I get so much candy!" Our little Bubby, who is not yet walking and fell asleep after about 20 minutes outside, charmed everyone in his penguin suit. This is what I would have missed if I did everything my way. Even though I can't wrap my mind around the point of it, I forget to question when I have a Charms BlowPop in my mouth. Someday, my boys will decide for themselves what they want to do at the end of October. And I can go back to being the crank who turns off her lights and treats it like any other Sunday afternoon.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Balancing the difference
I was scrolling through facebook the other day, and saw a status that gave me pause. One of my friends posted that anyone who wasn't voting for his preferred candidate for president should just unfriend him NOW. The rest of the day, I kept coming back to this post and trying to figure out why it bugged me so much, and this is what I came up with: I like difference. I don't want to scroll through facebook everyday and see people posting thoughts and photos and ideas that are exactly like mine. Granted, I have friends like me, and we are easy to spot since we are wickedly funny, extraordinarily intelligent, and humble as...maybe not the last one. But I would be bored, and probably a little annoyed if I had to spend every day with people who mirrored my own views and behaviors (and weaknesses and faults...yes, Chris, I can admit to having one or two). So I don't unfriend people who post opposing views on facebook. I don't change the subject or walk away from conversations with people who are impassioned enough to share their beliefs with me. This has caused unwanted follow-up visits and phone calls from a Jehovah's Witness, but we eventually moved and I managed to slip away from that one..
Another word came to mind...balance. I think I have to have a good balance in order to appreciate the differences. And this made me, of course, reflect on my marriage and the best husband ever. Because we have much in common. We love to pop popcorn and watch movies together. We like to watch football and read books and make a fire in the fireplace and just relax. We love the same God and enjoy attending church together. We like music and seriously cut the rug at weddings. We love these children that we made together, and we love kids that came from other parents. We care about children who are overlooked, or underfed, or need a little more. All of these similarities are great, and make our partnership great. But we are two different people, with different opinions and different tastes, and that can either be good for balance or really distressing if you can't appreciate it. Chris sees the big picture, and he helps remind me of it when I am too narrowly focused. In turn, I help him remember the details (someone has to print the boarding passes and pack clean underwear!) Although we both love history, my husband is more interested in Ancient times, while I prefer "Newer" history (anything after the Dark Ages, please!) He can't speak French, but he can update the software on my phone. There is nothing I love more than bringing up a news item or Fresh Air episode concerning immigration, because I know that Chris and I look at this issue from different perspectives, and we can discuss it for an hour, the whole time learning about each others' point of view. Just the other day, we were talking about the Dream Act, and Chris surprised me by saying he is in favor of it. BUT, for me, saying I am in favor of the Dream Act means I think it is okay right now for young illegals to be educated in our schools and continue living here. For Chris, until it is passed and becomes law, anyone acting in accord with it is a lawbreaker, and he doesn't approve. The way that man's mind works is amazing. But I never would have learned that unless we talked about something we know we don't agree on.
I do wish some differences weren't there. I wish the man could find his belt or deodorant or headphones by actually searching for them, instead of giving up after a cursory glance reveals them to not be in plain view. I wish he would stop at the store or even tell me when he needs a new toothbrush so that he could have his own and not use mine. I wish he cared a little more about gardening and landscaping and just general outdoor responsibilities so I didn't feel like I was doing it all alone. But if I try to change who he is, then I miss out on all the great differences. Like how he can so energetically wrestle and tickle our sons after he's been at work all day, and all I want to do is sit down or fold some clothes. Or when his interest in trying new food results in a really tasty new recipe or learning about a new ingredient (do you cook with fresh herbs? because it is a game-changer!) And sometimes he is braver than I am in trying something with the kids, and although I am wary and in my head thinking, This is going to crash and burn!, I go along and get to experience it with them.
So, casual facebook acquaintance, I'm turning the tables on your ultimatum. Because I've learned to value different opinions and also to respect the political convictions of my friends. So you can unfriend me, if you think our views diverge too far, but I will continue to enjoy your posts and rants and sometimes it will make me stop and think about what I actually believe, and I will appreciate your perspective even more.
And to my ever-loving, patient husband, I will try to be more considerate of your needs at bedtime. I will keep the computer off, and if I really have to, watch the Office with headphones. Because I love that you and I are different, and I'm not willing to give up your warm presence beside me all night. That is all.
Another word came to mind...balance. I think I have to have a good balance in order to appreciate the differences. And this made me, of course, reflect on my marriage and the best husband ever. Because we have much in common. We love to pop popcorn and watch movies together. We like to watch football and read books and make a fire in the fireplace and just relax. We love the same God and enjoy attending church together. We like music and seriously cut the rug at weddings. We love these children that we made together, and we love kids that came from other parents. We care about children who are overlooked, or underfed, or need a little more. All of these similarities are great, and make our partnership great. But we are two different people, with different opinions and different tastes, and that can either be good for balance or really distressing if you can't appreciate it. Chris sees the big picture, and he helps remind me of it when I am too narrowly focused. In turn, I help him remember the details (someone has to print the boarding passes and pack clean underwear!) Although we both love history, my husband is more interested in Ancient times, while I prefer "Newer" history (anything after the Dark Ages, please!) He can't speak French, but he can update the software on my phone. There is nothing I love more than bringing up a news item or Fresh Air episode concerning immigration, because I know that Chris and I look at this issue from different perspectives, and we can discuss it for an hour, the whole time learning about each others' point of view. Just the other day, we were talking about the Dream Act, and Chris surprised me by saying he is in favor of it. BUT, for me, saying I am in favor of the Dream Act means I think it is okay right now for young illegals to be educated in our schools and continue living here. For Chris, until it is passed and becomes law, anyone acting in accord with it is a lawbreaker, and he doesn't approve. The way that man's mind works is amazing. But I never would have learned that unless we talked about something we know we don't agree on.
