“Put on what you think makes you look good,” I say to the kids the day before Thanksgiving as we dress for our annual holiday photo. Lillie shows up in striking colors, Ali in pink and Unicorns (natch) and Ty in a super hero cape and mask. Who doesn't look good as a superhero? The end of November…meant to get the family holiday photo taken before now, but Cherry, our insanely gifted photographer who has taken our photo every year since our wedding, lives in Santa Barbara. Like all things 2020, we are improvising. Before we plunge headlong into the year-end holidays, I am reminded that November is National Adoption Month. It’s the kind of thing that would make my younger self roll her eyes (sure, let’s put that in there with “Eat Ice Cream for Breakfast Day”, which is an actually thing – the first Saturday in February to be exact). When I adopted my dog Homie 14 years ago, National Adoption Month took on some panache. Then, four years ago, we adopted our son. As the middle child of three, with a mother who is the middle child of three, I have always felt in my bones that I am meant to have three children. After two biological girls, we decide to adopt a boy. There’s lots of fear around adoption. I realize just how much fear when I tell people we want to adopt. Well-meaning friends relay horror stories of families who have been all but destroyed by adopting a hellion. (“Have you seen the movie Lion??”). Others educate me on the paramount pull of “nature” over “nurture”. Two different friends ask, “Why would you want to take on someone else’s problem? You have two beautiful little girls – is that fair to them?” Actually, in fairness to our daughters (then 5 and 4), we realize that a state-sponsored adoption won’t work for us, because the goal of the state is to reunite the biological family whenever possible. We are not willing to face that scenario: “Hey girls, remember that baby brother we fostered for the past eight months? Well, his mom got sober so we’ll never see him again…. no, he did nothing wrong…no, we have no plans to give you away…” In fact, friends later confide that this scenario happened to them, and it was as devastating as it sounds. When we terrify ourselves with a new challenge, the Universe surprises us with encouragement in ways we could never predict. Under the condition of anonymity and no payback, upon hearing of our financial challenges in adopting, my dear friend X shocks me by gifting us five thousand dollars to “live our noble dream”! This is probably one of the kindest and definitely most surprising things a friend has ever done. Not only does she embolden me and make me feel worthy of my dream, but she ignites in me the desire to some day pay this life-changing generosity forward. Although we parent two kids already, we embark on couple’s therapy, parenting classes, finger printing, home inspections, CPR classes, and make a “look book” of our family (a fabulous keepsake). Then, we wait. Turns out there is a difference between adoption in theory, and taking home a child when you get the phone call. For my husband, the financial stress of a third child becomes all too real when our call comes eight months into our waiting. I recognize it as a dream come true: It is in-state (There is a window of a few weeks after birth when you cannot leave the state of birth. Since I am the primary caretaker for our girls, our adoption has to be in Cali). The baby is already born (Often, adoptive parents pay for months of the pregnant mother’s doctor visits, maternity clothes and expenses. And then she can change her mind and keep the baby, all expenses a wash.) He is healthy. (We had ruled out obvious special needs as, living far from family, we don’t have the necessary resources). This perfect opportunity may never come again. (We had already been passed over by birth parents who chose people with NO kids, not two already at home). It’s fair to say, my husband and I are both in shock. Are we REALLY doing this? Depends on whom you ask. My husband basically tells me NO, no we are not. Don’t come home with this child. We’re not ready. We can’t afford it. We don’t know enough about his biological father (“the boy’s inherited nature”) As parents of multiples know, there’s never a “best” or most convenient time to have another baby. I feel if we wait until we have the money, our girls will be out of college. Hours after we are chosen, I leave the girls with a friend and jump in the car to drive the three hours to take the baby home from the hospital. As I drive up to Santa Maria, I am terrified. I realize I am jeopardizing my marriage of 8 years by saying YES we are doing this (and yes, there was mention of leaving me if I did this). On that long and terrifying drive up, I call my friend Leah who asks, “If you pass up this opportunity and another like it never comes again, will you resent your husband?” And I realize yes, yes I will. My husband is the only thing keeping me from doing this. My desire for a third child has never wavered. If I say no now, I realize one day, my resentment could destroy my marriage. Outside the hospital, the fear I feel is so strong, it grips my insides like a vice. Our attorney comes down to the car (where I had taken yet another phone call from Jory directing me to just come home). She asks what the hold up is. (Most adoptive