Tenacity

             

Her defining trait was apparent by virtue of her very existence.  And it has evidenced itself over and over again. 

Just before my 43^rd birthday, I was floored with a surprise pregnancy.  An unlikely event under most circumstances was even more unlikely since I had gone almost 12 years since my last pregnancy.  I dealt with unexplained secondary infertility between my first and second daughters.  Clearly it was to continue after my second, so much so that we presumed we would have no more biological children.  We adopted a son when our girls were school-aged, and the three kids were growing up together for a few years when we found out we were having another baby.

I knew the odds were not great at my age, but after two weeks, just as I began to let myself embrace the good news and had my first OB appointment, I started bleeding.  It was steady.  I was scared and devastated and tried to comfort myself with the idea that I experienced a miracle just by becoming pregnant again in the first place.  I called the doctor who simply advised bedrest, and at the suggestion of a friend, I also began with progesterone supplements.  I’d already had a sonogram a couple days before, and all looked fine then.  My husband and I sought a second sonogram from another OB to figure out what was going on.  I was resigned and sad and continuing to bleed.

At that sonogram, I heard the words I will never forget, “It looks awesome”.  I wondered how that could be, with all the bleeding, and also even if it looked good now, how long would it last under these circumstances?  I was advised to continue to take it very easy and continue to take the progesterone.  I had what is called a sub-chorionic hematoma, which is basically a “bruise” or blood clot where the placenta attached itself to the uterine wall.  The important thing was for the blood clot to get smaller and the fetus to get bigger.  For right now, this baby was hanging in there.  I called my husband from the parking lot and told him the great news, “Shrimpy is holding strong!”

Eventually, of course, the bleeding did subside over the course of a few weeks before it finally ended.  The pregnancy continued, monitored closely due to my age.  After the 20 week sonogram, I got the news that the baby had a two-vessel umbilical cord instead of the usual three.  This could be nothing or it could indicate an abnormality, and being high-risk to begin with, I was advised to get further testing.  And so it continued.  Things kept popping up—inconsistent biophysical profiles and non-stress tests, intrauterine growth retardation—and things kept looking okay after all.  This tiny fetus fought the odds every step of the way.

Because of all the concerns, my labor was scheduled to be induced a few days early.  It is probably symbolic to say it, but the baby opposed being born on the assigned date and in the manner to which I had become accustomed.  Claire arrived by emergency c-section just after 1 the next morning.

Then came nursing.  This newborn, only hours old, was strongly resisting having her head positioned a certain way.  She got downright mad and turned her head in the opposite direction.  The lactation consultant declared she had never seen anything like it.  Little Claire was quite literally flexing her muscles on her very first day.  While she soon began to willingly breastfeed, she did exert her preference and only ever accepted the right side.

Suffice it to say that the toddler years continued in much the same way.  Things didn’t go as they typically do; sleeping and eating were challenges, and they remain so.  Claire is by far the most spirited and strong-willed of my four children, and believe me, she had some tough competition. 

My little girl is now a five-year-old kindergartener.  In September, she got to be Star of the Week in her class and make a poster all about herself.  One of the prompts on the poster began “I’m special  because…”, and when I asked Claire what she wanted to write, she didn’t hesitate to say “I never give up!

Under her tough exterior, though, lies Claire’s very tender soul.  She loves animals and babies, and she’s the most sensitive person I know.  Her sensory processing issues make every touch, smell, taste, and sound more intense for her than for the average person.  It’s difficult to parent such a child, to say the least, but it’s also a beautiful thing to become awakened to that level of perceiving everything around us.

Recently I overheard Claire playing with her 14-year-old brother, who takes karate lessons.  She wanted to spar with him, but he told her he couldn’t because he would end up hurting her.  “Don’t worry, “ she said, “even though I’m little, I’m really strong.” It’s true, and I look forward to spending my golden years watching where her tenacious spirit takes her.

Satisfied

This year will mark 30 years ago that my husband and I met, and 24 years that we have been married.  We conceived three children together, and adopted another on two trips across the world.  We have shared interesting experiences, challenging times, lots of laughs, and definitely some passionate moments.  But if you ask my husband what he values most about our time together, he will not hesitate to give an answer that would surprise most people.  He will say that he loves when I read to him.

We discovered this beautiful shared experience back in the late 80’s.  I was a new college graduate living in an apartment and holding my first real job in rural Virginia; he was just back from a year abroad and working in New York City.  We visited every few weekends.  This particular time, he had traveled to see me, and on a whim, I picked up “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” from my shelf because I had never read it before.  I began reading it aloud, he listened attentively, and the rest is history.  I read the book all night long, and we laughed hysterically until the morning light.