I do wish some differences weren't there. I wish the man could find his belt or deodorant or headphones by actually searching for them, instead of giving up after a cursory glance reveals them to not be in plain view. I wish he would stop at the store or even tell me when he needs a new toothbrush so that he could have his own and not use mine. I wish he cared a little more about gardening and landscaping and just general outdoor responsibilities so I didn't feel like I was doing it all alone. But if I try to change who he is, then I miss out on all the great differences. Like how he can so energetically wrestle and tickle our sons after he's been at work all day, and all I want to do is sit down or fold some clothes. Or when his interest in trying new food results in a really tasty new recipe or learning about a new ingredient (do you cook with fresh herbs? because it is a game-changer!) And sometimes he is braver than I am in trying something with the kids, and although I am wary and in my head thinking, This is going to crash and burn!, I go along and get to experience it with them.
So, casual facebook acquaintance, I'm turning the tables on your ultimatum. Because I've learned to value different opinions and also to respect the political convictions of my friends. So you can unfriend me, if you think our views diverge too far, but I will continue to enjoy your posts and rants and sometimes it will make me stop and think about what I actually believe, and I will appreciate your perspective even more.
And to my ever-loving, patient husband, I will try to be more considerate of your needs at bedtime. I will keep the computer off, and if I really have to, watch the Office with headphones. Because I love that you and I are different, and I'm not willing to give up your warm presence beside me all night. That is all.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
My Life in Pictures
The first time we took James to the zoo, he was about 15 months old. I had a vision for how this trip would go; we would ooh and aah at the animals, James would be inquisitive and endearing, and maybe we would hold hands while Chris carried James on his shoulders as we left. I wanted a picture perfect outing. What actually happened was this: we carted James around to the different viewing areas, excitedly pointing out the animals ("Look James, snow leopards! James, look at the snow leopards!"), and he would giggle whenever he actually figured out what we were indicating. We got to the aquarium area, and James planted himself in front of the Amazon tank. How long were we supposed to let him look at one exhibit? Shouldn't we keep moving? What was so fascinating? When we tried to make him move on, he had a fit, as can happen with your children. The rest of the zoo trip sort of dissolved into this cry-fest, and we didn't continue on, but ended up heading for the exit, with Chris carrying James, who was now literally kicking and screaming. We got strapped into the car, handed the little guy some fruit snacks, and did the post-mortem. Chris was pleased that we did our zoo trip. I felt like a failure that my image of family perfection didn't materialize. My husband told me to stop expecting life to look like a Norman Rockwell painting. I was hoping to exist in the storybook world where Katie Holmes and Suri seem to to live. But Chris was right. Life is not sunshine and happiness all the time, with the family lovingly sitting around the radio, or marveling at my delicious cooking. Life, especially after kids enter the scene, is messy, emotional, and complicated.
Sometimes you don't get your perfect picture. And then sometimes...
Sometimes a mother has to dress her baby for a funeral instead of to bring him home. Sometimes there is a tiny casket holding all your dreams and your future. This week, especially, has been a good reminder of my husband's words, when reality is unlike any picture, to the point that it seems like aliens have crashlanded here and are redirecting the order of the world as we know it.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
A Mother's Heart
This morning my husband, in his usually loving fashion, told me that I am gorgeous. I replied, "Especially when I dress like a woman." He looked at me quizzically and asked, "How do you dress the rest of the week?" And my answer was simple: like a mom. We can distinguish them by the spit up on their shoulders, the mashed banana on their shins, the jeans that don't fit quite right, the sneakers that have clearly chased a toddler many times, the extra jackets or toys they carry. I love the SNL parody commercial for MOM jeans..."Because you're no longer a woman. You're a mom!" There are other indicators that a woman has become a mom, but they are less obvious, not necessarily visual. There is the usual stretching of the belly, occasionally the widening of the feet or a change in hair color. We see our husbands in a whole new way, we learn to appreciate their arms not for the comfort it brings us, but for how they so completely envelope our child. We see in them the father they have become. But the biggest change, the way I know that I am a mom first and a woman second, is in my heart. After the birth of my first son, I felt more. I hurt for others in a way that I never had before. Upon hearing the news that a baby who was due close to James was stillborn, while I held my precious newborn baby in my arms, I wept. I hurt for the parents who would not bring their child home. A few months later, a 9 month pregnant woman disappeared from our area, and was found later when her boyfriend confessed to murdering her and hiding her body. I followed this case all the way to his conviction, and cried and mourned for the lost lives of Jessie and her daughter, and for Blake, the little son whose mother was gone and whose father was now in jail.
