Hiking with Abigail

The mountains call when I seek to feel small

Where problems are pebbles in the quarry of the cosmos

The trees loom terrifyingly tall

With caches of creatures hiding in the hollows

 

Equal parts minuscule and mettle

I take on the challenge of climbing to the crest

With my offspring made muse, I will not settle

I know that I must put forth my best

 

Slithering snakes and scurrying squirrels cross my way

Roots, rocks, and inclines so steep

I have to keep hiking and cannot stay

Small creeks traversed by brittle bridge or long leap

 

At the height of tiredness we spy delicate alpine growth

Shorter shrubbery indicating the summit is near

An extra surge of energy now spurs us both

Love has finally overcome fear

 

After well-earned respite on the bald peak

We begin our descent, with challenges its own

By this time my middle-aged muscles are weak

I keep my eyes focused on every loose stone

 

It happens so quickly I cannot explain

My foot slides under me as I spin and fall

The shock of it hits me before the pain

And I realize I cannot even attempt to crawl

 

Roles reversed as my girl gives aid

She washes, bandages, and assists me to standing

Waves of nausea and swirling colors fade

As she encourages and waits instead of stranding

 

Several hours later we make it down, we pair

With a full story for the family to eventually hear

Because of courage and strength, but especially care

Love has finally overcome fear

 

Right In My Own Backyard

Over the past few months of this pandemic, I have developed a new appreciation for my modest backyard.  In the past, I never much considered it.  Sure, it had a swingset my four kids enjoyed while growing up, and it provided a space to cook out on occasion.  Other than that, it contained a lawn to be mowed, leaves to be raked, and mosquitoes to be swatted.  The yard was an extension of a busy household needing maintenance.

     In mid-March, quite suddenly, schools and pretty much everything else closed.  The threat here in New York was very real as we saw our rates of illness and death rise dramatically each day.  The quarantine affected everyone.  I particularly felt for people in the City, who really could not safely go anywhere and had to remain in their apartments as much as possible.  More and more, I found myself wandering into our backyard.

     While many in our area have swimming pools, trampolines, fire pits, and other amenities in their outdoor space, our yard is fairly minimalistic.  Still, it is as if I rubbed my eyes one day and woke up to its wonder for the first time.

     We have our own safe plot of earth beneath our feet.  We can lie down on it and see the sky through the leaves on our trees.  I can breathe the fresh clean air whenever I want to.  I have come to know the noisy cardinal couple who make their residence near our shed.  I spotted one of the wild Long Island rabbits scampering across the grass.

     During distance learning with my 10 year old, we took breaks in the backyard for "gym".  We had running races, played wiffle ball, and read on the swings together.  Now that it's summer, we have added the sprinkler to our play, and we may camp one night in a backyard tent.

     When it first became evident that we would be spending more time at home for the whole summer, I expressed to my husband that we had to do something to keep the mosquitoes under control.  He began to rip up the ivy on the side where they had been breeding.  Not only has that been successful so far, but we've also discovered a treasure trove of artifacts from our family history buried in there (along with many of our neighbor's lacrosse balls).  With the ivy gone, too, we planted a garden and will soon be enjoying the tomatoes and squash growing there.

     Right in my own backyard, I have found safety and privacy, as well as the sense of curiosity, exploration, and freedom that only nature can provide.  It makes me wonder...what else do I already have that I'm not yet fully appreciating?  What else are we thirsty for that we already have access to?

While I Wait

(written Fall 2016)

The transitional minister at the Unitarian Church I attend was recently ordained.  A well-meaning congregant, asking how our minister now felt, started to answer her own question by saying something along the lines of, “it’s just a confirmation of what already was”.  Interestingly, the Reverend Laurie denied this.  Whether it be the official title, or the collar, or even that something supernatural occurred when we all laid hands upon her, charging her with a new responsibility, something fundamentally changed on that day.

This idea of a label changing reality instead of just describing it is something I am grappling with for the next few months.  My quirky, ultra-sensitive little girl will finally be formally assessed in the springtime by a pediatric neurologist.  I fully expect that she will, at the very least, be diagnosed with high-functioning Asperger’s. 

As a toddler, my daughter was evaluated through our school district and received occupational therapy and social skills services.  I appreciated the willingness of the system to step in early and help, and by the middle of kindergarten, such assistance was not deemed necessary in her educational environment. 

