So S's Sunday School teacher took me aside after church to tell me that during the time the class was working on a Play-doh project, the teacher had asked them what they were going to make. S told her she was going to make a boy and girl together in bed.
Oh grand, I thought, as fear lurched into my chest. I have no idea what S has been exposed to in previous placements. I know her mom had three kids in three years with two different men and is now married to another man. Who knows what she witnessed? Do I address it with her? Do I let it slide as natural curiosity?
I know when the time comes I want to be honest with her about sex. After all, the way I found out was from my friend's dad's X-rated videos and porno magazines. I was in the fourth grade and of course, X-rated movies are all the weird stuff - menage a trois and the like. It was quite an education for me. I was convinced that nice, Christian people didn't have sex. I asked my sister Susan and she laughed and me and said, "Christians have sex. Just ask Mom. How do you think you got here?" I was HORRIFIED! I would sit in church and look at different couples and think of them having sex. Talk about a stolen innocence.
As it turns out, I did choose to talk with S about it. I asked her where she had seen a boy and girl in bed together. She said, "At the hotel." Then it dawned on me! We had stayed overnight in a hotel last Friday before the high school football finals. She and K slept in one bed, and Darren and I in the other. She was going to make a Play-doh version of us, I guess. So we had a talk about how a boy and girl can share a bed if they are married and how to tell if someone is married. I know good and well she will eventually run across couples co-habitating and I'll have to answer that question for her but for now, she was content to know that she could only share her bed with her sister and not her boy cousins. Not even her cute, redheaded cousin Micah.
Family
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Good Morning, Insanity
I am not a morning person, as any of my former roommates can attest. I despise mornings. I can start a drywall project at 9 PM and go strong until 2 AM but getting up in the morning ranks right up there with wedgies and root canals. And the Lord, in His infinite sense of humor, paired me up with Mr. Morning (i.e. Darren). Darren gets up three days a week while it is still dark out to go play basketball. He leisurely drinks his coffee, showers, packs his lunch, gets devotional time in, and quietly (or sometimes not quite so quietly) slips off to work. The girls are still snuggled safe in their beds where thoughts of sugar (forget the plums) are still dancing in their heads.
Then within 15 minutes after he leaves, I get K crawling into bed with me, giving me morning breath kisses and poking her braids into my eyeballs. S hits the ground running and will read books while shifting from foot to foot and dancing. I lumber downstairs in my big white bathrobe so not ready to greet the day but I know I have a limited amount of time to get two squirrely girls through breakfast, teeth brushing, dressing, shoe finding, back packing, coat stuffing insanity in order to meet the bus.
While every other time of the day, they run at 95 MPH, they run at molasses speed in the morning and test me at every turn. They can't decide on what kind of cereal, or what to wear, or would rather spread toothpaste as a coating in the sink then put the brush in their mouth. They can't find their other mitten and they forgot that they needed a garden pea costume for the school play on vegetables that they forgot to tell me about. All the while, I am checking the clock to make sure we don't miss the bus because S's driver runs like a Swiss train - always on time.
I know I'm not the only one out there...my mom still has nightmares that she is pushing, pushing, pushing to get her kids out the door (and there were eight of us) and we are moving like we are in slow motion. She wakes up in a cold sweat. I think that qualifies for post traumatic stress disorder.
I'd love to be a morning person - get up and do yoga, eat an egg white omelet with mushrooms and peppers, take a shower without ANYONE banging on the door telling me who touched who or who took their "makeup" (chapstick) and won't give it back. I'd love to look like a million bucks walking out the door instead of a shlumpa-dinka in flannel pants and an oversized pullover of Darren's. I wish I was awake enough in the quiet hours of the morning to really dig into the Word instead of getting interrupted five times and thinking, "I feel like I've read this verse before."
I've tried going to bed earlier, drinking coffee (laced with so much Coffeemate liquid creamer it can hardly qualify as coffee), etc. but I still hate mornings. So until they invent a conveyer belt that will wake, feed, dress, brush teeth, and do hair for kids, this lumbering, white robed, morning hater will keep on keepin' on.