Just one year ago, I was able to bring a baby home from the hospital to whom I had not given birth. I was so happy to introduce him to our family, yet I also hurt for the woman who had left the hospital with empty arms. I knew from my own experience of giving birth that her breasts would ache with milk that no one would drink, that she would have cramps as her uterus returned to its pre-baby size. I knew that she would have aches from the point in her body the baby had come out, and she would move differently to minimize this pain. But unlike me, she would not counteract these body aches by inhaling the sweet smell of her baby's head. She wouldn't be able to lay the small warm body against her abdomen to soothe the spasms. Knowing all this, I mourned for her loss, even as I delighted in my own gain. Once again, I am remembering these aches as I cry for another mom who is leaving the hospital without her baby. This time, she has not lost her son as a result of her own problems and poor decisions. Her son was diagnosed with a rare heart condition in utero, and this brave woman and her husband faithfully prepared for his arrival, calling upon the Lord to guide them as they became parents to a baby who needed more. They continued to place him in the Father's hands as he lived his short life here, and now he has left for the best possible place. I weep for this woman as she experiences the most painful loss, that of a child; she will not know the joys and sorrows of continuing to parent her baby as he becomes a toddler, a passionate whirlwind of boyhood, a strong and confident man. But as we all are, she is changed from the woman she was before. Now she has a mother's heart, and that is the greatest gift we could ever hope for.
Just one year ago, I was able to bring a baby home from the hospital to whom I had not given birth. I was so happy to introduce him to our family, yet I also hurt for the woman who had left the hospital with empty arms. I knew from my own experience of giving birth that her breasts would ache with milk that no one would drink, that she would have cramps as her uterus returned to its pre-baby size. I knew that she would have aches from the point in her body the baby had come out, and she would move differently to minimize this pain. But unlike me, she would not counteract these body aches by inhaling the sweet smell of her baby's head. She wouldn't be able to lay the small warm body against her abdomen to soothe the spasms. Knowing all this, I mourned for her loss, even as I delighted in my own gain. Once again, I am remembering these aches as I cry for another mom who is leaving the hospital without her baby. This time, she has not lost her son as a result of her own problems and poor decisions. Her son was diagnosed with a rare heart condition in utero, and this brave woman and her husband faithfully prepared for his arrival, calling upon the Lord to guide them as they became parents to a baby who needed more. They continued to place him in the Father's hands as he lived his short life here, and now he has left for the best possible place. I weep for this woman as she experiences the most painful loss, that of a child; she will not know the joys and sorrows of continuing to parent her baby as he becomes a toddler, a passionate whirlwind of boyhood, a strong and confident man. But as we all are, she is changed from the woman she was before. Now she has a mother's heart, and that is the greatest gift we could ever hope for.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Our Village
Just one year ago, Chris and I made the very difficult decision to leave our church. It took many months to realize that we were both feeling the same, which is burnt-out and unhappy. It took more months to actually depart; after all, this was the first church we had chosen together, and we had attended it as a couple who was dating, engaged, married, and starting a family. We served as greeters and adult leaders for the youth group. I attended the Moms group and taught in the 2-3 year old class every other month. We had friends, we had been part of a wonderful small group, not to mention the wonderful teachers our children had come to know, and who (especially for the oldest) were really trying to make a place for them. The biggest worry I had about leaving was about these people in particular. Would they feel rejected? Would they think they had done something to offend, or not done enough to reach out to us? And to them, I want to say vehemently, it wasn't you. It was us. We began attending Rivertree nine years ago, when we lived very close. Five years ago, when we bought our house, we only took into account what we could afford, and it ended up being a far haul from our church. Once, during December, we found ourselves in gridlocked holiday shopping traffic on our way to an evening service. We sat at one intersection for so long, that eventually we realized that church had already been going for 30 minutes. So we turned around and went home. That was one factor. Another was the dissolution of our small group. It happened that the 3 married couples in the group each gave birth to a baby within a few months time, and that combined with differing schedules led to a wind-down in meetings, until eventually we no longer bothered. And all those places where we helped and led and taught...we ended up doing more serving than sitting, to the point that when we finally had a conversation about church, we both wanted to just give up the whole practice. The actual break happened when we got our foster child, a medically fragile premature newborn who fed every 3 hours and demanded what little free time we had.