The truth, though, is that my little one’s challenges extend far beyond performance in school.  She is bright and can do well academically.  She can “hold it together” behaviorally during the school day.  So, as far as the district goes, there isn’t a need.  It’s not their concern that she really doesn’t eat at school, and at home only consumes a very small selection of specific and not particularly healthy foods.  It’s not their problem that smells, tastes, sounds, and textures can easily overwhelm her.  Certain tactile sensations which come with daily hygiene, such as hair or teeth brushing, are downright painful to her.  A new or unexpected experience can be seriously anxiety-producing, and that won’t show during a routine school day. 

Many of the stresses in my little girl’s life are not going to appear as a problem in school; she’s in that gray area of superficially typical, but life is harder than it should be for her.  She and I both need tools and support to cope.  We need to use particular strategies for overcoming obstacles so that success and happiness can be achieved.  So I had to go look past the minimal services a school district will provide because actually, these are life challenges.  Last month, I made that first phone call to a specialist referred by our pediatrician, and I filled out a large stack of paperwork, finally putting it all out there.

Now I wait until the three lengthy evaluation appointments which are still months away.  And while I wait, I think about what I hope to gain from a diagnosis.  We may or may not get more services at school; they may not really be necessary.  Maybe I will feel validated in my suspicions, but that’s not particularly important.  Of course I hope I will get more encouragement and ideas about handling the difficulties.  That is my clear desire.

I think back to the minister and how the label actually changed her reality.  And it makes me a little sad that that might happen for my daughter in this case.  She may be a child on the autism spectrum.  Will the label change who she is?  No, but if it changes others’ perceptions of her, including mine, then honestly there will be a very real shift. 

So, while I wait, I will continue to love her unconditionally exactly as she is.  Especially, in fact, for who she is…because she is interesting, and funny, and tender, and intense.  I just want to make life easier for her, and I want others to understand her better.  I will pursue whatever it takes for these things to happen, but I fear a label, too.  It might not always be used in a positive way; I am aware of that.  As I wait, I will prepare myself for what I may hear, and I will steel myself to be my baby’s fiercest protector and advocate, no matter what.  And I will begin to accept the idea that her label might change who I am as well.

Viktor at 15

I wasn’t there when he was born

He hadn’t yet entered my mind

Today my son is 15 years old

And the words are hard to find

I don’t know how he looked

Or how he sounded as a baby

I imagine he had a pretty tough time

But he was strong, maybe

Now he has become a young adult

Big, with ideas all his own

Yet I can’t help but wonder

About the tiny seeds that were sown

What did he come from?  What did he face?

A history and mystery that’s his

Today we celebrate his birth

Who he was and who he is

Unlikely Advice for My Daughter

I believe in synchronicity, the meaningful coincidence of certain concepts coming into my life just when a message is ready to be received. There have been countless examples of this over the years, of course especially when I make myself open to it. Recently I have experienced this phenomenon as relates to some parenting guidance I felt compelled to give.

My oldest daughter, a young adult who has been living on her own since her early college days, suffers from anxiety and depression. It is incredibly painful as her mother to know of her struggles and try in whatever limited way I can to help. I have made sure that she has access to medication and therapy appointments, and there are countless phone conversations between us. We fight her uncomfortable feelings together, she’s okay for a while, and then they come back. Recently she said to me, after making a concerted effort to move past certain seemingly paranoid fears only to have to confront them directly, that she feels like the universe does not want her to be sane. I wanted to contradict that statement immediately. But then some ideas which have been simmering in me over the past couple of months bubbled up at once and gave me a clear piece of unlikely advice for her.

I picked up a book not long ago, ostensibly on a whim, called Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert. In it, she talks about the creative process and how there will always be an element of fear involved. Her advice is to invite the fear in, give it some room, and move on without letting it take control. That spoke to me, as did two of my favorite movies which often come to mind, The Sixth Sense and A Beautiful Mind. In the former, a haunted child is only able to achieve some peace when he allows the disturbing ghosts to have their voice and he listens to what they have to say. And in the latter, the genius John Nash is finally capable of living productively when he acknowledges the imaginary characters and voices in his life but continues along without allowing them any power. And in one of the most touching sermons I have ever heard in church, the pastor described her experience with a stubborn loneliness. When she finally “sat with it” and saw it as a cherished companion rather than an enemy to be feared, she experienced a life-changing shift in perspective.