Then within 15 minutes after he leaves, I get K crawling into bed with me, giving me morning breath kisses and poking her braids into my eyeballs. S hits the ground running and will read books while shifting from foot to foot and dancing. I lumber downstairs in my big white bathrobe so not ready to greet the day but I know I have a limited amount of time to get two squirrely girls through breakfast, teeth brushing, dressing, shoe finding, back packing, coat stuffing insanity in order to meet the bus.
While every other time of the day, they run at 95 MPH, they run at molasses speed in the morning and test me at every turn. They can't decide on what kind of cereal, or what to wear, or would rather spread toothpaste as a coating in the sink then put the brush in their mouth. They can't find their other mitten and they forgot that they needed a garden pea costume for the school play on vegetables that they forgot to tell me about. All the while, I am checking the clock to make sure we don't miss the bus because S's driver runs like a Swiss train - always on time.
I know I'm not the only one out there...my mom still has nightmares that she is pushing, pushing, pushing to get her kids out the door (and there were eight of us) and we are moving like we are in slow motion. She wakes up in a cold sweat. I think that qualifies for post traumatic stress disorder.
I'd love to be a morning person - get up and do yoga, eat an egg white omelet with mushrooms and peppers, take a shower without ANYONE banging on the door telling me who touched who or who took their "makeup" (chapstick) and won't give it back. I'd love to look like a million bucks walking out the door instead of a shlumpa-dinka in flannel pants and an oversized pullover of Darren's. I wish I was awake enough in the quiet hours of the morning to really dig into the Word instead of getting interrupted five times and thinking, "I feel like I've read this verse before."
I've tried going to bed earlier, drinking coffee (laced with so much Coffeemate liquid creamer it can hardly qualify as coffee), etc. but I still hate mornings. So until they invent a conveyer belt that will wake, feed, dress, brush teeth, and do hair for kids, this lumbering, white robed, morning hater will keep on keepin' on.
Monday, November 17, 2008
It All ADDs Up
We had our first parent teacher conferences for S & K last week. Socially, both seem to be doing well - playing with others, sharing, making friends. For the most part, they are on par for fine motor and academic progress.
The one area of concern was the S shows tendencies towards Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). She has a very good teacher this year that doesn't mind that S stands up most of the day to do her work or wiggles around a lot.
Definitely not like the battle axes I had for teachers growing up. I had one who would check our fingernails daily to make sure they were clean. And we had to tell the class whether or not we had remembered to brush our teeth that morning. She had these fantastic long fingernails and wore sleeveless polyester shirts and everytime she wrote on the board, I would watch her upper arms swaying in the breeze. I was mesmerized! During cold and flu season, she would use and re-use the same handkerchief and tuck it into her sleeve when not in use. She was also the type that got her hair set every week and by the end of the week, it looked like she had rolled around in flannel.
But I digress...
Anyhoo, I'm not entirely surprised by the ADD tendencies with S. She finds it virtually impossible to sit still during supper and will literally run laps around the table after school. If she is supposed to be doing homework and there is ANYTHING else going on, including a fly buzzing from 12 counties away, she cannot seem to concentrate enough to keep writing on the same line. She will start adding words to a sentence she previously completed on the page. She is constantly talking or humming and cannot seem to follow a list of directions but instead will get hung up on only one part of the directions. Or she won't listen at all. She's a bit like Hammie on "Over the Hedge".
I'm not going to go charging for the Ritalin bottle yet but there are days that it absolutely drives me batty. I asked her to please be quiet the other night at the dinner table and she said, "Why?" (her favorite word...) to which, being the supportive, encouraging, warm, nurturing mother that I am, I replied, "Because you are annoying the snot out of me." Little K pipes up beside me, "And you is snotting the snot outta me, too."
On second thought, a Ritalin drip may be in order.
The one area of concern was the S shows tendencies towards Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). She has a very good teacher this year that doesn't mind that S stands up most of the day to do her work or wiggles around a lot.
Definitely not like the battle axes I had for teachers growing up. I had one who would check our fingernails daily to make sure they were clean. And we had to tell the class whether or not we had remembered to brush our teeth that morning. She had these fantastic long fingernails and wore sleeveless polyester shirts and everytime she wrote on the board, I would watch her upper arms swaying in the breeze. I was mesmerized! During cold and flu season, she would use and re-use the same handkerchief and tuck it into her sleeve when not in use. She was also the type that got her hair set every week and by the end of the week, it looked like she had rolled around in flannel.