So we stopped. We left, without much fanfare, without even realizing it ourselves. Until a Sunday rolled around when I told my husband I was going to the church down the road to see what it was like. He hurriedly dressed the children so we could all go together, and we enjoyed it. As a sister church to Rivertree, it has much in common with what we had become accustomed to. Its large, with polished, streamlined children's classes, and the pastor is young and energetic and preaches great sermons. The music is performed by a band, and they played songs we knew by heart. It was nice, and we ended up returning several more times. But we weren't hooked. And so we continued to see other churches, to check out other options. That led us to Love Canton. We knew the pastor from his time at Rivertree; this church in fact, was a plant to meet the needs of people too far to get to the Tree. After the first service, Chris and I looked at each other and knew we were both thinking the same thing: this is where we wanted to be. Chris said it was the thing we needed without knowing we were missing it. It took some time to get used to the differences; after all, this church was new and small, and it seemed that very few people were in our same situation of having young children. The classes for them were small and less structured, although led by adults who were just as enthusiastic. The music was led by two or three people playing instruments or singing, but were powerful nonetheless. And, strangest of all, it only met every other week, so the first month or so proved a challenge just to remember which week it was on, and what to do with the week we were off. Not much later, when I had found myself helping out in the children's class, more to help my son adjust to the new teacher and style, I met two children with the most distinct names: a brother and sister named Nico and Francesca. The next evening, I was sitting in a foster parent class when a woman entered who looked familiar. Later she approached me and asked if I was from Love Canton, which I guess I was now. She then took on a fervent enthusiasm as we discussed my children, and I realized that she was the mother of Nico and Francesca, as well as another girl named Sofia. She wrote down her name and number and explained that she and her husband wanted to start a Village (the Love Canton equivalent of a small group) for families and would we like to come over for dinner sometime? I am actually a little shy with new people, and my husband was coming home from work at 9pm every night, so I took her information with little intention of following up. Then I saw her again a few later at Starbucks. Oh, the kids have been sick, its not a good time for us to go places in the evening...I felt so uncomfortable that we hadn't done anything about her invitation. I don't even know if I told Chris about it. Suddenly, it was March, and she cornered us after church to tell us that the Family Village was starting, that we should come to their house on the next off Sunday, and I was at a point where I was beginning to be interested in getting a little more involved (at least to meet some people at this church we'd been attending for months) and so I agreed. Chris was wary of trying to go somewhere with our unique crew, and its true, we have not had an easy time going places with a special needs son, a strong-willed son, and a baby just getting mobile. I laid down the law and got him to come "just once"...and that was all it took. We walked into a house that immediately set us at ease, from the children's artwork on the walls to the hardwood floors and furniture that had clearly been jumped on before. Our kids couldn't do too much damage here, as it had been not so much child-proofed but made child-accessible. There was a moment of intimidation that the pastor and his wife were there with their children, but otherwise, we looked around and saw families like ours, with active children weaving in between moms trying to balance coffee mugs and dads calling out to "Stop fighting with sticks!" We had found our people. We had joined a Village.
Here is what we have gained in the ensuing 6 months of actively participating in Family Village:
1. Even in our involved days at our previous church, we tended to feel isolated, like Lipford island. We didn't seem to have the same concerns as other families, the same priorities of other parents, the same struggles as other people. But now we have a group of people who are facing our same challenges, or (even better) have solutions to help our family interact better. We have parents to talk with who want the same things for their children, come from the same perspective about marriage and family, and actually encourage us as we go.
2. Each time our Village meets, our leaders (yes, the crazy lady from foster parent class and her equally crazy husband) give us challenges to make us pay attention to our kids or our spouse, to sacrifice or try harder, and then they check in. They really want us to be better and be empowered as we go through this sometimes difficult phase of child-rearing. They share their own struggles and successes with us, and they come up with creative ways of making time for everyone.
3. Our leaders are extremely frugal, so nothing they initiate or recommend is prohibitively expensive, yet they are so generous with their time. Sometimes I feel like they have discovered some secret to time management, when they describe a typical day and my head is spinning with all they have accomplished. Meanwhile, we managed to get everyone dressed! And in Winston's case, dressed again after he undressed himself and ran around the house naked.
4. We get fed. Literally and spiritually. I love having a venue to bake for again, although some weeks my contribution to our brunch is some bananas or graham crackers. But more than that, Chris and I always leave Village full of hope and encouragement, with new things to talk about with each other, new thoughts forming in our heads, new ideas about something we can teach the kids or a way we can serve each other.
So we stopped. We left, without much fanfare, without even realizing it ourselves. Until a Sunday rolled around when I told my husband I was going to the church down the road to see what it was like. He hurriedly dressed the children so we could all go together, and we enjoyed it. As a sister church to Rivertree, it has much in common with what we had become accustomed to. Its large, with polished, streamlined children's classes, and the pastor is young and energetic and preaches great sermons. The music is performed by a band, and they played songs we knew by heart. It was nice, and we ended up returning several more times. But we weren't hooked. And so we continued to see other churches, to check out other options. That led us to Love Canton. We knew the pastor from his time at Rivertree; this church in fact, was a plant to meet the needs of people too far to get to the Tree. After the first service, Chris and I looked at each other and knew we were both thinking the same thing: this is where we wanted to be. Chris said it was the thing we needed without knowing we were missing it. It took some time to get used to the differences; after all, this church was new and small, and it seemed that very few people were in our same situation of having young children. The classes for them were small and less structured, although led by adults who were just as enthusiastic. The music was led by two or three people playing instruments or singing, but were powerful nonetheless. And, strangest of all, it only met every other week, so the first month or so proved a challenge just to remember which week it was on, and what to do with the week we were off. Not much later, when I had found myself helping out in the children's class, more to help my son adjust to the new teacher and style, I met two children with the most distinct names: a brother and sister named Nico and Francesca. The next evening, I was sitting in a foster parent class when a woman entered who looked familiar. Later she approached me and asked if I was from Love Canton, which I guess I was now. She then took on a fervent enthusiasm as we discussed my children, and I realized that she was the mother of Nico and Francesca, as well as another girl named Sofia. She wrote down her name and number and explained that she and her husband wanted to start a Village (the Love Canton equivalent of a small group) for families and would we like to come over for dinner sometime? I am actually a little shy with new people, and my husband was coming home from work at 9pm every night, so I took her information with little intention of following up. Then I saw her again a few later at Starbucks. Oh, the kids have been sick, its not a good time for us to go places in the evening...I felt so uncomfortable that we hadn't done anything about her invitation. I don't even know if I told Chris about it. Suddenly, it was March, and she cornered us after church to tell us that the Family Village was starting, that we should come to their house on the next off Sunday, and I was at a point where I was beginning to be interested in getting a little more involved (at least to meet some people at this church we'd been attending for months) and so I agreed. Chris was wary of trying to go somewhere with our unique crew, and its true, we have not had an easy time going places with a special needs son, a strong-willed son, and a baby just getting mobile. I laid down the law and got him to come "just once"...and that was all it took. We walked into a house that immediately set us at ease, from the children's artwork on the walls to the hardwood floors and furniture that had clearly been jumped on before. Our kids couldn't do too much damage here, as it had been not so much child-proofed but made child-accessible. There was a moment of intimidation that the pastor and his wife were there with their children, but otherwise, we looked around and saw families like ours, with active children weaving in between moms trying to balance coffee mugs and dads calling out to "Stop fighting with sticks!" We had found our people. We had joined a Village.
