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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.