parents are over the moon). When I tell her, she says she can just move on to the next family on her list. I don’t have to do this. I have been raised to do what will make someone else happy, especially my spouse. I should be fine But in my life, I most regret the opportunities I passed up. The years I played it safe. Those decisions guided by fear. In the end, it always comes down to fear or love, doesn’t it? I think of my friend X, and her love and generosity empowers me. I need to love. To love myself by listening to my intuition telling me this is it; to love this baby, this baby who needs to be loved. And the baby is a total love. My husband doesn’t touch him for the first two weeks. But love has a funny way of growing. The minute she lays eyes on him, Lillie Grace is besotted with her baby brother. The next day, little Ali feels brave enough to hold him. I don’t think either girl will ever let him go. Then, a community rallies: My sister and her daughter fly out to meet him. My husband’s mother visits. Friends throw a shower. My amazing artistic friend Laurie generously gifts me with a cool natal chart reading for the baby. Tyler is six weeks when we go, and the astrologer studies his time of birth, telling me that my son has strong charisma, a zen nature and has been born to give and experience joy. Turns out, that is an eerily precise description of who Tyler becomes. But then she says that Ty has come to earth to be with my husband. (HA!!). According to her, Jory and the baby have a shared past and are closely bonded. I say nothing, thinking just how whimsical and wrong astrology can be. When Ty is 11 months old, I fly to Massachusetts to clean out my parents’ home of 41 years., leaving Jory in charge of all three kids. A week later, I return to find Jory changed. He and Tyler have bonded deeply. It turns out it wasn’t the finances that scared Jory as much as the scars and trauma from the way his father parented him. He decided to be the dad to Tyler that his dad never was to him. Tyler’s nickname from his sisters is “Best Friend”. Ty is the joy a son brings to a mother, somehow remembering to tell me every. single. day. that he loves me. As for Jory, the astrologer was right: their tight relationship was written in the stars. So when Ty shows up for our family picture dressed as a superhero, it feels right. While adoption is, by nature, scary because there’s so much unknown, this boy brings love and healing. Thanks to Ty, we celebrate Adoption Month every month. And for the record, our ice cream-obsessed kids will be having bowls of it for breakfast the first Saturday in February too.
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At the Pilgrims museum in Plymouth last year (yup, a real place, and real trunk.) Ali, in happier times, with mannequins modeling the T-giving look. Tuesday afternoon, Ali rages across the field next to our house, tears streaming down her face as she yells words lost to the wind. The day before, New Mexico (like much of the country) went on lockdown again, effectively shutting down all non-essential gatherings, like Ali’s hip hop class. This was to be 8-year old Ali’s first hip hop class, and she’s frustrated because she can’t keep up with the moves on zoom. This was actually to be Ali’s first boots-on-the-ground activity with peers since March. Tired of living in virtual isolation, Ali laments that her entire 9th year on the planet has been dealing with COVID and its restrictions. There’s something liberating about her full-blown tantrum; catharsis most of us don’t rationally allow ourselves, but probably should. “And Thanksgiving won’t be as fun as last year,” she sobs. Thanksgiving last year was a blast, as we spent the week in Vegas with family friends the Rogers, taking in the Hoover Dam, Cirque de Soleil, shopping, then joining together in a big Thanksgiving meal back in Los Angeles, where neither of us live anymore. Our table will be smaller this Thursday, as will most. Travel bans are in effect. But on a deeper level, there are 252 THOUSAND (252,000) empty chairs at American Thanksgiving tables this year due to COVID in the United States alone…among the empty place settings, my friend Andy’s father, Alain’s aunt, Christina’s mother, Kathy’s father. Then, there are those who lost family this year not from COVID: Andrew whose dad died in July, Jill whose husband passed away last month (leaving her and their three children under the age of 10), Ragon’s dad this past Monday, and of course dear Anna, whose daughter would be in 6th grade had she not tragically and unexpectedly died in December. This, I realize, is the price of growing older, of living life: to carry the loss of those we love. We survive, carrying the best of them, sometimes buoyed by their spirit, sometimes crushed by their absence. COVID has heightened our losses, while further isolating us from those we still have with us. History shows us we are not alone, or even unique. 