Here is what we have gained in the ensuing 6 months of actively participating in Family Village:
1. Even in our involved days at our previous church, we tended to feel isolated, like Lipford island. We didn't seem to have the same concerns as other families, the same priorities of other parents, the same struggles as other people. But now we have a group of people who are facing our same challenges, or (even better) have solutions to help our family interact better. We have parents to talk with who want the same things for their children, come from the same perspective about marriage and family, and actually encourage us as we go.
2. Each time our Village meets, our leaders (yes, the crazy lady from foster parent class and her equally crazy husband) give us challenges to make us pay attention to our kids or our spouse, to sacrifice or try harder, and then they check in. They really want us to be better and be empowered as we go through this sometimes difficult phase of child-rearing. They share their own struggles and successes with us, and they come up with creative ways of making time for everyone.
3. Our leaders are extremely frugal, so nothing they initiate or recommend is prohibitively expensive, yet they are so generous with their time. Sometimes I feel like they have discovered some secret to time management, when they describe a typical day and my head is spinning with all they have accomplished. Meanwhile, we managed to get everyone dressed! And in Winston's case, dressed again after he undressed himself and ran around the house naked.
4. We get fed. Literally and spiritually. I love having a venue to bake for again, although some weeks my contribution to our brunch is some bananas or graham crackers. But more than that, Chris and I always leave Village full of hope and encouragement, with new things to talk about with each other, new thoughts forming in our heads, new ideas about something we can teach the kids or a way we can serve each other.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
My crisis of faith
Dear Prince William:
Its taken a long time to get to this realization...its taken centuries and soul-searching and letting go of my pride. But I feel like the time has come to say, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about that tea that got thrown into the Boston Harbor. Sorry about all those guys in red coats that were killed on battlefields and on roads and even that one Christmas Eve...it was my bad. As a Daughter of the American Revolution, I feel like I can take the responsibility for my ancestors on this one and maybe we can work something out. Because after months of campaigning and two debates and several conversations with my fellow countrymen, I feel like we should just give this whole independence thing up. It was great while it lasted, we had some really wonderful years where we even thought things were going better here than in your island nation. Certainly rights for women were enacted here first: first to give women the right to vote, first to pass an Equal Pay Act. We abolished slavery all by ourselves (with just a little bloodshed...). But then we decided that we should police the world, and got our military involved in all sorts of sordid international incidents. We supported puppet governments and despots and turned a blind eye in the name of cooperation. We saw our proudest traditions of self-reliance and hardwork and religious freedom become either obsolete or corrupted. The nation that we founded by rounding up the native people of this land and forcing them onto "reservations" is now divided over the issue of illegal immigrants and how to handle them. We let people smoke cigarettes that we know will kill them and incapacitate them, so long as they pay a hefty tax. We claim that corporations are people, then spend billions of dollars helping them survive while millions of our citizens are out of work and struggling to put food on their tables. And I can't decide which of our two candidates is going to mess things up less.
So my offer, the reason for my letter, is to ask you to reconsider. Think of that whole "Declaration of Independence" as a juvenile stunt that this nation, now much older and wiser, can look back on and say, "Things were pretty good under the Crown." I've read much about you and your lovely wife, Katherine (I even woke up at 4am to watch your nuptials! You don't know me, but that's a pretty big deal). I love your mutual love of service, how you are actively serving in the military and rescuing Russian sailors from drowning, and your many charities and philanthropic work. I also realize that you've got a long wait for your irascible grandma to pass and then for your father to have his turn at the helm. So maybe, in these intervening decades, you might like to spend some time on this side of the pond, and lead this wonderful country in a new, more civic-minded direction. Maybe you could set an example for all of us on how to serve each other and stop the bickering so that we can really figure out solutions that will be beneficial to the people, not the lobbyists and corporations. Maybe you could show American men how to be faithful husbands and fathers so that women are not left raising children on their own, struggling to find a house, pay the bills, buy groceries, while the men populate our penitentiaries. I know Kate could really dominate our media with tips for the women about how to keep your man happy, and we'd all love to imitate her fashion-sense. I personally would love to start wearing those little hats and feathers and whatnot.
