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!

Stuff It

Tags

confidence, purpose, rant, voice

Warning: This is a rant.  Against Thanksgiving.  If you love this holiday beyond reason, you may not want to read this entry.  

I realize that Thanksgiving is considered one of those truly American, family-centered holidays.  This is, no doubt due to the Pilgrim story with a dash of Norman Rockwell.  And perhaps for some, it still fulfills that purpose.  But for me — well, I can’t stand this holiday or at least what this holiday now seems to stand for.  Here’s why.

First, I’d like to be able to say that my antipathy for Thanksgiving is because of a carefully reasoned political analysis of what whites have done to Native Americans — that the tale of the first Thanksgiving is just a myth to make many of us feel better or just ignore the betrayal and exploitation of indigenous people.  But I’d be lying to claim that as the reason for my intense dislike of the day (though I do agree with this perspective and suggest this site as a place to start: http://www.uaine.org/).

In no particular order – here’s why this holiday bugs the sh*t out of me:

• The food is, for the most part, bland and beige.  Has anyone really had a turkey that actually tastes yummy?  The lengths that folks go to make that impossible goal happen are absurd — brining, seasoning, smoking, basting, etc., and if you still screw up you can call a 24 hour help hotline.  Really — this is a good use of resources?  The only color comes either from that nasty green bean dish with fake onions or cranberries in a can (though I’ll admit, I love the sound of that jellied cylinder coming out of the can).
• A second food point — I’m amazed at the number of food disasters I have witnessed as folks attempt to get a complete meal on the table.  These include a thoroughly burnt turkey (totally black), a boiled in a bag turkey (a soggy mess — though moist), and a turkey that was put in the oven frozen (let’s call that the salmonella bird).  Dishes are never ready all at the same time, so some get set aside and served luke warm to cold (when they should be hot), or you eat in shifts (sure, I’ll start with some brussel sprouts and wait 2 hours for the dinner rolls).  And then, some guest has to bring his or her favorite side dish, which requires an elaborate preparation your kitchen, and doesn’t fit into the overall menu (and tastes like cardboard).
• Yet the food debacles notwithstanding, this holiday seems to stand for gluttony.  Pants and belts undone, people groaning on the couch.  Am I the only one who finds this repulsive?  Do people really need to sample all the pies by creating one big pie with 8 different slices on a dinner plate?
• And the gendered roles come into full display.  Men disappear into the TV room to watch football games and eat pre-dinner noshes.  And as an aside – the football games feature either the Cowboys (which I hate) and/or the Lions (which til this year just sucked).  But no matter, the guys are in their cave getting their feedbags on.  On the other hand, the women are in the kitchen and dining rooms trying to make a ridiculous meal come to life.  There’s tables to set, chafing dishes to dig out of the attic, potatoes to mash into oblivion.  Once the meal is finally on the table, the head male gets to carve the turkey (and often acts as if he personally shot, cleaned and cooked it).  Once the food has been annihilated, clean up beings.  And guess who gets to do that?  Guess who heads back to the cave until the multi-flavor pie plates get created?  This makes me crazy (and I don’t want to hear about those men who are modern enough to help in the kitchen — this is my rant).
• The stress is often off the charts.  Food prep stress.  People getting along stress.  Travel stress.  ”This needs to be perfect” uber-stress.  Is it worth it to drive oneself so crazy?
• I also have some bad personal associations with Thanksgiving.  My marriage imploded over Thanksgiving.  The last time I saw my maternal grandfather was over Thanksgiving.  Some of the worst fights I had with my dad was over Thanksgiving.  Why didn’t Arbor Day get wrecked instead?
• Crass commercialism has completely taken over.  Supposedly, this is the start of the Christmas shopping season, though in actuality, that started around Labor Day.  I hate this — I really really hate this.  I hate all the ads.  I hate the crazy Friday when everyone has to go to the malls.  I hate that we can’t slow down and just focus on one holiday at a time.  If I could change one thing, this would be it.  Absolutely no Christmas anything until after Thanksgiving.

Now, in case anyone is worried, I have had some good Thanksgivings, and wouldn’t necessarily turn down an invitation in the future (though these probably won’t be forthcoming any time soon).  But for the most part, it is just too stressful, awkward and unfulfilling.  Yes, I know that there are many folks who love the holiday and all it means (and good for them).  But I’m not one of them.