But I digress...
Anyhoo, I'm not entirely surprised by the ADD tendencies with S. She finds it virtually impossible to sit still during supper and will literally run laps around the table after school. If she is supposed to be doing homework and there is ANYTHING else going on, including a fly buzzing from 12 counties away, she cannot seem to concentrate enough to keep writing on the same line. She will start adding words to a sentence she previously completed on the page. She is constantly talking or humming and cannot seem to follow a list of directions but instead will get hung up on only one part of the directions. Or she won't listen at all. She's a bit like Hammie on "Over the Hedge".
I'm not going to go charging for the Ritalin bottle yet but there are days that it absolutely drives me batty. I asked her to please be quiet the other night at the dinner table and she said, "Why?" (her favorite word...) to which, being the supportive, encouraging, warm, nurturing mother that I am, I replied, "Because you are annoying the snot out of me." Little K pipes up beside me, "And you is snotting the snot outta me, too."
On second thought, a Ritalin drip may be in order.
Papa Smurf and His Fan Club
This weekend was the state high school football semi-finals for my old alma mater. My nephew "Papa Smurf" (aptly named for the time his mom packed the wrong football socks and instead of white socks and a blue uniform, he was blue from head to toe...6'2", 275 lbs of blueness...) was playing on the line so we hauled the girls and my other nephew up to watch him. TJ Maxx had a clearance of old Halloween costumes where I was able to find two red and silver sparkly "Go Team" cheerleading uniforms for the girls.
They thought they were the cats' pajamas! My sister had bought face paints so both girls had paw prints on their face. We have already taught them to cheer for the mascot of their home school so had to teach them to cheer for the WILDCATS as well! My nieces were up there and they are "cool high schoolers" who bought the girls ice cream and let them take pictures with their cell phones. S came home thinking that she should really get a cell phone for Christmas. I told her Santa has a "no cell phone" policy until she is in 7th grade. To which she replied, "How about 2nd grade?" Fat chance.
My alma mater won - and are a really amazing team in that there are not one or two really showy players...they all pull together. Part of the reason is that one of their teammates was diagnosed with testicular cancer just a few weeks ago. The team shaved their heads when their teammate went in for chemo so he wouldn't be the only one without hair. This amazing young man then came back to play for the team POST-CHEMO...unbelievable! So they are playing for something bigger than themselves this time.
The team plays again on Saturday morning and Cheer Girl #1, Cheer Girl #2, Husband, Nephew, and me will haul up again to root the team on. Hopefully, I can teach Cheer Girl #1 how to cheer without flailing her pom poms into everyone's head. GO WILDCATS!
They thought they were the cats' pajamas! My sister had bought face paints so both girls had paw prints on their face. We have already taught them to cheer for the mascot of their home school so had to teach them to cheer for the WILDCATS as well! My nieces were up there and they are "cool high schoolers" who bought the girls ice cream and let them take pictures with their cell phones. S came home thinking that she should really get a cell phone for Christmas. I told her Santa has a "no cell phone" policy until she is in 7th grade. To which she replied, "How about 2nd grade?" Fat chance.
My alma mater won - and are a really amazing team in that there are not one or two really showy players...they all pull together. Part of the reason is that one of their teammates was diagnosed with testicular cancer just a few weeks ago. The team shaved their heads when their teammate went in for chemo so he wouldn't be the only one without hair. This amazing young man then came back to play for the team POST-CHEMO...unbelievable! So they are playing for something bigger than themselves this time.
The team plays again on Saturday morning and Cheer Girl #1, Cheer Girl #2, Husband, Nephew, and me will haul up again to root the team on. Hopefully, I can teach Cheer Girl #1 how to cheer without flailing her pom poms into everyone's head. GO WILDCATS!
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The Best Gifts
My seven cents on the best gifts I have received to pass on for those of you who have friends who adopt - especially older children from foster care:
1) UNDERSTANDING. Give an adoptive mom time to get used to instant parenthood without expecting them to be instantly gushy about the experience. You had nine months to anticipate the arrival of your baby. We may have had two weeks.
2) PLAYDATES. Invite our adopted child over to play with your children, understanding that our child needs positive adult and child role models in their life - and we may need a break!
