Love and Family Stories

We tell a lot of stories in our family. Most of them are true, some are not. My girls fight to recognize when their dad is telling a true story, and when he’s just making up a fantastical fiction for them to enjoy. The girls still seem confused as to whether or not their dad rode a dinosaur to school when he was young. They seem better at guessing my truths and bluffs. I am not sure why, but it could be because I am the one who tells the stories with the hard truths and absolute facts (as I know them to be).

I often feel like I’m a witness in our own family court, and my girls are the determined lawyers wrangling the truth out of my testimony, in every last detail.  I find it hard to separate the facts that I know, the feelings I have, the hunches, and assumptions which I have made over the years.

The girls especially love the stories where their dad or I (usually me) did something dangerous, or flat our stupid as kids. They love to hear how we got in trouble, ended up in the ER, or got sent to our rooms for what seemed like eons.  One of their favorite stories is about the time I went off a jump on my bike and wiped out so hard that I ended up in the ER covered head to toe in bruises and scrapes.  First, the story was loved due to the danger, blood, and guts (and that I didn’t have a helmet on!). Next, they loved hearing how embarrassed I was going to camp the next day, looking like a zombie fresh from the grave. Lately, they have fixated on the part when the nurses grilled me about what “really happened,” as they didn’t believe that my injuries were caused solely by my daredevil 9-year-old self.

I’ve told the girls this silly story (complete with viewing of the scars I still bear from that day) many times. It started for me as a cautionary tale about the need to wear helmets and to ride bikes safely, but it has morphed into many other tales according to the girls’ curiosity, and interest about the topic, players, setting, or plot of that fateful day.  This story is an easy one for me to tell as it only involved me being a dumb kid, trying to show off to a bunch of my neighborhood friends.  Thankfully, no permanent harm was done, no lives were lost, and the course of my life was not forever altered.  The same cannot be said of all our family stories.

Our family stories, like the stories of any family I imagine, contain the joys, hopes and great loves of our family members. Our stories also contain the sorrows, fears, anger, and immense loss, which are the inherited lessons from our families of origin.  We each have a birth story, we each have family who love us, and cherish us. The paths that brought the four of us together, to form our family, have taken many turns, some not of our own control, and have had joys and sorrows, love and loss along the way. These stories of love and loss, joy and sorrow, I tell like the bicycle story, focusing on the girls’ curiosity and interest. I want the girls to recognize themselves in our stories, and to see their role in our family reflected through the routes we’ve taken and the adventures we had.   Hopefully, one day my girls will tell their own stories (hopefully with a helmet on) about their lives, and be able to understand the deep, meaningful connection that our family stories have to their sense of self, and belonging, in their own family.

The Box

Let me tell you a story…

I’m in second grade and I get the lead in “Little Red Riding Hood.”  It’s VERY exciting.  I’m proud and my parents are proud.  Dad is so proud he takes over a “mom-job” and works with me on my lines.  A lot.  I mean, a real lot.  So I’m ready.

It’s the day of the show.  Dad takes the afternoon off from work and sits with Mom and my little sister in the audience.  The show starts and my class is performing our little second grade hearts out.  The stage is big and we’re small but we’re doing fine.  Time for the big finish.

I should tell you that our version of Little Red Riding Hood is different than most.  In ours, Grandma comes through her encounter with the big, bad, wolf just fine.   At this point, it’s my job to open a box and hand Grandma a gift.  So.  I pick up the box, take off the lid, look inside.  And it’s empty.

I do what any 8 year old would do in the circumstances.  I panic.   The stage which had already been big now looks huge.  The audience looks like it’s doubled in size.  I look at my teacher, Mrs. Patterson, in the wings.   She assumes that I’ve forgotten my line and starts to mouth it to me.

So now I’m panicked and I’m mad because, as we’ve discussed, I know my lines.  I point to the box and mouth back to her, “There’s nothing in the box!”  She gestures to me to keep going.  I know this won’t work but I do what I’m told.  I pull nothing from the box and I hand nothing to Grandma and the play ends.

I go out to the audience and see Dad and explain what happened.  He leans down and tells me to listen very carefully.  He says “Gail, there’s a saying in the theater that applies just as much in life.  That saying is ‘the show must go on.’ No matter what happens to you in life, I want you to remember that and just keep going.”

It’s been more than a few years since I was in that play.   I’ve had a number of opportunities to remember Dad’s advice, but none as meaningful as when M and I were trying to start a family.  In spite of our best efforts and the efforts of the best science of the time, it didn’t look like it was going to happen.  It was hard.  And it was sad.  It felt like I had been handed another empty box.

