The experience of finalizing Daisy Mae's adoption on Tuesday was simultaneously momentous and anti-climactic, joyous and bittersweet.
Watching a judge sign a piece of paper and shake your hand is no where near as exciting as watching a doctor hand you a squirming new infant, but the squirming infant also doesn't look over at you and mouth the words, "I love you."
Standing together as a family in front of your community is beautiful, but the knowledge that you were supposed to be a foursome, not a threesome, is heartbreaking.
Still, no differently than the weeks following a wedding can leave one with a sense of satisfaction and relaxation, the days following an adoption leave one with a sense of peace and closure. We can plan now. We can look toward a future that does not including weekly check ins with state and county officials, lingering doubts about commitment, or rules that govern everything from where she spends the night to how often she gets her teeth checked.
It is very good to have this done. We can exhale, finally, at long last. It feels good.
Showing posts with label My Non-Brady Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My Non-Brady Family. Show all posts
Friday, August 13, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Forever. Family.
...Aaaaaand we're back.
It's not that I haven't had anything to talk about for the last 8 weeks. (Good lord! It has been 8 weeks, hasn't it?) On the contrary, many things have happened.
I had a fascinating trip to Ireland with Daisy Mae and ClevelandK8. Galway is like living in a Renaissance Faire.
It's like...well, it's like this:
and this
Dublin is like being in Piscataway, NJ, with better architecture. But just barely.
I went to Washington DC and got to hang out with people who have stars and letters after their names. I love these trips; all good news, big plans and restoration in faith in our government. It doesn't last too long, but it does give one a few ideas to work with.
I got a chance to try to bring together a group of surgeons who hate each others' guts as a matter of course. And they got along. And promised to work together.
All of that pales in comparison to yesterday.
Yesterday, I got to officially become a Mom again.
Yes, yes: I know that once you are a mom you never stop. But there's something about having someone in your house, calling you "mom" (or in my case, "mother"), that makes you actually feel like a mom.
I'm Daisy Mae's mom. Forever.
It's been a long trip. We have endured almost unimaginable heartache along the way. But we made it. And it's worth it.
Take a look and see.
Welcome, Daisy. I can't promise to be a good friend. But I can promise to be a good mom.
It's not that I haven't had anything to talk about for the last 8 weeks. (Good lord! It has been 8 weeks, hasn't it?) On the contrary, many things have happened.
I had a fascinating trip to Ireland with Daisy Mae and ClevelandK8. Galway is like living in a Renaissance Faire.
It's like...well, it's like this:
and this
Dublin is like being in Piscataway, NJ, with better architecture. But just barely.
I went to Washington DC and got to hang out with people who have stars and letters after their names. I love these trips; all good news, big plans and restoration in faith in our government. It doesn't last too long, but it does give one a few ideas to work with.
I got a chance to try to bring together a group of surgeons who hate each others' guts as a matter of course. And they got along. And promised to work together.
All of that pales in comparison to yesterday.
Yesterday, I got to officially become a Mom again.
Yes, yes: I know that once you are a mom you never stop. But there's something about having someone in your house, calling you "mom" (or in my case, "mother"), that makes you actually feel like a mom.
I'm Daisy Mae's mom. Forever.
It's been a long trip. We have endured almost unimaginable heartache along the way. But we made it. And it's worth it.
Take a look and see.
Welcome, Daisy. I can't promise to be a good friend. But I can promise to be a good mom.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Mother
Yes, it's once again been two weeks since I've posted.
There was a part of me that wanted to post something on Mother's Day. But I struggled to figure out what to say. That I survived it? That really, I had hoped with all of my heart and soul that I wouldn't? That I got the most beautiful, heartfelt letter from Daisy Mae that both lifted my heart up and shattered it to pieces? Because all of those things were true.
I will never, ever again be "Mama". The extent to which that rends my very soul is indescribable.
But I am still a mother.
Case in point: this weekend.