Over the years, I discovered that if my husband came home perseverating about work issues or was overwhelmed with stress, if I offered to read to him, he would almost jump at the opportunity.  He could forget his worries, connect with me, and enter into a new reality all at once.  He would tell people that it was the most caring thing I did for him; he would probably still say that.

When our first two girls were 6 and 2, I decided to try doing a Family Read Aloud time, and I began with the first Harry Potter book.  My husband and older daughter listened while the younger one played nearby, but by the end of the book, it was just he and I again.  Eventually I read all seven of the Harry Potter books out loud to him, with the girls around for some of them.

The reading material for our sessions has varied as much as it possibly could.  He loves Stephen King, so I have read a few of those novels, but I read all my Oprah’s Book Club picks to him, too.  We both love funny books, and the spiritual and inspirational ones are my favorite.  Sometimes it is material we feel like we need to muddle through, and it’s easier to handle if we do it as a team.  It was recommended that I read “Liar’s Poker” for my job at a brokerage, for example, and we even read “How to Buy a Used Volkswagen in Europe, Keep it Alive, and Bring it Home” together.

A lot of couples enjoy travel, shows, parties, movies and meals out, and we do as well, but there is something about sharing a book that provides another level of intimacy.  We pause as needed to share our thoughts, feelings, connections, and predictions.  We see through new eyes, but in a familiar voice, and in our own bed.  We are outside ourselves and more fully inside ourselves at the same time.

We both go to sleep satisfied every time.

The Universal Language

     I feel like I have the perfect job.  When my third child became school-aged, I started working part-time as an English instructor to adults.  To me, it was an ideal situation because I had the freedom to choose what my availability would be and use my college education as an English major.  Whether I taught on Saturdays when my husband was home or during the week when the kids were in school, I got to know students with native languages of Japanese, Spanish, Farsi, Portuguese, and more.

     It was exciting to be working again after several years home full-time with my children, and it was energizing to train in a completely new career.  Before long, though, I did experience a certain impostor complex  Who was I to instruct these adults, most with far more life experience than I, in such subjects as making travel plans, going on work interviews, making presentations, and handling any number of the bureaucratic travails of a newly arrived foreigner?

     One day, though, in conversation with an older Persian student, the subject of parenting came up.  Immediately the sparkle of connection and understanding lit his eyes.  Despite a language barrier, we completely related.  He laughed as he shared stories of his wife's worries over their rascal sons during the growing-up years.  He looked at me with affection and an increased desire to understand every one of my words when I talked about the personalities and quirks of my growing family.

     I noticed with some of the Spanish-speaking women I taught that the topic of our children would have the same effect.  These students may have handled more situations and challenges in the world, and I may have had the upper hand in knowledge of English language and American culture, but being moms completely leveled the playing field.  My ability to teach English conversation, and their ability to learn it, soared when we made this connection.

     Eventually, I became pregnant with our fourth child and took a few years off from my part-time work.  As my little one approached kindergarten, though, I decided to go back to my job.

     Before long, I found myself teaching a Japanese man and feeling that same impostor complex.  Who was I to teach this worldly professional how to discuss education, resumes, and work experience?  We struggled through it...and then I came to the realization that he has a kindergartener, too.  We bonded over childhood fears, eating habits, and sleep schedules (in our cases, the lack thereof!).  Our level of communication increased exponentially.  I have been able to help him more with kid birthday parties, communicating with teachers, and celebrating American holidays than I was ever able to assist in any of the other areas.  We laugh a lot more, and we are all the more motivated to both teach and understand English.

     I really do have a great job.  And if love is the universal language, parenting is a very common dialect.

What I Learned About Parenting from Watching Football

1. Anyone on the team can recover a fumble.  Although I am the primary caretaker in our household, I have learned that anyone in the family can help to turn a situation around.  Whether it’s an older sibling helping a younger one with a school problem or my husband averting a meltdown by providing a change of scenery, I can call upon others in the family to assist when needed.

2. Know when to punt and know when to go for it.  Sometimes it is better to cut your losses and leave that birthday party, that grocery store trip, or that family obligation early.  But sometimes it is really important to be there, and so you take your chances with a tired or irritable kid…and those times it tends to work out okay.

3. Occasionally, the play needs a review.  We can all benefit from learning how to do better.

It's Complicated

“Why did you adopt”?

It’s a question I often get when people find out our son came to us that way.  It’s an understandable curiosity. 

From the outside, it sure doesn’t look like a fertility issue since he arrived after two biological kids, and before another.  (But that is part of the reason).  From the outside, it kind of looks like it’s because we wanted a boy since he’s the only one.  (But that’s really not the reason). 

