A Birth Day Thank You

Tags

children, parenting, reflection

Today, my daughter turned 5.  We are doing the usual birthday activities – a party, presents, her favorite food (I’m eating way too much pizza).  As excited as she is about becoming a “big girl,” I am a bit more conflicted.

First, I can’t believe that she is actually a 5 year old.  As most parents probably ask – “when did this happen?”  How is it that the baby went to toddler went to pre-schooler?  We’re getting ready for kindergarten in the Fall.  It seems so cliché to say – “time goes by fast,” but it does.  And with the passage of time comes such monumental developmental leaps.  Certainly one of the privileges of parenthood is to witness this incredible learning.  She has learned to walk, talk, dress herself, draw amazing pictures, cut a banana, catch a ball, write her letters, swing, start to recognize words and so much more.  All of this is awe-inspiring and humbling.  Oh to have that curiosity and eagerness.

This day, however, also comes with knowing that another woman gave birth to my daughter 5 years ago.  She carried her to term, went through labor, and was with her for the first four days of her life.  And then, my daughter was given over to another woman, her foster mother, for the next 10 months.

I cannot imagine what it is like to give up your child even when it might appear to be in the “best interests” of the child, or the birth mother, or both.  I do know that my daughter’s birth mother, abandoned by her husband, already was trying to care for her elder mother and 4 children while earning money as a cleaning woman.  Did she hope that at least one of her children would have the opportunity for a different and maybe better life?  Was she just so worn out at the age of 35 that she honestly couldn’t fathom caring for another?  Maybe the possibility of some money (birthmothers received a payment in Guatemala when relinquishing a child) was too good to pass up in light of her family’s economic situation?

Neither my daughter nor myself will ever know the answers.  The birthmother does not want contact.  All we have is one picture of her with “our” daughter.  Staring blankly at the camera, she looks so weary it breaks your heart.

On this day, I wonder if she thinks about her infant daughter that has become an incredible little girl.  Does she think about how she is doing?  Does she have dreams for her?  Or is life such that such thoughts are too distracting or painful?

Some aspects of this woman must live in on my daughter.  I have no idea how much of her personality is shaped by this unknown.  I do realize, however, that my daughter is not the sole product of my caregiving.  Assuming that her birthmother contributed in some way to the person my daughter is becoming, I want her to know that she gave to me a child who is smart, funny, empathic, clever, confident, and on and on.

My amazing daughter.  And her amazing birthmother.  I cherish them both.

Gotcha

Tags

children, parenting, purpose, reflection

Four years ago, the U.S. Embassy in Guatemala City.  I am standing in a long line that snakes through a packed waiting room holding a 10 month old giggling, drooling, squirming baby girl and a packet of papers.  Around me are other adults, some single and some in couples, similarly occupied with infants, toddlers and young children.  We look anxiously at the door in front of us, as one by one we are called in for an interview with a nameless bureaucrat who will change our lives.  This is the last hurdle we all need to clear before the child that is with us becomes our own.  It’s our Gotcha Day.

Finally, my soon-to-be daughter and I are at the front of the line.  I find myself going numb.  I’m trying to take everything in, but feel engulfed by the magnitude of the moment.  In this highly impersonal venue, I am about to officially become a mom.  Quietly I weep into the baby blanket.  Take a deep breath.  Check the documents once again.  And then I’m called.

Through the door you immediately have to sit down in one of two chairs.  The room is the size of a broom closet.  The embassy staff person rifles through all the documentation, muttering and stamping as he goes.  Occasionally he glances over to us, but mostly focuses on the paper work.  He then says, “sign this and go to window 4.”   That’s it.  He gets up to take my paper work to the worker behind that window.  No congratulations or good luck.  I’m a bit stunned.

We leave the broom closet and I head to window 4.  Along the way, I grab my close friend who, along with her husband, have accompanied me to Guatemala.  Another embassy staff person calls us to the window.  He’s a bit more animated and asks a few questions (none of which I remember).  I give him my final payment, sign a few more documents, and then I hear the magic words – “You are done.  Congratulations.  Your daughter’s visa will be delivered to the hotel in 48 hours.  Best of luck.”

I nearly faint with relief.  We emerge into the brilliant sun, hail a cab and head back to the hotel (really – a Club Med for adopting parents).  I just want to sit by the pool, relax and never let go of this sweet little girl who is now my child.