Friday was Daisy Mae's 8th Grade Banquet. The days before were a flurry of dresses, jackets, hairdos and shoes. I let her borrow my good black Coach bag. She squealed and proclaimed her love for me. We jumped up and down in place to test our undergarments. We reviewed the use of proper silverware. We took pictures. We looked at pictures. We got awards. We smiled.
The rest of the weekend was spent helping Daisy with her final project for History. And I mean the entire weekend. Because, as teenagers are wont to do, she decided to expend the entire 25 hours necessary to complete the project in the last 48 hours before it was due. At 1:14 this morning, as I was gluing her reference sheet to the back of her poster, having sent her to bed -- no, you may not shower tonight; wait until morning. Just go to bed -- a half hour earlier, I thought of my own mother. Finishing the painting on Jupiter for the scale model of the solar system I had made out of papier mache'. Finishing the popsicle-stick model of a geodesic dome I had started at 2 pm the day before it was due. Sitting beside me, with the Funk and Wagnall's encyclopedia and three cookbooks, helping me figure out why a Passion Fruit was named thus and trying to find a recipe that would tell me what to do with one, for my Home Ec. class. Proofing my term papers.
These events, invariably, take place between midnight and 3 am on Monday mornings. They are what takes the place of putting SpongeBob bandages on skinned knees, pushing swings at the
playground, and re-sewing the seams on over-loved stuffed animals. These late nights, the rescuing of school projects, the borrowing of purses, the ever-present knowledge that Mom Won't Let You Fall Too Far -- these things re-define how our children depend on us, as they stop being "kids" and start being "teens".
It's been a tough jump into the deep end of this particular swimming pool. It still hurts. I still sometimes feel like I'm not a Mom anymore, but not as often as I did. More weekends like this have the potential to make next Mother's Day feel more real.
And on an unrelated note: My garden is fully planted. Glad I didn't do it last weekend, as we had a hard freeze last Sunday night. Anybody need extra tomato plants?
There was a part of me that wanted to post something on Mother's Day. But I struggled to figure out what to say. That I survived it? That really, I had hoped with all of my heart and soul that I wouldn't? That I got the most beautiful, heartfelt letter from Daisy Mae that both lifted my heart up and shattered it to pieces? Because all of those things were true.
I will never, ever again be "Mama". The extent to which that rends my very soul is indescribable.
But I am still a mother.
Case in point: this weekend.
Friday was Daisy Mae's 8th Grade Banquet. The days before were a flurry of dresses, jackets, hairdos and shoes. I let her borrow my good black Coach bag. She squealed and proclaimed her love for me. We jumped up and down in place to test our undergarments. We reviewed the use of proper silverware. We took pictures. We looked at pictures. We got awards. We smiled.
The rest of the weekend was spent helping Daisy with her final project for History. And I mean the entire weekend. Because, as teenagers are wont to do, she decided to expend the entire 25 hours necessary to complete the project in the last 48 hours before it was due. At 1:14 this morning, as I was gluing her reference sheet to the back of her poster, having sent her to bed -- no, you may not shower tonight; wait until morning. Just go to bed -- a half hour earlier, I thought of my own mother. Finishing the painting on Jupiter for the scale model of the solar system I had made out of papier mache'. Finishing the popsicle-stick model of a geodesic dome I had started at 2 pm the day before it was due. Sitting beside me, with the Funk and Wagnall's encyclopedia and three cookbooks, helping me figure out why a Passion Fruit was named thus and trying to find a recipe that would tell me what to do with one, for my Home Ec. class. Proofing my term papers.
These events, invariably, take place between midnight and 3 am on Monday mornings. They are what takes the place of putting SpongeBob bandages on skinned knees, pushing swings at the
playground, and re-sewing the seams on over-loved stuffed animals. These late nights, the rescuing of school projects, the borrowing of purses, the ever-present knowledge that Mom Won't Let You Fall Too Far -- these things re-define how our children depend on us, as they stop being "kids" and start being "teens".
It's been a tough jump into the deep end of this particular swimming pool. It still hurts. I still sometimes feel like I'm not a Mom anymore, but not as often as I did. More weekends like this have the potential to make next Mother's Day feel more real.