Because, otherwise, I'm at a point of crisis. I was instilled at a very early age a love and respect for democracy, for the power of our vote and the voice of the people. I remember accompanying my parents to the poll, to protest, to help the less fortunate. My favorite class in school was always social studies, the government and history of our nation and our world. I even majored in it in college. I was so excited on my 18th birthday to fill out my voter registration card, even though it would be 7 months before I could exercise it. Now I find myself, a little more than a decade later, feeling like not voting. Sure I want to re-elect the family court judge who has so wonderfully proven herself in our community. I'll happily vote to pass the Park levy, as I enjoy their new trail many times a week. But when it comes to the national level, the man who will be our Commander-in-Chief, and the representatives that will pass laws in Congress, I'm not interested in being a part of it. We'll all talk about it until November 7th, when we'll just go back to doing the everyday and not noticing too much change regardless of the results. People will still be out of work. Schools will still imperfectly try to educate our children. Active military will still be on duty throughout the world, whether their presence is justifiable or not. Women will still be second to men, college graduates will face the indignity of moving back in with their parents because they're unable to support themselves, despite their higher education. And rich white men will still be rich (although not the one I married...). And executives will still be jumping out of burning buildings with their golden parachutes. And my faith in our government will continue to weaken.
Help me Prince William. You're my only hope.
Its taken a long time to get to this realization...its taken centuries and soul-searching and letting go of my pride. But I feel like the time has come to say, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about that tea that got thrown into the Boston Harbor. Sorry about all those guys in red coats that were killed on battlefields and on roads and even that one Christmas Eve...it was my bad. As a Daughter of the American Revolution, I feel like I can take the responsibility for my ancestors on this one and maybe we can work something out. Because after months of campaigning and two debates and several conversations with my fellow countrymen, I feel like we should just give this whole independence thing up. It was great while it lasted, we had some really wonderful years where we even thought things were going better here than in your island nation. Certainly rights for women were enacted here first: first to give women the right to vote, first to pass an Equal Pay Act. We abolished slavery all by ourselves (with just a little bloodshed...). But then we decided that we should police the world, and got our military involved in all sorts of sordid international incidents. We supported puppet governments and despots and turned a blind eye in the name of cooperation. We saw our proudest traditions of self-reliance and hardwork and religious freedom become either obsolete or corrupted. The nation that we founded by rounding up the native people of this land and forcing them onto "reservations" is now divided over the issue of illegal immigrants and how to handle them. We let people smoke cigarettes that we know will kill them and incapacitate them, so long as they pay a hefty tax. We claim that corporations are people, then spend billions of dollars helping them survive while millions of our citizens are out of work and struggling to put food on their tables. And I can't decide which of our two candidates is going to mess things up less.
So my offer, the reason for my letter, is to ask you to reconsider. Think of that whole "Declaration of Independence" as a juvenile stunt that this nation, now much older and wiser, can look back on and say, "Things were pretty good under the Crown." I've read much about you and your lovely wife, Katherine (I even woke up at 4am to watch your nuptials! You don't know me, but that's a pretty big deal). I love your mutual love of service, how you are actively serving in the military and rescuing Russian sailors from drowning, and your many charities and philanthropic work. I also realize that you've got a long wait for your irascible grandma to pass and then for your father to have his turn at the helm. So maybe, in these intervening decades, you might like to spend some time on this side of the pond, and lead this wonderful country in a new, more civic-minded direction. Maybe you could set an example for all of us on how to serve each other and stop the bickering so that we can really figure out solutions that will be beneficial to the people, not the lobbyists and corporations. Maybe you could show American men how to be faithful husbands and fathers so that women are not left raising children on their own, struggling to find a house, pay the bills, buy groceries, while the men populate our penitentiaries. I know Kate could really dominate our media with tips for the women about how to keep your man happy, and we'd all love to imitate her fashion-sense. I personally would love to start wearing those little hats and feathers and whatnot.
Because, otherwise, I'm at a point of crisis. I was instilled at a very early age a love and respect for democracy, for the power of our vote and the voice of the people. I remember accompanying my parents to the poll, to protest, to help the less fortunate. My favorite class in school was always social studies, the government and history of our nation and our world. I even majored in it in college. I was so excited on my 18th birthday to fill out my voter registration card, even though it would be 7 months before I could exercise it. Now I find myself, a little more than a decade later, feeling like not voting. Sure I want to re-elect the family court judge who has so wonderfully proven herself in our community. I'll happily vote to pass the Park levy, as I enjoy their new trail many times a week. But when it comes to the national level, the man who will be our Commander-in-Chief, and the representatives that will pass laws in Congress, I'm not interested in being a part of it. We'll all talk about it until November 7th, when we'll just go back to doing the everyday and not noticing too much change regardless of the results. People will still be out of work. Schools will still imperfectly try to educate our children. Active military will still be on duty throughout the world, whether their presence is justifiable or not. Women will still be second to men, college graduates will face the indignity of moving back in with their parents because they're unable to support themselves, despite their higher education. And rich white men will still be rich (although not the one I married...). And executives will still be jumping out of burning buildings with their golden parachutes. And my faith in our government will continue to weaken.
Help me Prince William. You're my only hope.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
The Miracle Worker
Through a joke gone awry this evening, my husband has got me thinking about Helen Keller. Thinking about a woman who had long been dead before either of us was born, and severely disabled by a childhood illness so that she was rendered both deaf and blind, and yet we both know her name and the name of her helper and later companion, Annie Sullivan. Why do we know these things? Because of the miracle. Because in her isolation and confusion, someone reached in and brought her out. Because she went from the almost feral child we see depicted in The Miracle Worker to a college graduate, published author, and outspoken advocate.