Suddenly, with all of these messages in focus, I felt I had a unique suggestion for my daughter. She feels a high level of anxiety, which sometimes leads to depression. It is part of who she is. She is one of the most sensitive, perceptive, detail-oriented people I know. With these strengths, the other side of that same coin is the anxiety they can produce. So to my girl I say: Give that anxiety some space and some respect. Name it. Write about it. Talk about it if you want to. And then move forward anyway. Because my daughter is also one of the bravest people I know.

Grace In Surrender

The irony is not lost on me when my Japanese student comes up with the irretrievable word on the tip of my tongue as I am trying to teach him English. Or when my six-year-old is able to finish the sentence I started better than I can. I’m approaching 50 so I look up “menopause symptoms” on the computer and am relieved to see memory issues included. It’s just a momentary reprieve, though. The fear of Alzheimer’s disease lurks just under the surface.

My mother is suffering from dementia most likely caused by Alzheimer’s, and with her, everyone who cares about her. The matriarch we all knew and loved is fading fast. A frail and confused little person replaces her, repeating herself constantly and getting panic attacks that can only be alleviated temporarily, until she forgets whatever explanation or comforting words helped her to begin with. General terms take over the specific ones she would have preferred to use; cream cheese is “white stuff”, colander is “the thing with holes”, and the symbol of her lifelong faith is reduced to “the t-shaped thing”. Her concept of time is distorted. An event that happened just months ago, if recalled, might as well have been from decades past. She can name some family members, but not all, and she is inconsistent even in that. At this point it is unclear if it is only the name she has lost or the entire memory of the person.

As my mom began her descent, I experienced flashbacks to my junior high years. My dad's mother had come to live with us for a while after it was deemed unsafe for her to remain in her little apartment out in the Midwest. I didn’t have any concept back then of what a devastating thing it is for a person to lose their mental capacities. To my 13 year old self, it was kind of funny how Grandma would say the same inappropriate things (she was a character, after all) and ask the same ridiculous questions (no, I did not acquire a boyfriend in the five minutes since you last asked me) over and over. In fact, I didn’t know my grandmother before she came to our house so it wasn’t like I could see a change in her.

I remember the day when my father, a stoic man who really never engaged in conversation with his nine children, approached me in preparation of my grandmother’s arrival. “She forgets things”, he warned me, “and I don't want anyone to make fun of her.” When you can count the total number of words your father ever said to you, you hang on to them. This must have been serious business for him to break his silence. He must have really loved his mother. I will even say that when he uttered those words, I was suddenly able to see him as a real, vulnerable person, and I began to love him, in a way that was beyond mere filial duty.

It was okay having Grandma live with us, from my perspective at least. She was fine physically, she said humorous things, she didn’t seem disruptive. Then came the night that my just-older brother and I still recall as one of the most traumatic in our lives. Grandma took a wrong turn in the dark hallway and tumbled down the stairs. She broke her hip, and that was the beginning of the end of her time in our branch of the family tree.

I remember accompanying my dad to visit her in the hospital, following behind his long strides, looking up to him. He would come home after a long day at work in the city and go to his suffering mother. As she was recuperating, she would beg him to take her home, exclaiming “I promise I’ll be good!” It was heartbreaking as he explained the situation gently again and again. He would literally pull his own hair out as she insulted the nursing staff, but he remained tender towards his mom.

I took my cue from my dad, and one day I decided I would go by myself to visit my grandmother after school. It was in walking distance, but it was definitely some big steps out of my comfort zone for me to go there. I sat there with Grandma and began to make awkward conversation. When a nurse came in and asked “Who do you have visiting you today, Gertrude?,” she said she didn’t know and she’d never seen me before in her life. Knocked down easily, I trudged home not feeling nearly as good about myself as I did on the way there.

These experiences from my formative years come back to me now. I’m in my dad’s place this time around. I see the change in my beloved mother. I know how painful it is to lose her slowly while she is still here, just as Dad did with his mother. (He actually died almost a decade before his mother, but he lost her way before that). I know it is important to be as kind as possible to those who were once the most powerful people in our world, now the weakest. My father was by no means a “hands-on dad”, but he left that message indelibly etched on my spirit.