3) USED ITEMS. We may have no idea of exactly what age child we are getting - and very much appreciate even the temporary lending of clothes, toys, and books. I have had two people (outside of my awesome sisters) be especially generous in this area and I was overwhelmed...so thanks, Heather S. and Tracy H.!
4) FOOD. Just because we are not recovering from child birth doesn't mean we wouldn't appreciate a meal. Your newborn sleeps fourteen hours a day. Our kids eat as much as an adult and came with boundless energy. Please don't take this as a shameless plug for me - just bless the next person who adopts an older child.
5) DISCRETION. Don't talk about their status in foster care or adoption status in front of our child. You'd be amazed how much they internalize and act out on, even if they don't fully understand the conversation. They may still be healing from the goodbyes of their last placement and not ready to hear about adoption.
6) PATIENCE & PERSPECTIVE. Be tolerant of our kids behavior not always being age appropriate or appropriate in general. They may have moved every year of their life, said hello and goodbye to multiple parental figures, been beaten, sworn at, neglected, and worse. Most have some kind of attention deficit disorder and trouble with impulse control. They haven't been told how special, how beautiful, how loved, and how important they are from birth like your kids.
7) A SOFT PLACE TO LAND. Don't ask us how we are doing unless you REALLY want to know...and the truth may not be pretty. And we may do the "ugly cry". Just because we really wanted to be parents and have anticipated this time longer than most doesn't mean that the adjustment is any easier. It will get better...just give us chocolate and a hug until it does.
1) UNDERSTANDING. Give an adoptive mom time to get used to instant parenthood without expecting them to be instantly gushy about the experience. You had nine months to anticipate the arrival of your baby. We may have had two weeks.
2) PLAYDATES. Invite our adopted child over to play with your children, understanding that our child needs positive adult and child role models in their life - and we may need a break!
3) USED ITEMS. We may have no idea of exactly what age child we are getting - and very much appreciate even the temporary lending of clothes, toys, and books. I have had two people (outside of my awesome sisters) be especially generous in this area and I was overwhelmed...so thanks, Heather S. and Tracy H.!
4) FOOD. Just because we are not recovering from child birth doesn't mean we wouldn't appreciate a meal. Your newborn sleeps fourteen hours a day. Our kids eat as much as an adult and came with boundless energy. Please don't take this as a shameless plug for me - just bless the next person who adopts an older child.
5) DISCRETION. Don't talk about their status in foster care or adoption status in front of our child. You'd be amazed how much they internalize and act out on, even if they don't fully understand the conversation. They may still be healing from the goodbyes of their last placement and not ready to hear about adoption.
6) PATIENCE & PERSPECTIVE. Be tolerant of our kids behavior not always being age appropriate or appropriate in general. They may have moved every year of their life, said hello and goodbye to multiple parental figures, been beaten, sworn at, neglected, and worse. Most have some kind of attention deficit disorder and trouble with impulse control. They haven't been told how special, how beautiful, how loved, and how important they are from birth like your kids.
7) A SOFT PLACE TO LAND. Don't ask us how we are doing unless you REALLY want to know...and the truth may not be pretty. And we may do the "ugly cry". Just because we really wanted to be parents and have anticipated this time longer than most doesn't mean that the adjustment is any easier. It will get better...just give us chocolate and a hug until it does.
Imitation is NOT a Form of Flattery!
My girls were playing house the other day, and taking turns playing the part of Mommy. I had the "privilege" of hearing what I sound like.
It was downright scary how much they internalize...and how much I yell. My goal for the next few weeks is to keep my voice in check and become more "velvet over steel"...after all, who knows what they share with others when I am not around. I never thought I'd be a yeller but they seem to know what buttons to push when I am at my weakest. In fact, I ducked into a hall closet two days ago just to get two minutes to calm down and pray before I entered the "red zone".
I suppose I should come out of the closet one of these days. Maybe tomorrow;-)
It was downright scary how much they internalize...and how much I yell
I suppose I should come out of the closet one of these days. Maybe tomorrow;-)
Christmas Card Phobias
We took Christmas card pictures the other week. It only took 33 tries to get two girls, two dogs, and two adults to all look forward and smile (sans the dogs...we counted it a victory if we could keep them in the sit position long enough to snap the picture). It didn't help that those biting, ladybug looking pests were taking nose dives at our bare skin and latching on for all they were worth. S is at the age where she thinks it's funny to make faces for the photos and we had several photos of the forced smiles as well. But alas, that's what Photoshop is for. Makes professional "photographers" out of all of us...