I read about Helen Keller in elementary school, then saw The Miracle Worker when it was performed at my high school. It still amazes me to think of losing both my sight and my hearing and being able to do ANYTHING other than sit in a rocking chair. But she did it, and we continually credit Annie Sullivan with the accomplishment of figuring out how to teach her. I wonder how often Ms. Sullivan lost her temper or cried in frustration or felt like a complete failure in the course of her teaching duties. I wonder if she thought about giving up, that maybe someone else would be able to do what she obviously couldn't, as Helen broke things and threw major tantrums. I don't know. But I do know how she must have felt when that crazy little girl FINALLY made the connection between words and objects. When she stopped having fits and started attending to tasks and making obvious progress. I know how she felt because its how I feel. When the car ride changes from tantrums to requests to stop at McDonald's for french fries. When bedtime stops being a battle and becomes a search for a specific car (and upon finding said car, the child in question calmly returns to his room and snuggles down for the night). When a day of one-sided conversations gradually turns into a series of back and forth verbal communication ("I want milk please!" "Here you go." "Oh, thank you mommy.") And in light of these feelings and changes and frankly, astonishing development, I find myself thinking about Annie Sullivan and wondering how she felt being labeled "a miracle worker." Because I am seeing the miracle, and I know that I didn't work it. Yes, I've been in the foxhole since day one. I was the arms of comfort during the evaluations that left us both feeling helpless. I was the one making flash cards and learning sign language and talking while wondering if it was making a difference. But I'm not the one who overcame the confusion and disorientation of living in a world that doesn't make sense so that I could reach out to those around me and be a part of it. I'm not the miracle worker...I'm his mother.
(Where would either of us be without the speech and occupational therapists, the early intervention specialists, special ed teachers, and school district representatives who make up our team? These people are amazing too, and I love them for their commitment to my special child, but I hope that they will not mind being labeled as witnesses to the miracle.)
I read about Helen Keller in elementary school, then saw The Miracle Worker when it was performed at my high school. It still amazes me to think of losing both my sight and my hearing and being able to do ANYTHING other than sit in a rocking chair. But she did it, and we continually credit Annie Sullivan with the accomplishment of figuring out how to teach her. I wonder how often Ms. Sullivan lost her temper or cried in frustration or felt like a complete failure in the course of her teaching duties. I wonder if she thought about giving up, that maybe someone else would be able to do what she obviously couldn't, as Helen broke things and threw major tantrums. I don't know. But I do know how she must have felt when that crazy little girl FINALLY made the connection between words and objects. When she stopped having fits and started attending to tasks and making obvious progress. I know how she felt because its how I feel. When the car ride changes from tantrums to requests to stop at McDonald's for french fries. When bedtime stops being a battle and becomes a search for a specific car (and upon finding said car, the child in question calmly returns to his room and snuggles down for the night). When a day of one-sided conversations gradually turns into a series of back and forth verbal communication ("I want milk please!" "Here you go." "Oh, thank you mommy.") And in light of these feelings and changes and frankly, astonishing development, I find myself thinking about Annie Sullivan and wondering how she felt being labeled "a miracle worker." Because I am seeing the miracle, and I know that I didn't work it. Yes, I've been in the foxhole since day one. I was the arms of comfort during the evaluations that left us both feeling helpless. I was the one making flash cards and learning sign language and talking while wondering if it was making a difference. But I'm not the one who overcame the confusion and disorientation of living in a world that doesn't make sense so that I could reach out to those around me and be a part of it. I'm not the miracle worker...I'm his mother.
(Where would either of us be without the speech and occupational therapists, the early intervention specialists, special ed teachers, and school district representatives who make up our team? These people are amazing too, and I love them for their commitment to my special child, but I hope that they will not mind being labeled as witnesses to the miracle.)
Sunday, October 7, 2012
The KitchenAid Workout
I am blessed to be the proud owner/operator of a KitchenAid stand
mixer. It was given to me as a gift by another blessing in my life, my
mother-in-law. She gave it to me for Christmas, maybe four years ago? I
had just broken our third hand mixer trying to make my yummy
Snickerdoodle cookies, which have proved too much for the tiny motors.
So I was bummed to have my Christmas cookie baking stopped by the loss
of the mixer. And then, Christmas evening at the in-laws', I opened the
best present I have ever gotten. Yes. You read that right. Unless
you want to call my kids presents, but none of them came at Christmas,
and when I had James I got to spend my birthday in c-section recovery,
so...the mixer is the best. If you are just starting out, living on
your own or with friends, and you have hand-me-down dishes from your
dead grandma and mismatched silverware that you swiped from various
restaurants and only 2 mugs to drink out of that you bought at the
airport giftshop the week you moved to a new city, get yourself a
KitchenAid mixer, it is totally worth the expense! It is the only item
in your kitchen that you absolutely need.
Its taken me a while to really test the abilities of my mixer, mostly because its foreign territory. I wasn't doing too much with the hand mixer beyond mashed potatoes and cookies. But recently, I heard, from a few different sources, how making bread at home is both cheaper and healthier than buying bread at the store. And it seemed as though I was constantly running back to the store within a few days to buy more bread. So as the summer craziness segued into the autumn calm, I started making my own bread. I got started by using my friend's recipe, which tasted pretty good, and made the house smell amazing. It took a few tries to figure out the best flour to buy, where to find a huge quantity of yeast, and how exactly to use the KitchenAid mixer to knead the dough so that my bread would come out fluffy, but I am now sharing here with confidence that I make good bread. The recipe my family is taking to with gusto is a simple white sandwich bread from the Bread Bible by Rose Levy Beranbaum. She is a big believer in the pre-ferment, which gives homemade bread the obvious advantage over storebought by making it taste and smell a little tangy. I have simplified her instructions to work within the constraints of a day filled with energetic children, so here goes:
Its best to start this recipe before 1pm, so that you are pulling it out of the oven before you want to collapse in bed. That being said, there are only a few steps to follow, which can easily be done in the lulls between active play, lunch, running errands, etc.