What I’ve realized over the years, is that it is essential that I stay in touch with what works, and what doesn’t, for me.  For the most part, Thanksgiving doesn’t work.  Being grateful for all that I have is important and I try to do that, at least in some small way, each day.

It is also why the “holiday” that I truly celebrate (complete with family, friends, and lots of food) is “Gotcha Day.”  On March 14th, I mark the day that the adoption of my daughter became official.  It is the day we honor becoming a family, and I have never been more thankful for anything or anyone in my life.

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.

Bread on the Water

Tags

purpose, reflection

Tonight, at sundown, marks another new year in the Jewish faith.  It is the birthday of the earth, a time of new beginnings, new hopes, new dreams.  This day also marks the start of the Days of Awe, which culminate 10 days later with the Day of Atonement (Yom Kippur).  Thus, each new year begins with taking stock of our actions, especially their impact on others.  In short, this is a time of joyful vision and somber reflection.

I am a lapsed Jew, mostly the result of my ever increasing and significantly conflicted relationships with religion, worship, and God (particularly his/her existence). Nonetheless, I still maintain some favorite rituals primarily because they have personal resonance; they ground me and connect me to a life’s practice that I strive to enact.

One such ritual that occurs during Rosh Hashanah is “tashlich,” which entails the casting away of one’s mistakes.  The ritual is done by a pool of water.  Prayers are recited and individuals symbolically throw their sins into the water.  When I used to do this with a congregation, we would leave synagogue and collectively go to a river or pond.  The rabbi would say a few words about atonement, we would all say the prayers and then, using chunks of bread that we had brought, toss our transgressions away.

Now there is a certain absurdity to all of this.  Here is a group of adults, dressed in their synagogue best, standing by a body of water (often a bit muddy), throwing bread.  One of the first things you notice is that some people bring a lot of bread.  I mean, really big loaves.  They carefully tear it up and eventually toss it all.  There are some who whisper their sins to their bread pieces before relieving themselves of their mistakes.  There is often discussion on the quality of the bread.  Should it be challah?  Really good bread?  Just the heals?  And finally, ducks, geese and fish usually rush in, which seems to suggest that the sins of humans are consumed by nature.

Still, there is a comfort in this ritual that I love.  How wonderful to think that we can purge ourselves of our sins and mistakes.  If we authentically reflect on the why’s, how’s and what’s of our transgressions, we have given ourselves the chance for growth and change. We allow ourselves to peer within and acknowledge that we’re imperfectly human, and perhaps more importantly, we will take responsibility for the consequences of these imperfections. We give ourselves the gifts of humility and renewal.

And so, tomorrow, as part of a solo retreat that I do every year to mark the new year, I will head to a body of water and cast my sins away.  I will use this time to contemplate  who I have been and who I want to be.  I will embrace this time of joyful vision and somber reflection.

L’Shana Tovah.

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.

What am I doing?

Tags

politics, purpose

I am completely new to blogging.  It appears to be an intriguing way of communicating with the proverbial masses and a number of people have encouraged me to try this, so why not.  Besides, this could be a good way of filling the time during those late night bouts with insomnia.

I need to be honest here — this is likely to be a biased, perhaps even judgmental, blog.  My understanding is that this is one of the perks of blogging.  While a part of me would like to say — “oh, I love an exchange of ideas,” or  ”I’m really interested in what everyone has to say,” or “let’s have a healthy debate” — I’d be lying if I wanted that 100% of the time.  And I’d hate to start this little venture with a fib.  So some healthy (and respectful) back and forth is okay, but there will be days (weeks?) when all I want to do is let loose with a good rant.  Probably about politics, or the state of this country, or the inanity of some public figure, or bad drivers.  Just let me have those moments.

On a more serious note — I wanted to try this because I am deeply concerned with the direction that much of the world seems to be going and this seems a good place to express my worries, frustrations and hopes.  These concerns have been sharpened since I adopted a child, who is now 4 years old.  As an older (or mature?), single mom with decidedly progressive feminist politics, I find the anti-women, anti-worker, anti-civil rights, and anti-everything else I seem to care about, very frightening.  I want my daughter to grow up in a community and society that nourishes rather than destroys; that practices compassion rather than exploitation; that rewards fairness rather than greed; that celebrates the public good rather than “me first and everyone else be damned.”

We’ve a long way to go.  Much like water breaking through the rocks.