399 years ago, by the time the 50 surviving Pilgrims met with the Wampanoag tribe to celebrate what we call “the First Thanksgiving”, a staggering 51 Pilgrims had already perished in the New World. Even with their sense of fatalism, were the Pilgrims inwardly grieving half their tribe as they gave thanks? Were they burdened by the price of their survival? Nevertheless, they were carrying on with traditions as best they could, because in 17th century England, every yearly harvest was greeted with a festival of gratitude. Gratitude: most important when we may least feel it. Nobel Peace Prize winner Albert Schweitzer said it better: “At times, our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.” This year, who has been a spark to you: a friend, cousin, neighbor, teacher, student, colleague, client, family? Call. Email. Text. Zoom. Thank those who keep us going. . And let’s remember those odd and unexpected silver linings of COVID: a chance we never would have otherwise taken, an opportunity we created out of lack, a statement we made despite restrictions. Here are my top 2020 COVID silver linings: 1) Carving out a new life in New Mexico in a beautiful new home, complete with this new blog. 2) Forming friendships with some Amherst classmates, which have grown out of monthly zoom calls started in March after our reunion was canceled. I am genuinely grateful to get to know these movers and shakers better than I ever did in college. 3) Watching (via video) my incredible cousin Nicky get married in Maine, and Ali’s amazing teacher Cecily (via zoom) get married in California tomorrow. There’s something inspiring about people who stand up for love in the midst of a pandemic. And when I feel the loss of what might have been, I’ll look to Ali’s example, and rage when I must. We have here, now. So like those famous Plymouth residents 400 years ago, let’s celebrate this harvest as the survivors we are. Curiosity. Kids have it in spades, to the point of driving parents crazy. But it’s something I’ve started to really embrace and encourage in myself and my kids. When I indulge my curiosity, life gets more colorful: desires become more clear, long-forgotten wounds resurface; joys and fears equally exposed. My kids had Wednesday, Veterans' Day, off school. Naturally they ask why. “To thank all the men and women who serve our country,” I reply. “Why today?” I am about to spout “because on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, World War I ended in 1918. This being “the war to end all wars”, we honor it by…” I stop. By what? We honor the end of war by honoring those who prepare to fight it? This is like that time when, at the end of my 3 month gluten-free, sugar-free stint, I vowed to stop gluten and sugar forever… When I eventually had that delicious piece of chocolate cake, I didn’t pretend to celebrate that vow every year, and especially not with cake. So what’s up Armistice/Veterans' Day? Turns out President Dwight D. Eisenhower didn’t get it either. He signed a bill in 1954 changing Armistice Day to Veterans' Day in acknowledgement that they really have nothing to do with each other. Furthermore, in 1968, with Viet Nam turning sour, and many questioning why we’re in this war that is generating a huge crop of veterans, Veterans’ Day was officially moved to a Monday in October. The government decided to give Americans four guaranteed three-day weekends every year: Washington’s birthday, Memorial Day, Columbus Day and Veterans' Day. When have Americans been known to complain about a guaranteed three-day weekend? Umm…at this point. They complained. And loudly. We the people don’t like change. While change is inevitable, and only growth optional, we still resist change - even those tiny changes that could delight us (annual three-day weekend anyone?) So Gerald Ford, that president of oh-so-many glamorous tasks (anyone else want to pardon Nixon?) canceled the guaranteed three-day weekend and signed a bill that moved Veterans' Day back to the now defunct and still confusing Armistice Day: 11/11. And as for veterans, Ike remains a hero for the ages. In fact, even despite his failure to stop McCarthyism, I would vote for this Republican president any Tuesday in November. Looking back, when Ike’s vice-president lost the election, he had gracious words for the new president: “Like every other citizen, I wish the new president, and all who labor with him, Godspeed.” Classy. Unifying. Ike also sponsored and signed the Civil Rights Bill of 1957 and balanced the budget three times during his eight years. Three times. Most astonishingly, he kept the peace during the Cold War, ending the Korean War once he took office. As a five-star general who oversaw one of the most spectacular military landings in history, his final act was to warn AGAINST the Industrial Military Complex… Mic drop. Who else could get away with this? He spoke of a balance: “We recognize the imperative need for this (standing military). Yet we must not fail to comprehend its grave implications.” He described these implications in his Cross of Iron Speech: Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies, in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed. This world in arms is not spending money alone. It is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children. The cost of one modern heavy bomber is this: a modern brick school in more than 30 cities. It is two electric power plants, each serving a town of 60,000 population. It is two fine, fully equipped hospitals. It is some 50 miles of concrete highway. We pay for a single fighter plane with a half million bushels of wheat. We pay for a single destroyer with new homes that could have housed more than 