Anyone who has gone through an adoption process knows how frustrating it can be.  What made this situation so harrowing was Guatemala’s decision to close down adoptions as of April 1^st of that year.  It had been a race against time to complete this and with two weeks to spare, we would be able to go home as a family.  All the hours of worry shed.

Four years later and here we are.  A mommy-daughter duo deeply devoted to one another.  Yes, we have our bad days (even weeks).  But more often than not, I’ve found such joy in this adventure.  More than one person has said that she is the perfect fit for me.  I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.

Not infrequently, people will remark how lucky she is that I adopted her.  And yes, her life will no doubt be better in some significant ways because of the array of options and opportunities now at her disposal. She can dream a future that would probably have been unattainable in Guatemala.

But there also are losses that I can only try to address when the time comes.  Her birth mother relinquished her because she did not have the means to support yet another child.  A single mother with several other children by a different father, this woman had been abandoned by her male partners, had little access to health care, no formal education and worked as a cleaning woman for miniscule pay.  Her brave act to give this child a different life leaves me in awe.  When old enough, my daughter will be able to learn about these hard truths, though will probably not meet her birthmother because of the latter’s request to have the adoption closed.

For the first 10 months of her life, my daughter was cared for by a foster mother who gave her love and security, as well as a connection back to Guatemala.  We remain in touch and someday I hope my daughter can see her again.  This woman gave a remarkable part of herself to a baby destined for someone else.  An incredible act of love.

I think of both of these women today with profound gratitude because in truth, I am the lucky one.  This little ball of energy and laughter, of questions and sing-songs, of strange dance moves and questionable fashion choices, of achievements and tantrums, has immeasurably changed my life.  Her presence provided me with something that no one else has since I was a child.  A real home in every sense of the word.

Happy Gotcha Day, sweet pea!

The Ongoing Goodbye

Tags

children, parenting, voice

Two years ago tomorrow, at around 1pm, my father died.  It was not unexpected — he had been ill for quite some time, though the final stage of his life went quickly.  My family, and my father, were incredibly fortunate to have the remarkable support from hospice and dad was able to die at home.  We were able to give him the death that he wanted.

My daughter, who was two at the time, my mom and I were in the room when he died. We knew this moment was upon us because the room suddenly was quiet — his labored breathing had stopped.  Holding his hand, and checking for his pulse, I felt those last seconds.  Then there was stillness, and for the first time in perhaps years, dad relaxed.

Dad wanted to be cremated and had no desire for big funeral.  So we gave him that as well, and in the spring when the New Hampshire weather was more cooperative, we held a simple graveside ceremony.  Later that summer, my brother and I trekked to a favorite fishing hole of dad’s and scattered some of his ashes.  Mom and my sister mixed some of the ashes into the tennis court where dad spent so much of his time.  Another little bit was deposited at his parents’ grave and the rest buried at another family plot.

I don’t know what happens to a person after death.  My mom gains much comfort from her belief that they will be reunited.  I assume she’s aiming for heaven. My daughter has a more immediate connection to dad.  She believes that “we hold papa in our hearts.”   I like that, though it doesn’t quite capture my continued relationship with dad.  For me, dad is sitting on my shoulder — coaching, guiding, admonishing, questioning.  He is doing what he always did, trying to get me to get on and then stay on a path through which I can reach my full potential.

Upon learning that he had died, a long time friend wrote this observation — “he was a formidable presence in your life.”  She was right.  There was probably no other single person who had such an impact.  This is not to say we had an easy relationship.  We both were stubborn, had tempers and did not suffer fools gladly. He demanded a lot and expected that whatever you did, you would do it well.  I know he was  perplexed with some choices I made – most noticeably in the partner category (frankly, and in hindsight, so am I).

Yet through it all, I never doubted that he was “in my corner.”  Dad was not given to displays of emotion or heaps of praise, yet I nonetheless understood that he was proud of my accomplishments.  And when he did signal that you’d done a good job, it was pure gold.  Perhaps most significant – dad never said that I couldn’t do something or accomplish something because I am female.  To have a constant grounding message that I could aspire to anything, accomplish anything (as long as I worked for it) was an amazing gift.