So it turns out that this degenerative dementia exists on both sides of my family as I have seen it firsthand with both my mother and my paternal grandmother. It would not be particularly paranoid to fear getting it myself, especially when I can’t come up with that perfect word, find the item I placed somewhere special, or forget why I walked into the room.

When it became obvious that our mother could no longer live alone, we siblings had to communicate with each other to make decisions on her behalf. In each conversation I was a part of, my mind couldn’t help but replace “Mom” with my own name. Will my experience mirror my mother’s? I imagine my four children one day having similar discussions about me. Which might not want to face my decline at all? Which would want to help, but maybe not directly? Would any of them want to deal with me moving in?

Sometimes my mom will call me needing reassurance that I am well and my husband and children are okay. She cannot recall their names or ages or what they are up to, but she knows they are her family. She feels a compelling need to check on her “little chicks”, as she calls us all. And that is when I know she is still in there. And when I hope my own children will always be able to find me.

Little Kindnesses

My daughter is getting ready to graduate from high school as salutatorian of her class, and she is all set to start her Ivy League education in September. She is a talented singer and actress, a hard-working and intelligent student, a leader in extra-curricular clubs, and a fun-loving regular teenager as well. She's a wise old soul type, so much so that I have turned to her with my stresses and concerns for years, even though I know I shouldn't. We laugh and talk as friends; I won't apologize for that because she is well aware I'm also her mom. I know I will have tears when she leaves home for college not only because I will miss her like crazy, but also because I am so proud and excited for her that I could burst. I could list the dozens of academic and other accomplishments which fill me with that pride, but before she leaves, I want to remind her of some small acts of kindness she performed which were not listed on her college applications but that are etched forever on my heart.

Dear Abigail,

When your dad and I took a vacation to England three years ago, your toddler sister trusted you. You implicitly understood her sensory issues and helped her feel secure at bedtime by sleeping with her and indulging her in the strange rituals that soothed her.

When we left to bring your older sister to college four years ago, the first thing you did was to sit at the kitchen table and write her a letter.

When I was pregnant six years ago and having a particularly bad sickness spell while trying to pick you and your brother up from school, I ended up vomiting on myself and in the driveway. You helped me out of the soiled clothes and into the shower, you laid out clean pajamas on my bed, and you wrote me a sweet note in which you even asked me not to make a big deal of your help.

When you were a first-grader and we came home from Russia after adopting your brother, you made sure to scrawl a letter to Santa to inform him that we had a new little boy in the house who would need some gifts.

When you were four years old, your dad witnessed the horrific events of 9-11 from his workplace. He made it to a colleague's apartment where he called us, crying. When you had your turn on the phone, you could tell he was upset and you told him that when he got home you would cheer him up "by talking about farts and other inappropriate things". You were able to make him laugh.

Abigail, "source of joy", I love you so much and am obviously pleased with you for all of the usual reasons any parent would be. But I want to remind you that the little kindnesses which I have seen you show time and time again really are the most important things. Bring those with you out into the world, and with all your other amazing gifts, you will make it a better place.

Mom

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.

Mother Daughter

She is 85 years old, several hours away, and doesn’t like to travel.

I am busy with a family growing up, conflicting schedules and needs.

We speak on the phone every couple of days, drop each other notes and cards and packages.  I miss sharing a snack on the couch, watching her favorite TV programs with her, enjoying a meal at the table, feeling her put that extra blanket on me when she thinks I’m sound asleep, having talks in the wee hours when we are the only ones awake.

She is 21 years old, several hours away, and doesn’t like to travel.

I am busy with her siblings growing up, conflicting schedules and needs.

We communicate by phone or online practically every day.

I miss laughing with her in person, including her in our family activities, buying her special foods, taking a peek at her in the night when I think she’s sound asleep, waking up early with her, just me and my firstborn…like when she was a baby.

I must send out some kind of a signal to the universe when I need to really connect with these two.  I start to feel anxious; I fear I am beginning to lose them.  And then, they will both call me on the same day, and it is more than a check-in.  The stars align so that I magically have a free hour or so for each of them.  We have Real Conversation, we connect, I have been nurtured and I nurture.

It is rare that I can hold them physically.  Yet I still hold them…in my thoughts, in my prayers, in my love.

BFFs...is it really so wrong to be your child's friend?