Now I have to review the Christmas card list - which gives me great distress. It grows every year and for some reason, I keep receiving and sending Christmas cards with people I have not physically seen or spoken to in 7 years. I highlight their names thinking I will cut down my list each year and even wait to send a card out but alas, I get their card and feel compelled to let the never ending cycle continue. Someday I'll be brave enough to not send a card and they will probably breathe a sigh of relief on their end as well. Until then, I may have to invest in a Pitney Bowes mailer inserter thing to get through the ordeal.
Now I have to review the Christmas card list - which gives me great distress. It grows every year and for some reason, I keep receiving and sending Christmas cards with people I have not physically seen or spoken to in 7 years. I highlight their names thinking I will cut down my list each year and even wait to send a card out but alas, I get their card and feel compelled to let the never ending cycle continue. Someday I'll be brave enough to not send a card and they will probably breathe a sigh of relief on their end as well. Until then, I may have to invest in a Pitney Bowes mailer inserter thing to get through the ordeal.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Pride & Prejudice
This parenthood thing is an exercise in overcoming pride and prejudice...my own, that is...
For those of you who think I am so open minded, let me tell you that I wrestled with the fact that the girls that would be placed with us were AA. For some reason, I figured that A) people would look at my white skin and their black skin and figure I got seduced by a college football player or B) that the girls would not have as many dates because - while it is common to see white girls dating black guys, you don't see many white guys dating black girls.
Ridiculous, I know, but there you have it. Darren had his own issues with the Latino race thinking that people would assume our children were illegal immigrants. Absolutely absurd on both of our parts and a learning experience for both of us as we truly explored racial heritages.
Now on to pride battles...
For some reason, I seem to think that how they dress is a reflection of me...but I am learning to let that go and let them pick out their own outfits. We've had some doozies - brown velvet pants with a neon green Bratz shirt, hot pink tight pants with a brown and orange flowered shirt, neon orange shirt with red and white checkered pants and pink Dora shoes...sometimes they look like they have taken a running leap and dove into a pile of random Goodwill clothes. I'm letting go...
Their academic progress, or lack thereof, is also a pride issue...S does really well in school with the exception of her handwriting. K has no interest in learning her letters except for the first letter of her name and the first letter of her "stister's" name. When I try to work with her on flash cards, she guesses every letter to be "C". I tell her, "We are working only on these three letters and none of them are "C", now guess again..." to which she looks up at me and says, "Is it "C"?" AAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUGHHHH...so she might be the last one on planet Earth to write her name or recognize her ABCs or count past 8...I'm letting go...
On to pride with behavior...my pastor and good friend says K had her hands down the back of her pants during Sunday school. My guess is we forgot to lotion her "booty" and it gets dry and itchy. So I've got the buttscratching kid. And S came home and said, "I colored on my pants." I asked her why and got a blank stare. She has no idea what on earth possessed her to take a red crayon and color a large blob on the front of her off-white corduroy pants. I'm letting go...
I'm letting go and hoping that, instead of being the best dressed or the cleanest or the smartest, that they grow up to be the nicest, most caring, most thoughtful adults. If I can just help them survive until then!
For those of you who think I am so open minded, let me tell you that I wrestled with the fact that the girls that would be placed with us were AA. For some reason, I figured that A) people would look at my white skin and their black skin and figure I got seduced by a college football player or B) that the girls would not have as many dates because - while it is common to see white girls dating black guys, you don't see many white guys dating black girls.
Ridiculous, I know, but there you have it. Darren had his own issues with the Latino race thinking that people would assume our children were illegal immigrants. Absolutely absurd on both of our parts and a learning experience for both of us as we truly explored racial heritages.
Now on to pride battles...
For some reason, I seem to think that how they dress is a reflection of me...but I am learning to let that go and let them pick out their own outfits. We've had some doozies - brown velvet pants with a neon green Bratz shirt, hot pink tight pants with a brown and orange flowered shirt, neon orange shirt with red and white checkered pants and pink Dora shoes...sometimes they look like they have taken a running leap and dove into a pile of random Goodwill clothes. I'm letting go...