But I heard my dad’s voice and we just kept going.  We kept going until we landed at the doorstep of JFS of Metrowest where we met Dale and Raquel of Adoption Choices.  They listened and they heard me.  Their kindness helped me let go of the box.  It wasn’t empty. It just wasn’t mine.

It’s hard to believe but our daughter K just turned fifteen.  That dark time seems so long ago and I can barely remember the sad, empty woman I was.  You see, I just have to look at K’s face, I just have to hear K’s voice to know.  Yeah, I have the right box now.

Safe

“It’s my job to keep you safe.”  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said that to K over the years.  This job of mine made things like bike helmets and car seats and seat belts non-negotiable.  It required us to install safety gates on stairs and rubber bumpers on sharp corners.

K is 15 now.  She’s outgrown the car seats, safety gates and rubber bumpers, but she always wears a bike helmet and her seat belt.  She looks both ways when crossing the street.  She doesn’t run with scissors or talk to strangers.  So, she’s safe, right?  Cause you see, that’s my job, to keep her safe.

We talk about current events and the lessons we can learn from them.  I try to be honest without being frightening.  I believe in open conversation.  I believe knowledge can help us be better prepared for danger.

But now…

A 15 year old girl was sexually assaulted after getting off her school bus in our town.  Getting off her school bus.  At 3 in the afternoon.

The Boston Marathon runs through our town. Like so many in the area, we knew people running the race and at the finish line.  I’ve run a marathon.  I’ve had family waiting for me at the finish.  On Monday,  a monster or monsters set off bombs near the finish line, killing and maiming people.  For running or watching a marathon.  In the middle of Boston.

It’s enough to make me want to put my family in lock down.  Put safety gates around our house.  But… I can’t do that so I look for comfort where I can find it.

One of the comforting messages I heard was to acknowledge to children that yes, there are bad people in the world but to remind them there are many more good people than bad.  Maybe as parents our real job is to keep our kids as safe as we can.  And our job for the world, is to do everything we can to make sure our kids are one of the good guys.

So today, K and I volunteered for the first time at The Food Project, an organization whose mission includes creating a “thoughtful and productive community of youth and adults from diverse backgrounds who work together to build a sustainable food system.”  Our group of volunteers planted 14,000 parsnips seeds.  As one of the volunteers said, “In light of this week’s events, I’m thankful to be able to come together as a community and make a difference.”  Exactly.

Good guys.  They’re everywhere.  We just have to remember to look for them.

K and I cross the finish line, Mystic Places Marathon 2003

What We Can’t Fix

K and I had a recent conversation about homework that ended with me saying something like “You’re an awesome kid and I know that.  But you need to remember actions have consequences and you’re at an age where some of those consequences will be things I just can’t fix.”

K gave me a hug and walked away.  Out of nowhere, I remembered an incident with her bike when she was about four years old.  I was following behind her as she rode around our block.  It’s a safe neighborhood, all side streets, but on one stretch the drivers go pretty fast.  We were on that stretch headed toward the stop sign.  I knew she would stop but like always, I called ahead “stop at the stop sign!”  I watched in horror as she never slowed down and went right through it.  I started running and caught up to her on the other side.

 “Get off the bike”

“Mom, I tried to stop”

“Get off the bike”

“I tried to stop but I was going too fast”

“If you’re going too fast to stop, you are going too fast.  Get. Off. That. Bike.  Now.  Do you understand what could have happened to you?  Do you understand if someone hit you with their car, you could be so hurt, I couldn’t fix it?  Do you understand?”

She got off the bike and the tears started to fill her eyes.  “Mom, do you still love me?” Tears ran down my face as I held her.  I took a deep breath and said, “Of course I love you.  If you don’t remember anything else I’ve ever told you, remember this.  There is NOTHING that you could do, there is no mistake you could make that would EVER make me stop loving you. “

I wonder if kids realize that as parents our sole purpose isn’t to critique their lives by wielding a huge red Sharpie marker.  We don’t want our interactions with them to be those of the Grand Editor, circling this error and crossing out this one.  We are trying to give them the knowledge to make the right choice – to buckle that seat belt, skip that party, turn down that drink, avoid that boy, call for a ride instead of getting in that car – because the consequence of the wrong choice can’t be undone.

I guess the best we can do is to use the fine point marker or even a pen when possible.  And a reminder that there is no choice, regardless of consequence, that could ever make us stop loving them.  I told that once to the girl with the light-up sneakers riding a little pink bike with training wheels.  I better tell her again.  That, at least, is something I can fix.