There may come a time when I don’t think about him, or have conversations with him, but I can’t imagine when.  I miss him intensely, especially now that I am parenting.  He did get to spend some time with my daughter, but had he lived longer, she would have gained so much from him.  Instead, I try to conjure up his insights and words of wisdom, try to channel some of his energy and focus, and wish that I could get a kid to behave with just a glare (a special talent of his).  In the darkness of night, I ask him for ideas or solutions.  Sometimes I vent my frustrations.  I share my desire that he be with me to help me guide this remarkable daughter of mine.  And then I listen.

And so, dad has been gone for two years.  But not entirely.  He still is a powerful influence on me.  He remains a strong presence.  He’ll always be “dad.”  My goodbye to him will never be final.

Singular Paradox

Tags

children, confidence, parenting, purpose

“How do you do it?” “You must be exhausted!” “I could never manage.” “Don’t you just go crazy, sometimes?”

I must hear these statements, or variations, at least once a week.  And the answers are – “one step at a time,” “yup,” “you’d be surprised what you can do,” and “pretty much all the time.”

The topic – being a single mother.  And the queries and comments usually come from parents, mostly moms, who are part of a couple.  They understand the stream of demands, the late nights, the meltdowns, and the need to be almost constantly vigilant.  And, they appreciate the victories, the milestones, the moments that make everything else worthwhile.  But they have difficulty imagining what it would be like to do this alone.

Disclaimer #1: I’m not doing this alone.  I have the ability (really, a privilege) to send my daughter to a terrific pre-school, where she is loved and nurtured and kept safe. This takes a huge weight off of me.  I can focus my work days on work (well, usually, but that’s my choice).  And, as I’ve blogged about previously, I live in a wonderful neighborhood in which there are bunches of kids and involved parents.  My daughter has playmates and I can get some back-up.

Disclaimer #2: There are moments, especially in the middle of the night or during one of my daughter’s colossal fits, when I do think I’m am totally in over my head. That this is an impossible undertaking.  Much to my surprise, though, this thought happens less frequently than I had anticipated.  I also know that these moments will pass.  Being able to decompress after the fact helps.  A lot.

Disclaimer #3: I live in Philadelphia, which has an amazing range of child-oriented activities.  A fantastic zoo, children’s museum, art museum, arboretum, science museum, and park system mean that my daughter and I can do any number of activities.  Having these options makes a huge difference.

But probably the biggest factor in my ability to embrace and survive being a single mother is that I’m comfortable being single.  A few flings aside, I was seriously single for 10 years before adopting my daughter.  During that time, I learned a lot about myself and cultivated skills and perspectives that greatly aid me in my current role.  I like the self-reliance that I’ve had to acquire, and I appreciate those times when I know I need help (and am not afraid to ask for it).  I like the challenge of needing to plan or think things through, and I appreciate the feedback and ideas that I get from others when I need it.  I like that I answer to me, and now my daughter, and no longer worry about whatever judgments might come my way from a partner.

I did not originally plan to be single, and wouldn’t rule out couple-dom if it dropped from the sky.  But having gone done this path, I am increasingly comfortable in not having the need to be in a couple. I have found a psychological or emotional freedom in this single state. I don’t need to negotiate my life with another adult.  I don’t need to have expectations of another adult’s behavior; expectations that often get dashed.  I don’t have this sense that I always need to explain myself.  I just am.  And this is what really frees me up to be a mother.

Don’t get me wrong.  I have a lot of admiration for those couples who can make it work.  Can let each other be themselves and support that unconditionally.  Yet I can’t help notice how many friends of mine, mostly women and mostly mothers, who seem to be in a constant tug of war around who is responsible for what and how much of their labor goes unnoticed or undervalued.  Even in those couples that have very engaged fathers, there is still a disconnect.  The day to day tasks of mothering, and the almost constant monitoring and planning, takes a toll.  Having to remind your partner to help, to act, to acknowledge takes a toll.  Working through differing parenting styles and expectations, takes a toll.  Meeting the needs of your partner, as well as your children, takes a toll.  Yes I know that there are all sorts of benefits, or at least I assume there are.  But still ….

So to those who negotiate the terrain of being a partner and a parent, I ask these questions: ”How do you do it?” “You must be exhausted!” “I could never manage.” “Don’t you just go crazy, sometimes?”

Block Love

Tags

children, community, purpose

This weekend, if the weather cooperates (which is a big IF thus far this fall), one of my favorite local events will take place — our Block Party.  For an afternoon and into the evening, we close off the street, grill like crazy, put a lot of beer on ice, let the kids loose and generally have a good time with a great group of people.