Their academic progress, or lack thereof, is also a pride issue...S does really well in school with the exception of her handwriting. K has no interest in learning her letters except for the first letter of her name and the first letter of her "stister's" name. When I try to work with her on flash cards, she guesses every letter to be "C". I tell her, "We are working only on these three letters and none of them are "C", now guess again..." to which she looks up at me and says, "Is it "C"?" AAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUGHHHH...so she might be the last one on planet Earth to write her name or recognize her ABCs or count past 8...I'm letting go...
On to pride with behavior...my pastor and good friend says K had her hands down the back of her pants during Sunday school. My guess is we forgot to lotion her "booty" and it gets dry and itchy. So I've got the buttscratching kid. And S came home and said, "I colored on my pants." I asked her why and got a blank stare. She has no idea what on earth possessed her to take a red crayon and color a large blob on the front of her off-white corduroy pants. I'm letting go...
I'm letting go and hoping that, instead of being the best dressed or the cleanest or the smartest, that they grow up to be the nicest, most caring, most thoughtful adults. If I can just help them survive until then!
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Invisible Mother
My good friend Carmen R sent me this blurb earlier in the week...thought it was worth sharing:
Invisible Mother
It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken to the store.
Inside I'm thinking, 'Can't you see I'm on the phone?'
No one can see I'm on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all.
I'm invisible. The invisible Mom. Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more: Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this?
Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a human being. I'm a clock to ask, 'What time is it?' I'm a satellite guide to answer, 'What number is the Disney Channel?' I'm a taxi to order, 'Can you pick me up right around 5:30?
I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history and the mind that graduated sum a cum laude - but now they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again. She's going; she's going; she is gone!
One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England .. Janice had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in.
I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself.I was feeling pretty pathetic, when Janice turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, 'I brought you this.'
It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe. I wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I read her inscription:
/'To Charlotte , with admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees.' /
In the days ahead I would read - no, devour - the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work:
No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no record of their names. These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished. They made great sacrifices and expected no credit. The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.
A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, 'Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof? No one will ever see it.' And the workman replied, 'Because God sees.'
I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place.It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, 'I see you, Charlotte. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does. No act of kindness you've done, no sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can't see right now what it will become.' At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a disease that is erasing my life.
It is the cure for the disease of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn pride.
I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on.The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.
When I really think about it, I don't want my son to tell the friend he's bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, 'My mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for three hours and presses all the linens for the table.' That would mean I'd built a shrine or a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his friend, to add, 'you're going to love it there.'
As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we're doing it right.
And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible women.
Invisible Mother
It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken to the store.
Inside I'm thinking, 'Can't you see I'm on the phone?'
No one can see I'm on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all.
I'm invisible. The invisible Mom. Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more: Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this?
Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a human being. I'm a clock to ask, 'What time is it?' I'm a satellite guide to answer, 'What number is the Disney Channel?' I'm a taxi to order, 'Can you pick me up right around 5:30?
I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history and the mind that graduated sum a cum laude - but now they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again. She's going; she's going; she is gone!
One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England .. Janice had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in.
I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself.I was feeling pretty pathetic, when Janice turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, 'I brought you this.'
It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe. I wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I read her inscription:
/'To Charlotte , with admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees.' /
In the days ahead I would read - no, devour - the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work:
No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no record of their names. These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished. They made great sacrifices and expected no credit. The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.
A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, 'Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof? No one will ever see it.' And the workman replied, 'Because God sees.'
I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place.It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, 'I see you, Charlotte. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does. No act of kindness you've done, no sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can't see right now what it will become.' At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a disease that is erasing my life.
It is the cure for the disease of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn pride.
I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on.The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.
When I really think about it, I don't want my son to tell the friend he's bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, 'My mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for three hours and presses all the linens for the table.' That would mean I'd built a shrine or a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his friend, to add, 'you're going to love it there.'
As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we're doing it right.
And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible women.
Monday, November 3, 2008
For Real
The other day, I was disciplining K and she was crying, "Mommy, mommy, mommy"...when in the background I hear S ask her "Do you mean your "real" mommy?"
I am so not ready for that. This real versus adopted mom thing is still a bit of an insecurity for me. S is old enough to have a lot of memories and I know I should be braced for the expectation that I will hear about her "real" mom everytime she doesn't get to do something she wants as a teenager. But that was the first time I heard her mention her birth mom. She's talked about her birth grandma and her foster mom - but never her birth mom.
