Dooced

Dude.

Dooce. I have so much to say. And I always say too much. 

Heather shined a light on the dark places, and I can't believe that light is extinguished. I just simply cannot believe that her voice is silenced. 

She was the narrator. 

The Pied Piper and Peter Pan. 

And over the last several years, I watched with deepening concern, and then dread, as her posts moved more towards something that felt scary and wild. Narrating life experiences that were raw and confusing and all too familiar. But then, a step beyond her usual irreverent and politically incorrect, boundary-breaking, filterless rants. And then another step. And another, It was dark and heavy. Angry, sometimes. Alarming at others. I had to look away. I had to hope that she was safe. After all, if this was what she was putting out onto the web, just a small sliver of her life, that life must be in absolute chaos offline.

What about the kids. I kept thinking about those kids. I (we all) watched those two glorious beings born and celebrated. We knew when they had colds, when they were potty trained, food aversions, habits and interests, talents and struggles. Changes. 

I knew they were safe because I knew they had Jon. But how could he shield them from the reality of what was unfurling. Unraveling. Unbelievable as it was unfolding - right there for all to see.

And yet I knew nothing and know nothing because all I know I learned online, through Heather's words and photos. A filtered, curated glimpse of a life I really knew nothing about. I am a stranger who in retrospect feels like I have spent 20 years peering through their window. A voyeur.

So I am just going to sit here and think about the weight and the light and the dark. 

The here and now and then and there. Jon. Leta. Marlo. and Heather at the center of a life I followed for so long, until I didn't. Until it got uncomfortable and hard and real. And then it wasn't all pretty pictures and madcap romps through life and love and religion and politics. As the loss edged closer and closer. 

I have one thing that I hope someone tells them: You could not have changed this outcome. You could not have predicted, or prevented. This is not your responsibility. This is certainly not your fault. 

Please, do not let it be your burden to carry. Set it down, now. Or let go of the string and let it fly away. Or untie the ropes and push it from you with all your might.

Set it on fire. Set it all on fire. And then, maybe, she will be free.

twofifty

 Gentle reader.

I know what you are thinking.

It's been a while.

And it has, I know it has. Too long. But you see, things changed. I am no longer in paradise. At least not the traditional sort of paradise. This one has falling leaves and fresh apple cider donuts. Roaring wood stoves candles glowing in windows. Explosions of daffodils and that smell of warm dirt. Lobster rolls and lazy days lying on a dock dangling a strict in the water with a piece of chicken attached, hoping to catch a crab for your bucket. And sub zero temperatures followed by mud season.

Yes, I have relocated. And for the past three years I have been in New England, definitely not writing.

You noticed?

I'm sorry. It was rude of me to ghost you like that. But I ran out of words, and I needed to do some things that were hard, and some things that were sad, and some things that were humbling. And now I'm back, baby.

But why now, you ask? Why today? What would prompt my return?

250.

Or to be clear, two hundred and fifty days.

Two hundred and fifty days have passed since March 13th, 2020. That was the last day before....... everything.

My last night at work.

My last weekend separated from my husband (more on that later) (promise).

My kids' last day of "normal" school.

My last dollar, spent at Walmart, buying cold medicine and kleenex and whatever else had been suggested in some article I read somewhere about what to buy to prepare for Covid-19.

And while things in my home were feeling pretty dire, I had it good. Because it has also been two hundred and fifty days since Breonna Taylor was killed in her home. In the hallway outside her bedroom. By a police officer who had just broken down her door. And whether he knocked first is irrelevant.

I survived March 13th 2020, and every day since. And I would be remiss if I didn't use my voice to speak up and speak out. Breonna should be here too. I never made the connection between her death, and everything in the whole country falling apart at the fucking seams like it did.

For two hundred and fifty days, I have been in a state of suspended animation. Scared to make any big move. Or little one. But not anymore. This is me pulling the plug, and letting it out. The anger, the sadness, the hopelessness and fear, the frustration and also the celebration. 

I. Am. Still. Here.

(So are you. I am glad for that.)

How to help in a disaster situation

You want to help. I get it. These people have lost everything. SO!
What should you do to help the victims of natural disasters?

You know, it is different in every situation, but there are a few things they always need.
And a lot of things they DON'T.

Please, if I see one more "praying for Texas" I am going to Lose. My. Mind.

Those fine folks do not need your prayers. I mean, they do, go ahead and pray for them. But that won't help them find dry socks.

