Why Adoption?

This morning I was talking to my Papa, by far the kindest, truest, most steady person I’ve ever known. He’s one of those people who loves you even when you don’t think you want to be loved. Strong when strength is required and gentle when gentleness is needed. If you can’t tell I adore the man.

I’ve been asked a lot lately why we choose to found a fund in honor of Damon that assists families with adoption expenses. Why adoption? Damon wasn’t adopted.

The short answer is it never occurred to us to do anything else. Adoption was just right. It just was.

I’ve been exploring myself lately wondering if there is a longer answer. I think yes… and no. The short answer is plenty but maybe our choice tells us something about ourselves. I’ve been considering what that might be.

I’m not entirely sure where this story begins… so I guess I’ll start at the beginning. I’m adopted, in a manner of speaking. The man I introduced you to at the beginning of this post shares no blood with me. Neither do my aunt or uncle or cousins or the man who has been my only dad. The entirety of my extended family folded me in when I came to them at two years old, likely clinging to my mother who married their son and brother. Every Christmas memory, every Thanksgiving, my graduations… all populated with people who adopted me. They are the only family I have ever known.

There was pain, and brokenness and challenges. I struggled, battled, and wrestled with my identity. The desire to belong is hard enough when you’re 15 without the drama of convincing yourself you don’t even belong in your family. It wasn’t always pretty. It was hard and I was a real jerk. I think sometimes I had every right to be but that doesn’t make life any easier on the people who deal with you. Maybe because such a huge chunk of my biological family had just walked out on me I was convinced my “adopted” family would, too. Sometimes I think I tried to make them. They never did.

Very slowly, as an adult I’ve confronted my demons and begun to settle into the place my family has been holding for me all these years. This morning, talking to my Papa, I realized that it has been a long time since I’ve even thought about the fact that I’m not their blood. Papa always answers the phone “How is my Jodie-girl?” when I call. He’s called me that all of my life, his. It’s a beautiful thing.

I wonder if my ache for adoption stems from this? From knowing what it’s like to be taken in, wholly loved by people who didn’t “have” to?

I don’t know but I think this is a piece of the puzzle.

It’s just wrong, babies should be held, loved, kissed, adored. Two of the best parents I know, people who, whether they know it or not, taught me so much about how to be a parent got to be parents through adoption. I feel like people like them should get to raise ten kids if they want to.

So, adoption. It’s sooo expensive. I know what it is to ache for your baby to come home. Mine never will again but we get to help adoptive moms and dads get their babies in their arms and that is just plain good.

Until next time… 

And it's ok...

Somewhere along the line I’ve realized that I think I’ve lost the right to admit that sometimes my kids drive me bat (insert expletive if desired) crazy.

Today a friend and I were discussing how ready we are for school to start. I am so ready for school to start! My seven year old is off the charts brilliant and loathes ever ever ever being alone… like ever. So, he gets bored in roughly 37 seconds and follows me around the house saying repeatedly “what are you doing, Mommy?” or “How long until (insert event here)?” Yesterday we were heading from my bedroom to the living room. Halfway there it occurred to me that the air-conditioner had cranked itself up to 85 and I should crank it back down lest we all melt (the constant thermostat battle is a whole other story for another day). In the time it took for me to turn around, take three steps back and push a button a few times Isaiah had realized I was no longer following him, retraced his steps and was asking “Why did you turn around!?” like I had kicked his puppy. Oi…

In short the kid is driving me nuts. But at some point somewhere in my head I decided that I wasn’t allowed to admit that.

I know. I know how much I would miss absolutely everything about him, even the things that drive me nuts now. I know.

But here’s the thing. I’m a mom. I’m human. The death of my amazing, beautiful, beloved son did not transform me into a perfect human being. If anything it made me more frail, more prone to slip ups and certainly more emotionally vulnerable. I’m stressed. I’m sad. I’m tired. I’m incredibly grateful for my children… and sometimes they make me crazy. And that is ok. 