Love and Worry

I worry about my daughters. I worry about the usual mom things like their safety and well-being. I worry about them eating enough vegetables and fruit (they don’t!). I worry that they don’t get enough free play time in our busy schedule, enough adventures in the fresh air, and whether or not they’ll ever ride a two-wheeler without training wheels. (I hear there is a woman called the bike whisperer…She teaches them to ride in three lessons! I may need to call her soon).

I also worry about adoptive mom things like bonding, openness, self-esteem, relationships with their birth families, talking about adoption, loss, and sadness. I worry the adoptive mom worry, that no amount of love I give them could possibly fill the hole in their hearts left by the loss of their families of origin. I worry that any new unexpected behavior runs deeper than typical development, I worry it runs straight to the heart of their loss, and grabs on with vine-like tendrils which may be impossible to unwind.

These are the worries that keep me up at night, after one of my lil ones has awaken me with a need for water, or snuggles, or let’s be honest, a need for dry pj’s and a change of sheets. Instead of following my usual bedtime routine again of reading or more typically these days, listening to an audiobook, for a bit until I drift off to sleep, I find myself searching for answers to that day’s worries. I find myself playing the “what’s adoption-stuff and what’s just kid-stuff” game over and over in my mind. I despise that pointless game, and I don’t know why I play it, especially when it is an irresolvable question.

However much I dread the nighttime visits from the worry monster, I am also thankful for all my worries. I am thankful that my worries keep me thinking about our family life and my daughter’s well-being. I am thankful that my worries oblige me to reach out for help from teachers, friends, professionals, and most importantly family. I am even more thankful for the people in my life that are brave enough to listen to my worry, and even braver to ask uncomfortable questions and offer a kind word, or the possibility of taking a new path. I am most thankful that I have my two beautiful and courageous girls to fret my mother worries over each and every day.

The Ladybug Sandbox

It all started with the red ladybug sandbox.

K was 2 and I decided she needed a sandbox.  The ladybug was the perfect size – not too big, not too small – and K loved it.  She loved it before we even put sand in it.  She filled it with the little plant id tags from my garden, stepped in and started filling her bucket with plant tags.  I loved it because for the first time since K could move, I could sit.

We started going to playgrounds.  There was the sunny playground with the great train.  There was the wooden playground with the dog statue.  There was the Veres Street playground at Mom and Dad’s house.  We loved them all.  K enjoyed the climbing structures more than the swings but she always made time for the sandbox.  We packed a snack, sometimes lunch and stayed for hours.  The leaving was never fun but honestly leaving anywhere at that point in K’s life was a challenge.  And really, who wants to willingly leave a playground?

We decided to expand the offerings at home.  I did the research and declared that we needed to go with one of the more expensive choices because they marketed themselves as “splinter-free.”  What can I say?  I was a relatively new mom at the time.  I believed it was in my power to keep K’s life splinter-free not realizing that the required mulch underneath the play space would provide more than its share of splinters.  We started with a sandbox and climbing area and would ultimately add a swing set.  I can’t begin to count the hours we spent visiting playgrounds or using the masterpiece in the backyard.

But somehow, when I wasn’t paying attention, the swings in the backyard weren’t really for swinging anymore.  K and her friend G would sit on them and chat for hours but they didn’t swing.  They had gotten too big to go down the slide or climb in the fort.  But they loved to sit on the swings and talk out of earshot of the adults.  Visits to public playgrounds had stopped a while before.  We were too busy with other things.

The backyard playground began to show its age.  The ladybug sandbox was more pink than red and the lid hadn’t been opened in ages.  The mulch had been ground into the dirt and lost its battle with the weeds.  The girls realized there was just as much privacy in K’s bedroom and the swings stayed empty.

A neighbor’s granddaughter was having twins.  The baby’s arrival would make five children.  Could they use a swing set?  The neighbor came and looked at ours and thought this family would enjoy it.  Kids could climb on it and swing on it again.  We were thrilled they wanted to take it.  Yet,  I’m glad I was away the day they came to take it down.  You see, it was just yesterday that my girl was three and we sat on the steps and watched the men put it up.

K and I drove by the wooden playground the other day.  Or I should say the place where the wooden playground was.  The powers that be decided it was too old or too unsafe so it was taken down.  It was replaced with a much smaller, rubber/plastic kind of structure.  “I can’t believe they changed it, Mom.  That was a great playground.  Do you remember how we used to go there?”

Yes, K.  Yes.  I remember.

For Good

 “I’ve heard it said
that people come into our lives for a reason
bringing something we must learn.
For Good from Wicked

 It’s been another great summer.

There is, of course, the food.  We love the return each year of the summer seafood extravaganza of lobsters, steamers and oysters.  It’s probably odd how proud I am of the fact that my girl loves oysters, but I am.  There is the bounty from my garden, tomatoes, basil and cucumbers, bursting from what has to be the scrappiest looking garden in MA.