1. Make the sponge. This is the pre-ferment and it gives the bread an amazing flavor.
In the mixer, combine flour (2 1/4 cups plus 2 tablespoons), warm water (1 3/4 cups), yeast (3/4 teaspoon), and honey (2 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon) and wisk for 2 minutes.
2. In a separate bowl, mix flour (2 cups plus 3 tablespoons), dry milk (1/4 cup), and yeast (3/4 teaspoon), then sprinkle on top of the sponge. Cover and leave at room temp for 1-4 hours.
3. Mix everything together with the dough hook on your mixer, and add one stick of butter that has been softened. Next add salt (2 teaspoons) and then turn your KitchenAid up to speed 4 for 7-10 minutes to really knead the dough well. This is when the mixer starts to "dance" and my 3 year old goes nuts in the middle of the kitchen trying to match its movement, so I stay right there and make sure that sucker doesn't go jitterbugging off the counter. The dough starts to pull away from the edges of the bowl towards the end, and you're about done when it starts flopping around like a rag doll being carried by a toddler.
4. Transfer the dough to an oiled bowl or dough-rising container. Cover tightly and let it rise until its doubled its size, at least 2 hours. You can do some additional kneading and poking, but I tend to just let it rise and move on to step 5.
5. Split the dough in two, and place in oiled bread pans. Allow to rise again, at least an hour.
6. Bake at 350 for 40-50 minutes. The bread will rise a little more in the oven, and come out with a golden crust and soft white insides. Let it cool and freeze your second loaf. Start slicing up the first and serve with peanut butter, turkey slices, grilled cheese, french toast, apple butter, or au naturel.
I hope you enjoy my recipe. Let me know how it goes for you, or if you find any other great recipes for making some kind of bread at home, be it rolls, loaves, muffins, dessert breads. And buy a KitchenAid for your daughter-in-law some day, she will revere you and hold you in highest esteem :)
Its taken me a while to really test the abilities of my mixer, mostly because its foreign territory. I wasn't doing too much with the hand mixer beyond mashed potatoes and cookies. But recently, I heard, from a few different sources, how making bread at home is both cheaper and healthier than buying bread at the store. And it seemed as though I was constantly running back to the store within a few days to buy more bread. So as the summer craziness segued into the autumn calm, I started making my own bread. I got started by using my friend's recipe, which tasted pretty good, and made the house smell amazing. It took a few tries to figure out the best flour to buy, where to find a huge quantity of yeast, and how exactly to use the KitchenAid mixer to knead the dough so that my bread would come out fluffy, but I am now sharing here with confidence that I make good bread. The recipe my family is taking to with gusto is a simple white sandwich bread from the Bread Bible by Rose Levy Beranbaum. She is a big believer in the pre-ferment, which gives homemade bread the obvious advantage over storebought by making it taste and smell a little tangy. I have simplified her instructions to work within the constraints of a day filled with energetic children, so here goes:
Its best to start this recipe before 1pm, so that you are pulling it out of the oven before you want to collapse in bed. That being said, there are only a few steps to follow, which can easily be done in the lulls between active play, lunch, running errands, etc.
1. Make the sponge. This is the pre-ferment and it gives the bread an amazing flavor.
In the mixer, combine flour (2 1/4 cups plus 2 tablespoons), warm water (1 3/4 cups), yeast (3/4 teaspoon), and honey (2 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon) and wisk for 2 minutes.
2. In a separate bowl, mix flour (2 cups plus 3 tablespoons), dry milk (1/4 cup), and yeast (3/4 teaspoon), then sprinkle on top of the sponge. Cover and leave at room temp for 1-4 hours.
3. Mix everything together with the dough hook on your mixer, and add one stick of butter that has been softened. Next add salt (2 teaspoons) and then turn your KitchenAid up to speed 4 for 7-10 minutes to really knead the dough well. This is when the mixer starts to "dance" and my 3 year old goes nuts in the middle of the kitchen trying to match its movement, so I stay right there and make sure that sucker doesn't go jitterbugging off the counter. The dough starts to pull away from the edges of the bowl towards the end, and you're about done when it starts flopping around like a rag doll being carried by a toddler.
4. Transfer the dough to an oiled bowl or dough-rising container. Cover tightly and let it rise until its doubled its size, at least 2 hours. You can do some additional kneading and poking, but I tend to just let it rise and move on to step 5.
5. Split the dough in two, and place in oiled bread pans. Allow to rise again, at least an hour.
6. Bake at 350 for 40-50 minutes. The bread will rise a little more in the oven, and come out with a golden crust and soft white insides. Let it cool and freeze your second loaf. Start slicing up the first and serve with peanut butter, turkey slices, grilled cheese, french toast, apple butter, or au naturel.
I hope you enjoy my recipe. Let me know how it goes for you, or if you find any other great recipes for making some kind of bread at home, be it rolls, loaves, muffins, dessert breads. And buy a KitchenAid for your daughter-in-law some day, she will revere you and hold you in highest esteem :)
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