*I was interrupted three times in the writing of this post by said precious seven year old*

One of those days

Today is one of those days. One of those days when I can’t tease apart my anger and sadness. They dance so closely entwined that they are just one complicated, snareled, knotted emotion. One of those days when my sometimes astonishingly perceptive seven year old bluntly hits the nail on the head “What’s wrong mommy? Is it Damon?” Yes, baby.

Angry tears course down my cheeks because I’m just so tired. I’m tired of the unfairness of the world. I want to scream. When do we get a break? I’m furious at the endless emotional, mental, financial and relational aftershocks. I’m sick with my own helplessness, my complete lack of any semblance of control. My world still spins and I can’t seem to find an anchor.

There are points, clear points in grief when the world seems to lose patience with the bereaved, when you feel like it’s time for you to stop being so shattered and rejoin the rat race… six months, then a year. The world looks at you with impatient eyes that say “Ok, move on already.” For the most part I play the part. For the most part I function and it isn’t all forced, not anymore. A thrum of deep joy runs underneath my mothering. It is warm and sure and true. I truly enjoy moments stolen with my man between diaper changes, feedings, building dinosaur houses or watching Rugrats for the eleventy gazillionth time. I laugh with friends and I mean it.

But there are days when I ache for the solitude, the darkness that was my home for nearly a year after my child was stolen from me. I want to return to the black. I want to stay there forever drowning in the honesty of my pain. My therapist thought I feared the dark but she was wrong. I fear myself. I fear that if I ever go back I will never come out.

When do we get to catch our breath? When will the thrashing wind and rain abate? I’m angry today and my sadness surges and bubbles and boils so close to the surface it threatens to choke out the light. I’m so tired.

Until next time.

Belly rolls and baby feet

Warning: this post contains pictures of my post-three babies belly.

There's a voice in my head screaming "DON'T POST THIS!!!" That's usually a pretty good indication I should post...

So, a while back I ranted a little bit about those awful "motivational" pictures on Pinterest that pretty much only motivate me to hate myself. Recently I saw an anti or un "those" pictures. It was a mom in a bikini with her little girl wrapped around her waist hugging her stretch marks. I also saw one of a woman's tummy rolls with the words "still beautiful" tattooed on them and it was beautiful.

I have absolutely no problem with a woman being incredibly fit. I have been at certain times in my life. Some women are really muscular, some are thin, some fat, some tall, short and on and on. What I have a problem with is the message that there is only one way to be beautiful.

So here are my anti pictures. I may lose these few inches. I may not. Either way I'm gonna rock what I've got. I'm gonna wear a bikini because I feel prettier when I have a little bit of a glow all over. I'm going to wear skin tight clothes to yoga because that way my shirt doesn't fall over my head when I'm upside down and when Fall rolls back around I'm gonna rock my skinny jeans because I just plain like them. And I'm going to believe my husband when he says I'm beautiful. Life is too too too short guys. It just is.

belly rolls and baby feet!!!!!

Burn

I don’t think the agony of grief is ever “less” or “more,” “better” or “worse.” People very much want it to be better. They want to believe that the pain lessens. Some of that desire is for me but a lot of it is for them. It’s horrible to face the reality that someone you care about will never ever spend another moment purely happy. No one wants to believe that, but it’s true.

At Damon’s funeral I clung to another mother who many years ago had her daughter torn from her life. I moaned “Will it ever get better? Does it get better?” I was desperate. She didn’t answer. It’s very possible that she didn’t hear me and entirely likely that my words were just guttural noises of pain but even if she heard it wouldn’t surprise me, now that I am over a year out, if she just didn’t answer.

How would you tell a newly bereaved parent no?

What would I say?

Some of my favorite days are when Will and I spend the afternoon lazing in bed. Raz dozes on my chest while I read and his daddy plays a video game. Our bedroom is one of the brightest rooms in the house and the sunlight lightens my heart. It’s peaceful and there is a large measure of happiness and contentment here but there is still intense, profound pain. Always.