I love my little neighborhood block.  About 50 families live in little row houses on a tree lined street.  There’s a nice age, gender, race, class and sexual orientation mix.  Families come in a variety of forms from empty nesters, to single moms with kid(s), couples, grandparents raising grandchildren, lone adults, and the traditional nuclear unit.  A cohort of young ones, all within a few years of each other, make for a lot of playtime activities.  And where the children go, the adults usually follow — trailing behind bikes, scooters and other tot vehicles.  One aspect of all this that I truly appreciate is the number of fathers who are involved with not just their children, but others’ children as well.  For my daughter, these guys are her “kind of dads.”

Teachers, nurses, grad students, stay-at-home moms, academics, human service workers, architects, ministers and writers dwell on this block. In our “off-hours,” we garden, cook, knit, help with fix-it projects, and babysit.  We are our own mutual aid society.  Indeed, neighbors rally to help when another is ill, or has lost a parent, or just needs a break from life’s craziness.  Comforting casseroles move up and down the street.

While solidly middle class in many ways, most of us feel the pinch of the current economy.  We are stretched to make ends meet.  Not an extravagant group, the biggest luxury is the occasional night out.  Many drive old or used cars and shop at thrift stores.  Several have become consummate trash-pickers. For the most part we are content to live relatively scaled back lives, appreciating what we have and doing what we can to nurture that.

I could not have asked for a better group of people to live with. We watch out for one another, argue with one another, support one another and cheer for one another.  We worry about what schools to send our children, the spike in crime in the area, the closing of local businesses.  There are so many threats, large and small, to these ties that bind us together.  There’s a fragility to this thing called community.

But on Sunday, worries will be set aside as we celebrate the strength of our collective good fortune.

Broken Little Heart

Tags

children, parenting, purpose

Today is one of those stunning late summer days that makes one want to ignore all responsibility and head outside.  Clear blue skies, bright sun and that crispness in the air that suggests autumn, my favorite season, is finally coming.  After a hot, humid and rainy summer, this weather will cure what ever ails you.  Or at least, almost everything.

Because I work at home on Fridays, the pre-school drop-off is not fraught with the usual “I’ve really got to get to work” harried good-byes.  I can take my time and often visit with my daughter’s classmates for a while — reading stories, building with blocks, or checking out Speedy the Turtle (who, for a turtle, actually is quite speedy).

When my daughter and I arrived this morning, we were greeted with the usual pre-school chaos.  The children can choose to play in a number of different activity stations; a set-up that facilitates all sorts of engaged fun.  Then, my daughter notices that one of her friends, a little boy with the biggest blue eyes, was over in the reading corner crying.  Normally, this is a child full of joyful energy, with a lopsided grin for everyone.  Today, that wasn’t the case.

So, we went over to see if we could help with something.  I plopped down on a beanbag chair and he immediately crawled into my lap, curled into himself and sobbed.  My daughter went back to her cubby and brought back 3 of her stuffed animals to comfort him (she typically travels with 10-15).  What I was finally able to piece together was that his parents weren’t together anymore and last night was the first without daddy.  He was just worn out from his own 3 year old version of grief.  We all sat together, me rocking him and my daughter holding his hand.  Our own little ball of sadness.

Eventually, the pre-school day was going to start and I had to be on my way.  One of the teachers came over and gently picked up the little boy.  I had a few soothing words for my daughter, and she told me that she was okay and would help her friend.  I waved good-bye to all the kids and headed back out into the sunshine.

I don’t know his parents well enough to ask about the what’s and why’s.   Break-ups and divorces happen.  And I know that children have remarkable strengths, though in this moment, I wondered if the “children are so resilient” mantra is more a comfort for adults when faced with painful choices than a recognition of the capacities of our kids.  I deeply hope that this fragile, vulnerable little boy has enough people around to give him unconditional comfort and support.  I also hope that his parents can set aside whatever dynamics fed their decision and protect their child.

Protecting one’s child from the harshness of daily living is incredibly difficult — psychologically, emotionally, socially, financially difficult.  You want them safe.  You want them to experience freedom and joy.  You want them to have their childhood.  How, how, how do we do this?

So I headed back out into the sunshine taking a little broken heart with me.  And my heart broke a little too.