How do you explain a calling?  How do you explain a feeling, a voice, a push so strong that you almost feel no choice at all?  How do you explain having been so touched by a situation, a knowledge, a chain of events that you are compelled to act out of your comfort zone?  How do you say all that without sounding crazy? 

So usually I just say, “It’s complicated.”

The Halloweens that Weren't

     Halloween has always been a favorite holiday in my family.  For the kids, obviously, it’s fun to dress up as favorite characters, wander the neighborhood, and collect huge amounts of candy.  It’s festive and special for them, and yet it doesn’t create tremendous stress for me as a parent.  Get them the costume they want, decorate a bit, carve a pumpkin, and the rest is pure enjoyment.  I love helping with classroom parties, taking children trick-or-treating, getting those cute photos, and maybe helping to get rid of some of the sweets.  I think, though, that Halloween is a bit extra special to me because of the ones I kind of missed out on.

     In 2003 when my older daughters were 10 and 6, my husband and I were across the world in Russia on an adoption trip for their little brother.  Already missing the girls like crazy, I was particularly sad to be absent for a holiday.  My best friend was watching the girls for me.  She made sure to bring them trick-or-treating and snapped lots of great pictures.  They definitely celebrated.  When I got home (without their little brother; this was trip one out of two), there were adorable decorations everywhere and I got to ooh and aah over their crafts, stories, and yummies.  It was nice for them, but I missed being there in person.

     In 2012, I was a mom of four but only one little one, and Super Storm Sandy hit our area hard.  We were lucky to have been spared any significant damage, but Halloween was, for all intents and purposes, canceled.  My three-year-old’s preschool was closed for several days, so she missed the first Halloween party that would have meant anything to her.  The mayor prohibited trick-or-treating on the actual day.  We didn’t have power, and there were downed lines and branches all around.  I admit I was rebellious and did take my little girl and her big brother carefully down the street to a few houses that looked okay.  We came home to our cold house after trying to make the best of it.

     With most things, we tend to treasure that which we have learned we cannot take for granted.  The two Halloweens that I missed are the ones that stand out most in my memory, and they motivate me to fully appreciate that special fall day when I can.  This year, I can’t wait to see my Claire all decked out as a cowgirl for the second year in a row.  It will be adorable to see her kindergarten class in costume and having fun.  In the evening, we’ll order in a pizza, roast some pumpkin seeds, and rifle through her loot together when we come back from trick-or-treating.  For a “scary” day, Halloween has lots of cozy, comforting fun that I plan to savor.

Montauk Magic

During the summer of 2012, my fifteen-year-old daughter Abigail begged me to take her on a trip to Montauk Point.  She had spent her whole life on the other side of Long Island, and neither she nor I had ever ventured to “The End”.  We had come somewhat close on Girl Scout camping trips, but we had never visited the farthest point out east where there was a picturesque lighthouse and museum, and it just seemed like something we should do.

We made a day and adventure of it, picking up some delicious breakfast along the way, getting caught in torrential rains, and then finally arriving at our destination as it cleared up.  We loved climbing up the lighthouse, checking out the museum, taking pictures, sitting on the beach, and wandering around a bit.  It immediately became a special place to us, and we vowed to return for the holiday lighting that always occurs the weekend after Thanksgiving.

That Thanksgiving had promised to be an important one.  My oldest, Elizabeth, was coming home from college for the weekend and bringing home her girlfriend (soon to be fiancée).  It would be the first holiday Tara spent with our family of six.

I had special plans packed into that weekend.  The older girls would spend the early part of the day with my three-year-old, Claire, as I prepared the Thanksgiving meal.  They would also spend time bonding or playing games with Abigail and my twelve year old son, Viktor.  We would enjoy Thanksgiving dinner along with my in-laws who were coming over to join us.  That night we would go to the movies.  The next day would be set aside for Montauk, me and all the girls.  On Saturday we would decorate the Christmas tree, sharing memories about all the ornaments while we listened to holiday music and sipped cocoa.

Most everything went pretty close to plan, but the trip to Montauk was not exactly how I had envisioned it.  It takes about two and a half hours to drive there.  Doing it later in the day to get there for the lighting and then driving all the way home afterwards made the actual visit seem particularly short.  Everybody seemed to need to stop for bathrooms and food so there was some added stress about getting there in time to actually see the lighting.  When we did arrive, it was beyond cold; it was frigid with a biting wind.  We got ourselves to a good location, saw the lighting and spotted Santa, and we ended up not staying too much longer.  I got a bit disoriented trying to find my way back to the car in the dark while Claire fussed about being cold, scared, and lost. 