Rather than less or more I would say the pain is a slow deep burn or a shallow raging flame. Neither is easier, just different. The shallow flame is so much easier to see. I’m sure it seems worse but in some ways when the pain and anger a raging out of control it’s easier. When the tears come until there are none left there is a moment of release, of emptiness, of honesty. The deep burn is like an ulcer of agony living in my soul. Sometimes I get to the end of the day and stare at myself, astonished. Now, some of my worst days no one would know. I just keep going. I converse. I function. I move… and I burn.

Until next time…

My mess

I’m writing from under my favorite quilt with my youngest snuggled in my arms. The quilt was my great-grandmother’s. It’s tattered and falling apart but I can’t bring myself to stop using it. It was an unusually cool night here last night and being the cold-natured thing that I am I’m certain that it’s below zero in this house. Thus the quilt in the middle of June.

Raz is breathing softly as I peck away at the keys and the house is quiet. My newest little man pretty much insists on being held, all day, every day. He insists on being held by either mom or dad. While we haven’t let many people attempt to hold him he usually cries when we do.

Every once in a while I look around my messy house (and I mean truly messy, not like when you go over to your friend’s house and they’re like “excuse the mess” and you’re thinking “seriously, where’d you stash the ten person cleaning crew?” No, seriously, my house is a mess and sometimes it’s a complete disaster) and I think that we should really start teaching him to be content on his own, to not be held because I mean, look at this place. Then I look at him and I remember that the pile of clean laundry that constantly rotates on the kitchen table, the stacks of books on the floor by my man’s chair, the toys strewn all over the place, and even the floor that desperately needs to be swept really just plain don’t matter.

He wants me to hold him. What an incredible privilege. He knows me. He knows it’s me and he wants me. Who cares if the house is a mess?

A few nights ago I took Isaiah on a date. He opened doors for me like a gentleman. We are trying to teach him how to treat women. He takes to it like a fish to water with his willing little heart. We went to dinner and played tic-tack-toe while we waited for our meal, then we went to the movies. He held my hand and rested his head on my shoulder while we watched.

In the midst of the busy and the expectations of this world I have to remember what is important. In a flash they could be gone. People say this all of the time but most don’t know what it’s like. They really could. One day we were playing at the park with Damon, three days later he was dead. I would give anything to have him back. He's gone, forever.

So, when you come over know this: my house will be a mess, it may even be a disaster and I’m ok with that because I hope against hope that my kids will be able to say “My house was a mess growing up cuz my Mom was too busy hanging out with me.”

Until next time…

Growth and Grass

I mowed the lawn this morning then went for a run. On the way back I noticed that many of the neighbor’s yards are recently mowed and I heard a lawn mower droning somewhere in the background. It suddenly hit me that the stabbing pain that usually accompanies that sound and the smell of fresh cut grass was conspicuously absent.

The day Damon died we were driven home from the hospital to my grandparents’ house. I remember almost nothing, flashes of moments here and there, but I do remember someone was mowing their lawn. I remember thinking “how could someone be doing something so normal?” The sound and the smell are burned into my memory.

Much of my life fresh cut grass was one of my favorite things. My Papa is the kindest person I’ve ever known. He loves his lawn. It has always been lush and green and unbelievably soft.  A commonly repeated story in my family features my little blonde self searching his flower beds for snails to rescue them from the exterminator. He would always laugh his big beautiful open laugh as I worked my way through his perfectly groomed yard searching for the slimy things. His home almost always smelled of fresh cut grass and often he did, too.

Today, for one of the very first times somehow I was able to hold both feelings, both memories at the same time. I didn’t immediately run. I didn’t double over with agony.

The few authors I’ve read who I feel have been genuine in their writing about grief talk about how devastating grief grows you. It’s not a comfortable growth. It’s excruciating. It’s growth I don’t even want. I would give it back in a heartbeat but it’s true, you grow. I’ve grown and I’m slowly becoming able to occasionally hold both pleasure and pain, each becoming more intense with the effort.

Today grass is a marker of that growth.

Until next time…