One piece of common wisdom we often read and are told as mothers is that we are not to be our children’s friend; we are their parent.  Obviously the point of this advice is to make clear that our most important job is to provide consistent rules and clear guidance for our kids, despite what they might think they want from us.  If we try to make them or their peers like us, we may actually end up doing them a disservice.  As they come into young adulthood, our relationship will hopefully evolve into a more equal and amicable one, but while they are young, we are supposed to be firm and keep them on the right path.

It’s a message I have heard but not fully accepted.  My seventeen year old daughter often tells me that I’m her BFF, and while part of me loves to hear it, another part cringes a little and tells me that I must be screwing up the “parent instead of friend” thing.  When she was little, this daughter was such an old soul.  She had a knack for saying just the right, wise thing, whether she really understood what she was saying or not.  Sometimes I’d find myself asking what she thought about this or that situation to see if she might have some special insight for me.  When she was around 10 years old, it became clear that this middle daughter and I shared many interests—good stories, dollhouses, holiday traditions, academics and philosophical talks.  One night as I was tucking her in with a book, she said “If you and I were the same age, we’d be best friends”.  I couldn’t help but be flattered and agree.

As the teenage years approached, I figured I should begin to brace myself.  Although her older sister mostly remained an easy kid throughout high school, one any mom would be pleased with, this one was more feisty.  She was strong-willed, snarky, and questioning of those in power.  The friendship we had couldn’t possibly last through this phase of finding her identity and asserting her independence.

Or so I thought.  The kid remains an excellent student with tons of extracurricular activities and talents, as well as thoughts and opinions all her own, and I’m still her BFF.  And apparently that hasn’t messed her up too badly.  She’s a responsible, moral person with a strong sense of integrity.  We discuss practically everything under the sun, and sometimes we disagree.  There are times I ask for her input, and she reminds me she is still a kid who would rather not be burdened.  There are times I remind her I am the parent and don’t want to hear advice from her.

What is a friend, anyway?  I believe it is someone with whom we have a strong connection,  someone who brings out the best in us, someone who appreciates us and is there for us in times of need.  Friends share both good and bad experiences, laughs, and important milestones.  They challenge each other and have difficult conversations when needed, as well as encourage and build each other up.  They love each other.  And as far as I’m concerned, the loving relationship between a parent and child is not only more important than the role of parent as authority figure, it is the very foundation of it.  Respect is built on love and trust, not on fear.  I am proud to be both my daughter’s BFF and her mom.

A Different Kind of Love Story

When I found out I was pregnant a few days before my forty-third birthday, I was shocked and thrilled.  My daughters were 16 and 11, and I had been longing for another pregnancy since the girls were little.  It took a year and a half to conceive my second child, and although there was no medical explanation, it just didn’t look like it would ever happen again.  When the girls were both in elementary school, we decided to open our hearts to a 3 year old Russian orphan boy whom we adopted.  The adjustment to life with that little blond tornado was tough, and it took some time for everyone to settle in.  Around five years, actually.

It was shortly after Viktor’s eighth birthday that the surprisingly wonderful news of my last pregnancy came.   All of us were beside ourselves with excitement and awe…all of us except my son.  While some of us had tears of joy, he had tears of sadness and fear.  My husband and I assured him of our love and his importance in our family, especially for the baby-to-be who would look up to him.  But even after five years with us, my son felt his place in the family was so tenuous that this little intruder would surely threaten it. 

After a while, Viktor began to accept the idea of a little brother—someone he could mold into a little version of himself and someone to even the numbers in the family.  That was until he found out I was pregnant with another little girl.  The reaction to that news was even stronger than to the pregnancy itself.  He isolated himself outside and sobbed angrily.  All I could do was remind him about his best friend at the time, a girl, who liked all the same things he did—army, cars, physical play.  I’m not sure he bought my attempt at consolation.  While the rest of the family enjoyed every aspect of planning and waiting for our new miracle,  my son seemed in denial.

Then Claire was born.  She was so tiny and helpless, and Viktor immediately fell hard.  He held her so gently, studied her features, and mimicked how my husband let her sleep on his chest.  He showed her off and talked about her to his teacher and classmates.  During one of the first days home, while I was changing the crying infant,  Viktor gently said to her, “You know what is really sad?  When I was a baby like you, nobody took care of me like this”.  He said it tenderly, as though he was just realizing for himself what he missed.  It was like he made a vow at that time to never let her feel the neglect he did.