And on an unrelated note: My garden is fully planted. Glad I didn't do it last weekend, as we had a hard freeze last Sunday night. Anybody need extra tomato plants?
Friday, January 09, 2009
Prepare for take-off
Mom! I hate division!
I stopped in the middle of setting down the dogs’ dinners, stainless steel bowls suspended mid-stream, and turned toward the dining room table. My 8-year-old daughter was hunched over her math paper, scowling.
“You’re not doing division already!”
She looked up at me, indignant. “Yes I am! Come see!”
I walked over to the table, dog bowls still in hand, with two deerhounds following me in half-panicked confusion -- faces upturned in anticipation, licking their chops. Looking down at K’s paper, I saw the telltale signs of calculating remainders.
“Wow. You really are doing division. Where did you learn to do that?”
She rolled her eyes in mock disgust. At least, I think it was mock. You never know. “In school, Mom. You know; that place I disappear for hours every day while you’re at work?”
Continuing to stare at her paper, I noticed she’d made a subtraction error in the third line.
“So I suppose this means you can multiply, as well.”
This time the disgust was real. “Tsk. Mom! Of course I can multiply! We have been doing multiplication since Halloween!”
The dogs began to whimper at my sides; Max bumped his head into the small of my back, shifting from foot to foot. I walked back to set down their food bowls and returned to K’s paper.
We worked our way through division homework. In the course of helping her, I discovered she can also calculate squares. As I looked over more of her homework, I saw that she had also been writing earth science definitions and had graduated to words like “discovery” and “appreciate” in her spelling homework. When did she learn all this stuff? I mean, I guess as some level, I knew she was learning to multiply. I check her homework several times a week. But I am certain we were calculating 4 + 2, just last week.
As parents, there are times when we are taken aback by the staggering growth rates our children exhibit. I think most of us experience it the first time they outgrow an outfit before we’ve had a chance to remove the tags from the store. When they begin to speak and develop vocabulary in earnest, we are amazed at the number of words they learn, just by taking in the world around them.
Third Grade appears to be fertile ground for this sort of exponential growth. I notice that K and her friends have developed increasingly sophisticated play routines (thank GOD, they haven’t started playing ostracizing games with each other yet). K is developing a keen fondness for puns and plays on words. She’s reading Harry Potter. She can make a batch of Hamburger Helper and brownies without my assistance. And now this sudden leap in the volume and variety of school work she brings home. I find myself wondering if children have always grown up this fast, or if the demands of our society have made them precocious.
My mother assures me, as only a mother can, that I was MUCH smarter and quicker to learn than K is, not to mention a better cook. ;) Perhaps. But I am still in awe, watching the development of this mind and body and wondering what I did before I became a parent.
The next ten years are going to be a lot of fun.
I stopped in the middle of setting down the dogs’ dinners, stainless steel bowls suspended mid-stream, and turned toward the dining room table. My 8-year-old daughter was hunched over her math paper, scowling.
“You’re not doing division already!”
She looked up at me, indignant. “Yes I am! Come see!”
I walked over to the table, dog bowls still in hand, with two deerhounds following me in half-panicked confusion -- faces upturned in anticipation, licking their chops. Looking down at K’s paper, I saw the telltale signs of calculating remainders.
“Wow. You really are doing division. Where did you learn to do that?”
She rolled her eyes in mock disgust. At least, I think it was mock. You never know. “In school, Mom. You know; that place I disappear for hours every day while you’re at work?”
Continuing to stare at her paper, I noticed she’d made a subtraction error in the third line.
“So I suppose this means you can multiply, as well.”
This time the disgust was real. “Tsk. Mom! Of course I can multiply! We have been doing multiplication since Halloween!”
The dogs began to whimper at my sides; Max bumped his head into the small of my back, shifting from foot to foot. I walked back to set down their food bowls and returned to K’s paper.