The car trip home was interesting.  My little one had a cold with a runny nose, and she also has some sensory issues and some very rigid behaviors.  At that stage, I was the only one allowed to wipe her nose.  Every two seconds from the backseat came “You g’ wipe my nose?”.  I explained I was driving the car and so she needed one of the big girls to help her.  Not acceptable.  “You g’ wipe my nose?”.  Again and again, and again with me explaining about needing to keep my hands on the wheel and drive the car…in the pitch black with no street lights, of course.  Claire had the solution; I didn’t need to drive the car at all.   “You g’wipe my nose. We g’ walk fast home. Then I be happy”.  Over and over and OVER.  Lots of laughter from the backseat, and then finally, after about an hour of that, she allowed one of the older girls to wipe her nose.  From that point on, it was “Here, catch!” as she threw her used tissues up to the front seat or, more often, at the back of my head.  It was not a relaxing drive home for me.

When the weekend was over and I spoke to Elizabeth at college on the phone, I asked her if she and Tara enjoyed themselves when they were with us.  I was told they had an absolutely wonderful time.  I was particularly interested in what Tara thought, and so I asked what her favorite part of the holiday was.  The answer really surprised me.

It wasn’t the carefully prepared Thanksgiving meal made acceptable to both my turkey loving in-laws and my vegan and vegetarian daughters, it wasn’t the fun night at the movie theater watching “Breaking Dawn”, it wasn’t having fun with the little one at the playground, it wasn’t Christmas tree decorating…nope, it wasn’t any of that.  Tara’s favorite part of the holiday weekend was the visit to Montauk. 

“Really?” I asked.  “That long drive, the short time there, the freezing cold, Claire’s ridiculous behavior in the car?”

“It was magical”, Elizabeth replied.  The beauty was the car ride there with us joyfully belting out all our favorite Christmas songs, the crisp and clear night along the rocks with the huge moon shining down on the water, the perfect timing of arriving right when the lighthouse was lit up, and Claire’s antics were apparently the hilarious icing on the cake.

We seem to understand when we become moms that it’s now up to us to make holiday magic happen.  I learned from our Montauk adventure that the true magic occurs on its own in the hearts and minds of our kids (and those they bring home).  All we have to do is put in the time and be open to it.

Pet Mom

I am the mother of four human beings. I am also mom to two cats and am well aware that it’s not the same thing. But dare I say one can gain some wisdom about being a decent human mom from being a decent pet mom?

So much of our ego is wrapped up in parenting our children. We blame ourselves for their shortcomings and take credit for their successes. “If only I spent more one-on-one time with her earlier,” “She’s bad at math like I am,” and “I should have set more consistent rules when he was a toddler” are not helpful. “She is beautiful like my sister,” “she gets her intelligence from us,” and “We raised him right” are just the other side of the same coin. When they seem to do poorly, we feel unnecessarily guilty, and when they do well, we take undue credit.

When the cat misbehaves, it’s just being a cat. It’s either kind of funny or it’s just something we deal with in a relatively kind way that works. If we can teach the animal, we do. Sometimes we ignore it because it doesn’t matter very much. It really doesn’t have anything to do with us. Why can’t we think that simply with our kids? When a pet is a source of joy and comfort, the credit goes to the great animal and companion that it is, not to us for being connected to it. We are separate beings who happen to be in relationship with each other. Same with our kids.

Most moms succumb to the temptation to occasionally compare their kids, whether out loud or in their own minds. “This is my most athletic child, my prettiest, my smartest,” or “Why can’t she work as hard as her sister?” I have an overweight black cat named Judy and a smaller calico named Minnie. Never in a million years would anyone in the family say or think, “If only Judy were as skinny as Minnie” or a different color or with different eyes, or quirks, or anything other than who and what she is. We love and embrace them both for exactly who they are. Judy is loyal and kind to my youngest, and a good hunter.  Minnie is cute and silly. We can absolutely try to think of our kids along those lines.  They have individual looks, abilities, personalities, and proclivities. And they deserve to be fully accepted unconditionally.

There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t snuggle and pet my animals, speak to them in my high-pitched mommy voice, and simply enjoy their physical presence. And I confess that along with many other parents, I don’t hug my kids and say, “I love you” when they get past a certain age as freely as I used to. They still love it and need it, and so do I.

Lately I am finding myself seeking out information on rescue dogs that need a home. I want another being to nurture, completely separate from me but for me to love and guide, its “weaknesses” exactly what are appealing to me. I can’t wait to find out what I learn.