He began to see me differently, too.  He got to see me parent from the beginning of life, there for all of Claire’s basic needs 24/7.  During one of my first nights home from the hospital, he wanted to sleep near the baby and me to hear my “sweet voice” and see Claire’s “cute little face”.  He was truly drinking in what I wasn’t there for when he was a baby. 

Until the baby’s birth, I think Viktor always sort of felt like a latecomer to our family.  He knew he missed out on our first family home and many of our combined experiences as well as his own first three years of being a baby in our midst.  But as relates to Claire, he was there from the start—from finding out about her to every day of her life since then.  She doesn’t know life without him, and she doesn’t know that he is anyone other than her brother. 

As Claire entered toddlerhood, the brother-sister relationship developed into something more typical.  She annoys him, he teases her, and they get mad at each other.  She still looks up to him and wants him to play with her, and of course he still loves her, but they definitely get on each other’s nerves.  The gifts of this relationship, however, are still being realized.  Viktor had hyperactivity and sensory issues as a little boy that felt so different to me.  He never seemed to sleep. And although she is not biologically related to him, Claire also has these issues, in some ways even more significantly.  Her brother prepared me to deal with OT services, extreme fatigue, and acceptance of traits I don’t relate to.  And now that a child I gave birth to has some of the same difficulties, Viktor’s characteristics don’t feel so foreign to me; *he* doesn’t feel foreign to me.  I see that I absolutely could have given birth to a child like him because I did. 

It is interesting how things work out sometimes.  A little boy came into our family’s life and there were lessons on both sides, and then a little girl came along and somehow made those lessons easier for all of us.  It’s one love story among many in the chapters of our life as a family.

Breathe Easy

Breathe Easy

September 21, 2013.  Today is National Gratitude Day.  When I realized this, I dug out my old gratitude journals and fondly relived what I sometimes refer to as the happiest times of my life.  It was the late 1990's and early 2000's.  I had quit my full-time job outside the home to be a full-time mom to my two young girls.  Elizabeth and Abigail were funny and precocious, creative and enthusiastic.  I was relishing the freedom and fun of being their mom.  I breathed sighs of relief every day that I didn't have to go to the workplace and I didn't have to answer to anyone but these two.  It was a simple time of playgrounds, parks, and beaches, picnics in the backyard, playing dress-up and pretend, making crafts, and reading lots and lots of books together.  My older one had school, but it was still so exciting, with no real homework and no real problems.  Extracurriculars were easy and thoughtfully chosen.  My little one was really still a baby, but she looked up to her big sister and did a great job keeping up.  They adored each other.

When Abigail, my younger one, was around 2 1/2 years old, she was diagnosed with asthma.  It's a common issue in children, but it briefly shook up our happy little world.  From around the time she weaned at 13 months, she would get occasional colds just like most kids, but she just didn't seem to shake them quickly or easily.  Her coughs would hang on too long and I would hear that rattling in her lungs too often.  I do remember a family visit we made before she turned 2 and my brother said something about it sounding like she had asthma. I brushed it off then.  That winter, she had a very lingering cough after a cold and then it suddenly took a turn for the worse.  She was sleeping but breathing very rapidly and shallowly, her cheeks were flushed, and she was warm.  I panicked.  So far as a mom, I had been lucky enough to have dealt with nothing more a few ear infections.

Six year old Elizabeth picked up on my fear.  She had recently attended a service in her religious education class in which each child received a small bottle of holy water.  Her first reaction was to run right to it and sprinkle it all over her sister.  She was so protective and so worried; that act of love is always remembered with a bit of a chuckle, but the desperation at the moment was very real.

I called the doctor and was afraid of what I was sure the advice would be.  It was a Sunday morning during a snowstorm.  I was certain I would be told to take my little one, who had a deathly fear of doctors and all things medical, to the emergency room.  I knew that bringing her there would only make her breathing more labored as she would surely be full of anxiety.  But the doctor told me he would meet us at the office nearby.  I was so relieved to see him in the parking lot on that snowy day that when I remember the image, I still let out a big breath.