We worked our way through division homework. In the course of helping her, I discovered she can also calculate squares. As I looked over more of her homework, I saw that she had also been writing earth science definitions and had graduated to words like “discovery” and “appreciate” in her spelling homework. When did she learn all this stuff? I mean, I guess as some level, I knew she was learning to multiply. I check her homework several times a week. But I am certain we were calculating 4 + 2, just last week.
As parents, there are times when we are taken aback by the staggering growth rates our children exhibit. I think most of us experience it the first time they outgrow an outfit before we’ve had a chance to remove the tags from the store. When they begin to speak and develop vocabulary in earnest, we are amazed at the number of words they learn, just by taking in the world around them.
Third Grade appears to be fertile ground for this sort of exponential growth. I notice that K and her friends have developed increasingly sophisticated play routines (thank GOD, they haven’t started playing ostracizing games with each other yet). K is developing a keen fondness for puns and plays on words. She’s reading Harry Potter. She can make a batch of Hamburger Helper and brownies without my assistance. And now this sudden leap in the volume and variety of school work she brings home. I find myself wondering if children have always grown up this fast, or if the demands of our society have made them precocious.
My mother assures me, as only a mother can, that I was MUCH smarter and quicker to learn than K is, not to mention a better cook. ;) Perhaps. But I am still in awe, watching the development of this mind and body and wondering what I did before I became a parent.
The next ten years are going to be a lot of fun.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
God's Own Cheese
I had to make a late run to the grocery store tonight -- the cat was out of food and I figured it was better to blow 30 minutes of potential sleep time now than to face an entire night of yowling.
As I exited the grocery store, I noticed a packge of Kraft Cheese on the hood of my car. Just sitting there. Fully wrapped. There was no one else around, so I figured it was my destiny to take home the cheese.
My husband noticed the cheese as I unpacked the grocery bag.
Him: Why'dya buy cheese? We just bought cheese.
Me: I didn't buy it.
Him: You stole cheese?
Me: No; God left me this cheese. It was on my car in the parking lot.
Him: Well, you're not going to EAT it, are you?
Me: Why shouldn't I?
Him: Because...well, I don't know! Maybe it's poisoned or something!
Me: You are a very weird man. Why would God leave me poisoned cheese?
Him: Why would ANYone leave cheese on your car? Unless, of course, they were trying to get you to eat the poisoned cheese!
Martin Luther King's I Have a Dream speech is playing the background.
Hubby comments: What an amazing speaker. Really, I think it was a loss to the nation.
Me: You know, I hear he wasn't shot.
Him: Really? So how did he die then?
Me: I hear he got some bad cheese.
Him: I hate you.
As I exited the grocery store, I noticed a packge of Kraft Cheese on the hood of my car. Just sitting there. Fully wrapped. There was no one else around, so I figured it was my destiny to take home the cheese.
My husband noticed the cheese as I unpacked the grocery bag.
Him: Why'dya buy cheese? We just bought cheese.
Me: I didn't buy it.
Him: You stole cheese?
Me: No; God left me this cheese. It was on my car in the parking lot.
Him: Well, you're not going to EAT it, are you?
Me: Why shouldn't I?
Him: Because...well, I don't know! Maybe it's poisoned or something!
Me: You are a very weird man. Why would God leave me poisoned cheese?
Him: Why would ANYone leave cheese on your car? Unless, of course, they were trying to get you to eat the poisoned cheese!
Martin Luther King's I Have a Dream speech is playing the background.
Hubby comments: What an amazing speaker. Really, I think it was a loss to the nation.
Me: You know, I hear he wasn't shot.
Him: Really? So how did he die then?
Me: I hear he got some bad cheese.
Him: I hate you.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
What, exactly, is going on inside that little head?
My daughter last night, apropos of nothing, turns to me while brushing her teeth and says:
"You know, if you're looking in the mirror, you pretty much can't be attacked by ninjas."
she then stops, walks behind me, and starts to tickle me, and says,
"Unless the ninja is WAY smaller than you!"
She goes back to brushing her teeth and absently begins to hum the Enzyte jingle again (I wonder if the people who wrote that thing know that it's addictive to children?).