The scary (if that is the right word) part about domestic adoption is that they are all pretty much open - which means that birth family can find you and DCFS encourages you to become big, happy mixed biological and adoptive families. There is an adoption registry where adoptive parents can enter information on behalf of their adopted kids and at age 15, an adopted child can request information with parental permission. At 18, no parental consent is needed.
I live with the realization that we will likely run into birth family on more than one occasion and at any random moment, their birth mom or other relatives could initiate contact or show up. I do have a fear that the birth family will re-enter the picture at some point, perhaps after our daughters have left home, and then I will have to share holidays or important occasions with this other half of my daughters' lives. I know genetic connection is strong and that the girls will be curious about what traits they have inherited from whom.
I spoke with my good friend Jane B. who has adopted three children and asked her if she shares that fear. She had the wisest answer. She said, "No. I just thank God for the privilege of raising these kids and the time I have had to spend with them."
I am definitely not there yet...
For now, all I can say is, while I did not physically give birth to these girls, I am very much their "real" mother...I'm the one who gets puked on when they are sick, makes sure they have clean clothes to wear, helps them with homework, sings "Twilight is Stealing" to them at bedtime, and makes sure they eat their peas and carrots. Doesn't get more "real" than that!
I am so not ready for that. This real versus adopted mom thing is still a bit of an insecurity for me. S is old enough to have a lot of memories and I know I should be braced for the expectation that I will hear about her "real" mom everytime she doesn't get to do something she wants as a teenager. But that was the first time I heard her mention her birth mom. She's talked about her birth grandma and her foster mom - but never her birth mom.
The scary (if that is the right word) part about domestic adoption is that they are all pretty much open - which means that birth family can find you and DCFS encourages you to become big, happy mixed biological and adoptive families. There is an adoption registry where adoptive parents can enter information on behalf of their adopted kids and at age 15, an adopted child can request information with parental permission. At 18, no parental consent is needed.
I live with the realization that we will likely run into birth family on more than one occasion and at any random moment, their birth mom or other relatives could initiate contact or show up. I do have a fear that the birth family will re-enter the picture at some point, perhaps after our daughters have left home, and then I will have to share holidays or important occasions with this other half of my daughters' lives. I know genetic connection is strong and that the girls will be curious about what traits they have inherited from whom.
I spoke with my good friend Jane B. who has adopted three children and asked her if she shares that fear. She had the wisest answer. She said, "No. I just thank God for the privilege of raising these kids and the time I have had to spend with them."
I am definitely not there yet...
For now, all I can say is, while I did not physically give birth to these girls, I am very much their "real" mother...I'm the one who gets puked on when they are sick, makes sure they have clean clothes to wear, helps them with homework, sings "Twilight is Stealing" to them at bedtime, and makes sure they eat their peas and carrots. Doesn't get more "real" than that!
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Moses and Two Tooth Fairies
Last night was Halloween. We were hoping that, since we attended the Fall Festival at school, the girls would not ask to go trick or treating.
Fat chance.
S desperately wanted to be a mermaid. I told her we didn't have the dress up clothes for that so she had to pick something else. I finally talked her into a fairy since the outfit had long sleeves and she could wear her white tights (a big deal before you hit 18). I helped her make a wand out of construction paper, a pencil, and tape. She figured she needed to be a specific kind of fairy and since her bottom tooth has been very wiggly, she decided she was The Tooth Fairy.
K, being the "monkey see, monkey do" variety, decided she was also being The Tooth Fairy. She was really wearing the Cinderella dress but since neither had actually seen a tooth fairy, we figured who would know the difference?
As for me, I borrowed Darren's Moses costume, complete with a beard down to my knees and a hair piece that rivaled Charleton Heston's in "The Ten Commandments". The robe was a little long so the rope belt held up the big blousing over of the top part. My old Birkenstock sandals (so Seattle Grunge '90s) came out of hiding. I knew I held on to them for a reason.