8,000 people. This, I repeat, is the best way of life to be found on the road the world has been taking. This is not a way of life at all, in any true sense. Under the cloud of threatening war, it is humanity hanging from a cross of iron. He speaks of a beautiful and fragile balance. To not have a standing military is as foolish in the 21st century as having one so large our society hangs from a cross of iron to pay for it... With every balance, it’s the questions that help retain equilibrium: Is this invasion really justified? Is military force our only option? How can we best help our veterans transition into civilian life? What skills can we give them? Why do more than 6,000 veterans continue to die by suicide every year? How are the 182 veterans who ran for Congress this year planning to make things better? It’s up to us to ask questions and not stop until we get answers or get better questions. Curiosity. It is...magical. Merlin, the sorcerer from T.H.White’s The Once and Future King, (published when Ike was president), says it best: “The best thing for being sad," replied Merlin, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That's the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn.” Halloween chocolate AND election stress… For that addictive circle, we can thank the mostly-forgotten President James Polk, who set the first Tuesday in November as Election day in 1845 (because it was mostly farmers voting, and market day was Wednesday). In fairness to the Polkster, the election sugar/stress addiction is not his fault: trick or treating would not be a thing in America for another 87 years, and even in 1932, they gave out apples. On Wednesday, I call my 83-year old mother and she blithely says, “Oh, don’t mention politics.” “What?! This election is -” “Don’t bother to think about politics, because you can’t change anything.” “Sure Mom, if we don’t think about it, we certainly can’t change anything.” No wonder my first reaction is to numb out with chocolate. A landslide of Biden votes was supposed to scream to Trump that famous question from the McCarthy debacle, “Have you no sense of decency, sir?” Instead, half our country endorses this narcissistic bully, this pathological liar, who is anti-environment and anti-education, anti-science and racist – my lament is interrupted by Tyler, who bounds into the room from preschool and hands me a booklet. It is a collection of pre-printed things to be grateful for: family, friends, pets, food. The last page is blank, where Ty can add what he is personally MOST grateful for. He has carefully written: “Monsters”. My first reaction is: “ummmm. Wow. Not snow, or candy, or, you know, Mom?” Nope. Monsters. Grateful for monsters. Now Ty Ty is four, but he often comes out with very profound thoughts. I mean, in the classroom of happiness, we all know gratitude is the front row. It’s easy to be grateful for the good stuff, but after that…. Or maybe not. Life coach Jill Hope recently challenged a group of us to look at our relationship with money by considering whether we feel fear or inspiration when we spend. I responded that quite honestly, I feel neither inspired nor fearful on most purchases, like groceries, gas, or my cell phone bill. I feel nothing. Jill challenged me to imagine I couldn’t afford to fill my tank or buy groceries or to keep my cell phone on. Suddenly, going to Trader Joe’s for whatever I want, filling up my tank to go wherever I choose, and using my cell phone for as long as I want sounds quite inspired. I’ve been on autopilot without knowing it. Maybe gratitude does not come so easy after all. It’s that muscle I need to continually exercise (much like my abdomen after all this chocolate). I think of gratitude, and my book groups come to mind. Yesterday, we discussed Say Nothing, a brilliant nonfiction account of the Troubles in Northern Ireland by Patrick Radden Keefe. Its title is from a poem by Northern Irishman Seamus Heaney, who won the Nobel prize (or as he called it “the N thing”) in 1996. There is nothing happy about the book: “Whatever you say, you say nothing” is Heaney’s warning, and the tragic price of speaking up reverberates throughout the book. (Instead of Halloween candy, residents there douse stress with alcohol). Yet Heaney, coming from this land of Trauma, was declared “a poet of happiness” by the New Yorker last year. His Optimism even decorates his gravestone: "Walk on air against your better judgment". It’s a phrase from his poem, "The Gravel Walks”. I sit with that: Walk on air against your better judgment. I read that minutes before he died, he texted his wife Marie this message: “Noli timere” (Latin: do not be afraid). And it’s again that choice: fear or inspiration. More of Heaney’s inspiration: “History says, Don't hope On this side of the grave, But then, once in a lifetime The longed-for tidal wave Of justice can rise up And hope and history rhyme.” It turns out Joe Biden quoted this at his acceptance speech at the DNC convention this summer. Time to put away the Halloween chocolate. Inspiration. Hope. Gratitude….even for the monsters. They challenge us to walk on air against our better judgment, after all. |
AuthorSteph: friend, writer, wife, mother, sister, daughter, lover of life, and of chocolate. Archives
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