She's thoughtful for a minute and then says,
"I wonder if Smilin' Bob ever has trouble with ninjas. He's pretty weird."
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Stuff that makes my heart stop -- Part II
I was coming home from a friends's house, with S. and the Bug this evening. All of the sudden, S. sings, (with a quick Polka beat)
bumpa bumpa bumpa bumpa Help me!
The Bug answers (without missing a beat) I broke apart my insides
S: Help me!
Bug: I've got no soul to sell
S: Help me!
Bug: The only thing that works for me,
Help me get away from myself
I wanna *Boink!* you like an animal
I wanna feel you from the inside
I wanna *weep-wah!* you like an animal
My whole existence is gone
You take me closer to God.
I screamed, audibly.
They laughed hysterically.
I'm off to confiscate my husband's "Weird Al" disc.
bumpa bumpa bumpa bumpa Help me!
The Bug answers (without missing a beat) I broke apart my insides
S: Help me!
Bug: I've got no soul to sell
S: Help me!
Bug: The only thing that works for me,
Help me get away from myself
I wanna *Boink!* you like an animal
I wanna feel you from the inside
I wanna *weep-wah!* you like an animal
My whole existence is gone
You take me closer to God.
I screamed, audibly.
They laughed hysterically.
I'm off to confiscate my husband's "Weird Al" disc.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Is it my breath?
So what happened to this post?
For those of you who were here earlier, I wrote this in a time of anger and hurt. Sometimes those we love can damage us far more than those who are our real enemies. I expressed that pain here and in doing so, I was able to release it.
It's time is over now, however, so it's time to retire this post, so it doesn't cause hurt of its own in ways I don't intend. Thanks for reading.
For those of you who were here earlier, I wrote this in a time of anger and hurt. Sometimes those we love can damage us far more than those who are our real enemies. I expressed that pain here and in doing so, I was able to release it.
It's time is over now, however, so it's time to retire this post, so it doesn't cause hurt of its own in ways I don't intend. Thanks for reading.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
One of those sentences you never want to contemplate.
"I think it's time to think about having your Mom move in with us."
My husband spoke these words to me around 2 am today. We were driving home from the hospital, 30 miles from our home, where we had just left my mom resting in Dilaudid-enabled slumber.
Mom isn't "old" by today's standards -- early 60's and not quite old enough to retire. She has, however, what I lovingly refer to as "mileage issues". A life-long smoker, she revels in her disdain of broccoli and aerobic exercise. This lifestyle has come up squarely against her fierce independence, made all the more fervent since my parents divorced some 20 years ago.
She has steadfastly refused most help from us over the years, preferring to handle her own finances, home repairs, snow shoveling, etc. She has built her own fences, painted her own house, remodeled her own kitchen.
But the neglect of the years has taken its toll: Collapsed disks in her spine, chronic asthma from smoking, poor circulation and worse balance.
Against this backdrop we play out yesterday's drama. She was at a friend's house, where they had together designed a pergola for the friend's garden. I can't tell you what she was thinking, but she got up on a ladder. I don't know what happened, but at some point, she managed to kick the ladder out from under herself, and landed hard on her left leg. She sustained two compound fractures, with displacement of the bones measured in inches, not millimeters. Two hours of surgery later, she is equipped with enough hardware to set off metal detectors at a range of 10 feet.
And so here we are. Her spine is too fragile for crutches. Her house is a maze of narrow staircases. Sleeping rooms and bathrooms are on the second floor. It's just not possible.
Our home is wheelchair friendly, with a suite of sorts on the first floor. Which takes us back to that first sentence.
How can I talk her into this? How can I keep her and S from killing each other? And how well will my all-too-fragile life balance hold up under the stress of a special needs child, a special needs husand and a special needs parent all in the same house, and under the watchful eye of the woman who is both my greatest fan and biggest critic?
I'm not looking forward to the next few weeks.
My husband spoke these words to me around 2 am today. We were driving home from the hospital, 30 miles from our home, where we had just left my mom resting in Dilaudid-enabled slumber.