So Moses, Tooth Fairy #1, and Tooth Fairy #2 joined Super Girl (Grace) and Superman (Lance) and Renee around T-town for a night of sugar high. I had to remind them often not to tramp through everyone's landscaping and S would race to the door to be first to yell "TRICK OR TREAT" while K repeatedly lost her Sunday shoes (guess tooth fairies also wear brown Mary Janes from Walmart). My staff was so long I had to hang it out the side window and nearly took out a few mailboxes as the red minivan lumbered from house to house.
Now we are rationing the haul as I already have to peel S and K off the ceiling most days. Plus, their dad and I plan to raid their stash on a regular basis!
Fat chance.
S desperately wanted to be a mermaid. I told her we didn't have the dress up clothes for that so she had to pick something else. I finally talked her into a fairy since the outfit had long sleeves and she could wear her white tights (a big deal before you hit 18). I helped her make a wand out of construction paper, a pencil, and tape. She figured she needed to be a specific kind of fairy and since her bottom tooth has been very wiggly, she decided she was The Tooth Fairy.
K, being the "monkey see, monkey do" variety, decided she was also being The Tooth Fairy. She was really wearing the Cinderella dress but since neither had actually seen a tooth fairy, we figured who would know the difference?
As for me, I borrowed Darren's Moses costume, complete with a beard down to my knees and a hair piece that rivaled Charleton Heston's in "The Ten Commandments". The robe was a little long so the rope belt held up the big blousing over of the top part. My old Birkenstock sandals (so Seattle Grunge '90s) came out of hiding. I knew I held on to them for a reason.
So Moses, Tooth Fairy #1, and Tooth Fairy #2 joined Super Girl (Grace) and Superman (Lance) and Renee around T-town for a night of sugar high. I had to remind them often not to tramp through everyone's landscaping and S would race to the door to be first to yell "TRICK OR TREAT" while K repeatedly lost her Sunday shoes (guess tooth fairies also wear brown Mary Janes from Walmart). My staff was so long I had to hang it out the side window and nearly took out a few mailboxes as the red minivan lumbered from house to house.
Now we are rationing the haul as I already have to peel S and K off the ceiling most days. Plus, their dad and I plan to raid their stash on a regular basis!
Bat Wings and a Thass
The other day, S piped up from the backseat "Mommy, how come you never exercise?"
Well, harumph.
The first reply I composed in my head was, "I do exercise every day all day. It's called bend overs and pick ups. I bend over and pick up your clothes. I bend over and put the wash in the washer and bend over and pull the clean clothes out of the dryer. I bend over and pick you up as you dance up and down in front of me, chanting. I bend over the tub to wash your hair and pick your sopping wet, slithery like an eel, jumping, jiving body out of the tub. I bend over to load the dishwasher and to vacuum up the bits of Play-Doh that have glued themselves into the rug."
The next reply I composed in my head was "Just wait until you hit the thirties. Believe it or not, there was a time I could sit on the toilet and actually still see the toilet seat underneath me instead of my thighs flopping over the sides. I could wear a swimsuit 8 hours a day lifeguarding and not worry that the back of my legs look like they have been hit by shrapnel. My arms would stop waving when I did. I had only one chin. My clothing size was in the single digits. I actually had a distinguishable waist and nobody ever incorrectly asked me when I was due."
What I actually mumbled was something closer to, "Because I hate it and would rather poke a pen in my eye."
Well, harumph.
The first reply I composed in my head was, "I do exercise every day all day. It's called bend overs and pick ups. I bend over and pick up your clothes. I bend over and put the wash in the washer and bend over and pull the clean clothes out of the dryer. I bend over and pick you up as you dance up and down in front of me, chanting. I bend over the tub to wash your hair and pick your sopping wet, slithery like an eel, jumping, jiving body out of the tub. I bend over to load the dishwasher and to vacuum up the bits of Play-Doh that have glued themselves into the rug."
The next reply I composed in my head was "Just wait until you hit the thirties. Believe it or not, there was a time I could sit on the toilet and actually still see the toilet seat underneath me instead of my thighs flopping over the sides. I could wear a swimsuit 8 hours a day lifeguarding and not worry that the back of my legs look like they have been hit by shrapnel. My arms would stop waving when I did. I had only one chin. My clothing size was in the single digits. I actually had a distinguishable waist and nobody ever incorrectly asked me when I was due."
What I actually mumbled was something closer to, "Because I hate it and would rather poke a pen in my eye."
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