We love the visits to the beach house from family and friends.  Fun in the waves, rock collecting, hanging on the porch, and more food.

And K had a blast at Circus Smirkus camp.  She calls it a place where “everyone can just be themselves.”  So glad we found that oasis for her in VT.  We also got to enjoy K’s performance in “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.”  Kudos to the folks at the Performing Arts Center in Framingham for pulling together such a quality performance in only three weeks!

But if I had to pick a favorite, it would be K’s and my visit to NYC to see “Wicked.”   We decided several years ago to take a trip by ourselves each summer.  The first trips were to amusement parks but after last summer’s trip to see “The Lion King”, we’ve changed our focus to an annual excursion to Broadway.  I love the alone time with her focused entirely on fun.  We take the train, have dinner, spend a night, and get some shopping in but the highlight is the show.  Some of you may recall that K and I sing “Defying Gravity”  from time to time so we were especially looking forward to this year’s performance and hearing “our song.”

And Elphaba rocked it.  Nailed it.  Killed it.  Feel free to fill in the amazing phrase of your choice.  Watching the actress raise up on her broomstick while belting out that song was truly awesome.  But it was a song near the end of the show that really got me.  I had heard “For Good” before and recognized the beautiful song.  But hearing Elphaba and Glinda sing it while on a date with my beautiful daughter gave the words special meaning.

“And we are led
to those who help us most to grow
if we let them
and we help them in return.

 Well, I don’t know if I believe that’s true
But I know I’m who I am today
because I knew you”

I honestly don’t know who I’d be today without you K.  It’s not just that I’m someone’s mother, and there certainly was a time when being anyone’s mother was far from certain.  I am who I am because I’m your mother and being your mother is the greatest joy of my life.

And yes, we got the “Wicked” soundtrack.  And yes, we still sing “Defying Gravity”, but “For Good” makes a great duet too.  I try not to read too much into the fact that I have the Wicked Witch part.

 Who can say if I’ve been changed for the better?
I do believe I have been
changed for the better
Because I knew you…
I have been changed for good.

Ode to the VW Bug

The text reads “Red One!” or perhaps “Tan One” or “White One” or “Yellow One”… and I laugh out loud when I receive it.

The text refers to the color of a VW Bug K has seen.  For years, we have played “punch buggy” although “plain old buggy” would be more accurate since no actual punching is allowed – too dangerous for the driver.

If we were keeping a cumulative score, K would be way ahead.  I use the excuse that I’m keeping my eyes on the road, safety first and all that, but truth be told, K’s simply better at the game.  As K approaches 14, I’m just glad we still play.  A car ride that’s about to be spoiled by a homework, dirty room, or all-around bad day conversation, can be saved by the sight of a VW Bug.  It’s sure to elicit a “Red (or whatever) One!” from one of us and the tension breaks.  To get a text from K when she sees a Bug with someone else is true delight.  As K pulls away, a simple thing like this brings her back for a little while.

Because we’ve reached the point where instead of “Mom, please stay just a little longer?” it’s “Mom, you don’t need to walk me up to bed tonight.”

Instead of “Mom, one more page, please?” it’s “Mom, we don’t need to read together, I’ll just listen to music before bed.”

I know it’s her job to become more independent and it’s my job to let her go.  And I realize I’ve had bed time and story time rituals much longer than most.  So I respect a closed door but eagerly accept invitations to enter.   I learn more than I can imagine about Comic Con, and anime, and stupid, I mean funny, animal videos on YouTube.   It’s different than when we learned together about the brachiosaurus and other dinosaurs, memorized the names of all the trains from Thomas the Tank Engine, and found out all that Bob the Builder could build.  This is K letting me in on something she’s discovered on her own and I’m amazed by what she knows.

So I’m grateful for what K continues to share and grateful to the young girl who was her mother first, a girl of 16 who gave all those story times and bedtimes to me.  I’m shocked to realize that girl is a grown woman of 30 now.  I wonder what her life has become and hope it is a good one.  I hope that she is at peace with the choice she made when she was so young, not much older than my K is now.  I hope when she is ready, she contacts us again to see the wonderful person her daughter has become.

For now, we move forward.  K and I act out our parts – she pulls away and I let her go.  She runs back and I pull her back in.  Sometimes we stumble and sometimes the choreography is just right.  And through it all, we keep an eye out for Volkswagens.

Defying Gravity

Thirteen is better than three.  I know I’m in the minority here but I’m sorry, it’s true.