Mom isn't "old" by today's standards -- early 60's and not quite old enough to retire. She has, however, what I lovingly refer to as "mileage issues". A life-long smoker, she revels in her disdain of broccoli and aerobic exercise. This lifestyle has come up squarely against her fierce independence, made all the more fervent since my parents divorced some 20 years ago.
She has steadfastly refused most help from us over the years, preferring to handle her own finances, home repairs, snow shoveling, etc. She has built her own fences, painted her own house, remodeled her own kitchen.
But the neglect of the years has taken its toll: Collapsed disks in her spine, chronic asthma from smoking, poor circulation and worse balance.
Against this backdrop we play out yesterday's drama. She was at a friend's house, where they had together designed a pergola for the friend's garden. I can't tell you what she was thinking, but she got up on a ladder. I don't know what happened, but at some point, she managed to kick the ladder out from under herself, and landed hard on her left leg. She sustained two compound fractures, with displacement of the bones measured in inches, not millimeters. Two hours of surgery later, she is equipped with enough hardware to set off metal detectors at a range of 10 feet.
And so here we are. Her spine is too fragile for crutches. Her house is a maze of narrow staircases. Sleeping rooms and bathrooms are on the second floor. It's just not possible.
Our home is wheelchair friendly, with a suite of sorts on the first floor. Which takes us back to that first sentence.
How can I talk her into this? How can I keep her and S from killing each other? And how well will my all-too-fragile life balance hold up under the stress of a special needs child, a special needs husand and a special needs parent all in the same house, and under the watchful eye of the woman who is both my greatest fan and biggest critic?
I'm not looking forward to the next few weeks.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Stuff that makes me cringe
.
Yeah, nothing like having your iTunes shuffle up Patty Griffin's Wiggley Fingers while your boss is in your office...
Yeah, nothing like having your iTunes shuffle up Patty Griffin's Wiggley Fingers while your boss is in your office...
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Marketing 101
Conversation with my 6-year-old:
Watching TV and the ad for the Simpsons Movie comes on.
Marge looks at Homer: "I thought he was Spider Pig"
Homer: "Now he's Harry Plopper"
**Camera pans to a pig wearing a pair of round black glasses with unruly hair and a zig-zag scar on his head.**
***
Daughter: Mom! They made that pig look like Harry Potter! Aren't the Harry Potter people going to take them to court???
Me (choosing not to discuss parody as a protected form of speech at this moment): I'm sure they got permission from the Harry Potter people.
Daughter: Permission to make a pig look like Harry Potter? That had to be expensive.
Might be cheaper to go to court.
(pause)
Me: That's my girl
Watching TV and the ad for the Simpsons Movie comes on.
Marge looks at Homer: "I thought he was Spider Pig"
Homer: "Now he's Harry Plopper"
**Camera pans to a pig wearing a pair of round black glasses with unruly hair and a zig-zag scar on his head.**
***
Daughter: Mom! They made that pig look like Harry Potter! Aren't the Harry Potter people going to take them to court???
Me (choosing not to discuss parody as a protected form of speech at this moment): I'm sure they got permission from the Harry Potter people.
Daughter: Permission to make a pig look like Harry Potter? That had to be expensive.
Might be cheaper to go to court.
(pause)
Me: That's my girl
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Stuff that makes my heart stop
OK, so I still have to fill in the blanks on my last entry, but in the meantime...
I'm doing dishes and I hear my daughter sort of humming a song as she's coloring.
DO-DO-DoDoDoDo-Do-DeeDOOOO
DO-DO-DoDoDoDo-Do-DeeDooooo
I smile.
Until I realise that she's humming the "Enzyte" jingle.
I'm giving away the television tomorrow.
I'm doing dishes and I hear my daughter sort of humming a song as she's coloring.
DO-DO-DoDoDoDo-Do-DeeDOOOO
DO-DO-DoDoDoDo-Do-DeeDooooo
I smile.
Until I realise that she's humming the "Enzyte" jingle.
I'm giving away the television tomorrow.
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