It was a tough visit of testing and fear and learning to use a nebulizer on a strong-willed,  terrified little one.  But I rocked her and sang and listened to instructions and was just so grateful to have someone helping us.  The doctor shared kind words about my patience.  These made me feel stronger and more empowered as a mom, and I still treasure them to this day.

Abigail is 16 now and still deals with her asthma.  She has had episodes throughout her childhood, but nothing as scary as the time of her diagnosis.  We are actually looking into a seeing a pulmonologist soon because her medicines are no longer providing complete relief, but she controls her condition well and we keep up with it.

When I remember that first real health crisis I experienced as a mom, at the forefront of the story is the love of an older sister and the helpfulness of a professional.  I would experience that combination of family and friend support, along with the assistance of caring experts, many more times as a mother.  After those halcyon days when my first two were young, we adopted a son.  So many friends and family members rallied around and supported that adjustment, and so many officials helped to smooth our way as well.  And then when I had my later-in-life surprise pregnancy, again I experienced not only affection from those near and dear to us, but also medical personnel who went above and beyond to make sure we were okay.  Knowing this beautiful combination of love and help is available when I need it truly helps me breathe easy.

my inner strength

 By all accounts, I would be considered a quiet, shy, even meek person to anyone outside my family or handful of close friends.  Over the decades, my debilitating childhood shyness faded, and since early adulthood, I have been mostly able to carry myself in social situations even if I was self-conscious or anxious.  I still don't like talking in front of more than about 3 or 4 people, though, unless they are children.  Needless to say, it is particularly difficult to speak up in any kind of confrontational or conflict situation.  In addition to this issue, I have a couple of other hang-ups which might even qualify as phobias.  One is a fear of driving outside of my comfort zone.  This would include city and metro area bridges, tunnels, parkways, and just any somewhat complicated traffic pattern or area I'm not very familiar with.  It flusters me and I get lost and disoriented.  When I'm not sure where I'm going, I panic and don't know how to recover.  I have a deathly fear of car accidents as well so I'm almost too cautious.  Another hang-up is my fear of change.  I'm a creature of habit and like to stick with the same places and routines.  It makes me feel safe and secure.

I have discovered over the years, though, that there is a fierce and protective love that overpowers my usual nature and issues.  I'm thinking it was first evidenced when I moved to New York to be near my then boyfriend, now husband.  I was a recent college graduate who had a technical writing job and cute apartment in a small Virginia town.  My guy had landed a job in NYC and had just returned from an internship in Germany.  We were getting by with visits back and forth every few weeks, but that was hard.  There really wasn't much opportunity for him in my area, so I packed up and left for a tiny apartment he found for me on Long Island.  I had no job, no savings, and no ring on my finger.  It was a pretty risky move for such a risk-averse individual.

It was scary but exciting to move to this brand-new place and get a job in the brokerage industry.  Here I was, an English and Religion major who didn't know the difference between a stock and a bond, getting myself acclimated to the hustle bustle of working for a big producer and getting registered myself.  It was energizing, different, and exciting for a few years.  In the end, though, I was still me, and I was married and just had my second daughter when we were finally able to afford for me to stay home with my children, where I really longed to be by that time.

I have basically been a stay-at-home mom since then, for my now four children, with the exception of a couple years as a part-time English instructor.  My life is mostly predictable, safe, quiet and stable, just as I like it.  Every once in a while, though, that inner strength--inspired by intense love--pushes me way beyond my fears and my habits.

My oldest daughter coming out as gay pushed me to pursue a new faith community more in tune with true acceptance and more aligned with my mind and spirit.  It took that extreme love and allegiance to my firstborn to trigger that big change from family tradition and identity.

Recently my second daughter wanted to attend an astronomy camp several hours away.  This would require a difficult drive for me through the New York metro area and beyond.  I would normally have avoided such a drive like the plague, but my strong need to support this daughter's dreams was bigger than my fear.

My calling to adopt my son from a Russian orphanage had me going *way* beyond the ordinary and safe.  I tackled my fear of flying after 9-11, traveling in a strange country, and adding a whole list of unknowns to our happy little family.

And now my spirited, quirky little three year old is pushing me to stand up for her and protect her vulnerable little self.  I am challenged to do whatever it takes, whether it be avoiding situations I know would overwhelm her even if others would not understand, or even risking lesser relationships if I feel they aren't supportive.

It's funny we usually think of love as such a soft and tender thing; for me, it is what makes me strongest.