While trying to weather K’s three year old tantrums, I was terrified of thirteen.  The nastiness, the sullenness.  If I thought three was hard, how could I possibly survive thirteen?

We’re nine months in at this point and we’re doing okay.  Don’t get me wrong.  As my dad used to say, “It’s not all steak and ice cream.”  K has been known to roll an eye or two.  On more than one occasion, I have been accused of ruining her life.  There have been several homework incidents that have ended with stomping up the stairs to her room.  I have been known to channel my mom’s voice with an incredulous response of “who do you think you are?” to said stomping.  Yeah, it’s not any more effective now than it was when my mom was saying it.

And, there’s certainly stuff I miss about three.  How her face would light up like the brightest star when I picked her up at pre-school.  How she would run to me squealing “Mama!” whenever I returned, no matter how long I’d been gone.  How this whirling dervish of a child could sit forever snuggled next to me while I read to her.

But… I like thirteen better.  I realized this a few weekends ago.  K and I were heading home from a performance of The Nutcracker and the Glee version of “Defying Gravity” came on the radio.  She suggested we sing the duet.  She’d sing Rachel’s part and I could have Kurt’s.  Inside, I thought “Seriously?  You’re asking me to sing with you?” but my reply was “Sure!”  So there we were, driving down the Mass Pike belting out the tune at the top of our lungs.

“Something has changed within me
Something is not the same
I’m through with playing by the rules
Of someone else’s game”

I stumbled on a few of the verses.  I didn’t go near that high F at the end.  But, we sounded okay.

Too late for second-guessing
Too late to go back to sleep
It’s time to trust my instincts
Close my eyes: and leap!

“Again?” she asked.  “Absolutely!” I replied.

I’m through accepting limits
cause someone says they’re so
Some things I cannot change
But till I try, I’ll never know!

Now, any time we’re alone in the car for any distance, we sing Defying Gravity.  I don’t think we’re ready for a spot on any of the singing reality shows but we think we sound great.  I’m sure there’ll come a time when I’ll suggest it and K will roll her eyes and that will be the end.  But for now, we may be pulling apart but we still have a way to find our way back.

I’d sooner buy Defying gravity
Kiss me goodbye I’m defying gravity
And you can’t pull me down!”

Lessons from the Radio

K and I spend a lot of time in the car together.  There’s to and from school, to and from CCD, to and from Hip Hop, etc.   A lot of time in the car.  Sometimes I hear stories from her day; sometimes I tell stories from mine.   Sometimes we’re both silent, but always the radio plays in the background.

When K is in my car, she controls the stations.  We listen to Radio Disney and Kiss among others.  Listening to K’s music not only helps me in wielding my veto power over an iPod download, it’s provided an interest for us to share.  We’re not Justin Bieber fans.  We think Taylor Swift needs more variety in her melodies.  And we agree that Rihanna has an incredible voice but we don’t typically appreciate her lyric choices.

But when K leaves the car, the radio is all mine.  Some days I catch the awesome Terry Gross on NPR’s Fresh Air.  Or maybe someone is telling a story on PRX’s The Moth Radio Hour.  Perhaps I’ll be lucky enough to hear an essay from This I Believe.

When all else fails, I head to one of five country radio stations I have pre-programmed.  Yes, that’s right.  I listen to country radio.  Three stations on XM and two on FM.  Sure, some country is kind of twangy and some is kind of hokey.   But I love country because it tells a story.  Miranda Lambert’s “House that Built Me” was the ballad I listened to over and over again when we sold my Mom and Dad’s house.

“I know they say you can’t go home again.

I just had to come back one more time.

Ma’am I know you don’t know me from Adam

But these handprints on the front steps are mine.”

And yes, it made me cry but that was kind of the point.  It fit the occasion and suited the mood as country songs so often do.

In just a few days, K will be thirteen, an occasion that has me bewildered, happy, sentimental and too many other emotions to list.  Her birthday always makes me especially grateful to be her Mom and grateful for the path that led us to each other.  I was thinking of that path when the song “This” by Darius Rucker, now a country singer and no longer of Hootie and the Blowfish, came on the air.

“… Maybe it didn’t turn out like I planned

Maybe that’s why I’m such, such a lucky man

All the fights and the tears and the heartache

I thought I’d never get through

And the moment I almost gave up

All led me here to you.”

His words remind me of how much I wanted to be pregnant 14 years ago, of how I couldn’t understand how life could be so unfair.  Why couldn’t I have what came so easily to everyone else?  “And the moment I almost gave up all led me here to you.” I wanted to be a mother and what I became was K’s mother and that has made all the difference.  Maybe that’s why I’m such, such a lucky woman.