They need dry socks.
And new underwear.
Diapers and wipes.
Tampons and maxi pads and toilet paper and shampoo.
They need boots. Not just boots on the ground - they need those too - but they need BOOTS because those folks are about to be spending serious quality time slogging through some MUD.
They need reading glasses and cellphone chargers.
They need fans and extension cords and shovels and garbage bags and gorilla tape.
They need blankets and pillows and sleeping bags and rubber storage bins and sharpie markers.
They need shelf stable food that does not require refrigeration.
They need baby formula.
They need pet food.

And the best way for them to get these things is NOT to send the items into the disaster zone by mail, UNLESS an organization has specifically put out a specific request to YOU for specific items, and YOU send those specific items.

DO NOT respond to a public shout out on social media by collecting and then mailing things. It will arrive too late. And they will undoubtably be inundated with other people responding simultaneously - all of it delivered 3-7 days AFTER they needed whatever they asked for. And if word gets out that a shelter needs blankets, and it spreads on Facebook, and that shelter receives thousands of packages of blankets in the next few days, then not only do they have too many blankets, but they have a whole lot of cardboard, and no space to put the OTHER THINGS they need. Like, you know, food and water.

Same goes for sending used stuff. No one needs your discarded bling or your ratty tshirts or mis-matched socks. And the post office and UPS and FedEx have other better things to do than deliver boxes of shit you didn't need any more.

So, gentle reader, you may be sitting there flummoxed right about now. You want to help, I am listing the things that are needed and then telling you not to send them.
What the hell is wrong with me? I am wasting precious time!

Exactly. I am here to SLOW YOUR ROLL. Stop. Look. Listen. Respond in an organized manner with calm intention. Don't send boxes of stuff people needed four days ago. They probably got it already.

Send money. And send it to reputable organizations.
Don't want to send cash? They need gift cards to box stores that they can redeem where ever they end up once they are evacuated.
There are also Amazon wish lists that can get items where they need to go in live time.

Let's review.
Cash is good. Gift cards are good. Amazon wish lists are good.

Random boxees of your old shit? Bad.

I know some of you are going to send boxes anyway. You want to help, your church is putting together a collection. It's being driven down there this weekend.
Let me clarify, in case you are unsure.
Here are some things they DO NOT need:
old shoes and used underwear
toys
anything that needs refrigeration
anything that's broken or missing pieces
housewares
So if you are going to send things anyway, against my advice and the numerous links I am going to share here, well..... the best rule of thumb is find an organization you want to support, and send EXACTLY WHAT THEY ASK YOU TO SEND. Don't editorialize. Don't send "whatever fits in the box" unless it is stuff they need and asked for specifically.

The last thing they need is a box full of crap they don't need and didn't ask for. So don't send that.

Please.
Really. Just don't do it.

Be still, my broken heart

It was a lovely day. The end of a lovely week. The first week of our summer vacation.

My heart was racing.

We had just walked into a restaurant near Georgetown. I sat quietly, trying to steady the glass of water in my trembling hand. Water ran down my arm and dripped off my elbow. I looked at Sam, and rolled my eyes. This was nothing new, and in fact it was the reason we were in Georgetown.

"Sorry, I think we might have a problem here."

There was a brief discussion about what we should do. I decided to walk outside to the car and rest there for a minute, see if my heart rate slowed down. Work my way through the list of techniques to interrupt SVT. Bearing down. Raising my legs. Hydrating. Deep, controlled breathing. Nothing was working, and I reclined the seat of our rented minivan and tried to get comfortable. But as I lay back, I felt like I was suffocating. I rolled out of the seat and stood on the sidewalk, slightly dazed. I saw a CVS pharmacy at the corner and began to walk in that direction. Mostly because I was not 100% sure where the restaurant was, and also because - in my disoriented state - I knew that I wanted to be somewhere that possibly had an AED.

I had been diagnosed two years earlier with SVT - Supraventricular Tachycardia - and in the past few months these "incidents" as I had started calling them, had been increasing in frequency, severity and duration. My heart rate would skyrocket to 170 or 180. I would feel dizzy, nauseous, disoriented, and sleepy. Once, I passed out. But I never called 911, never felt it was worth bothering anyone over. Not even that one time when I went to the clinic to check my heartrate in their lobby, and thought the machine was broken because the number was so high. It was the nurse that came to check on me who called the ambulance that day. Part Yankee stubborn, part busy mom, I was lectured more than once about not seeking medical attention. I had promised to really try to do better next time, to call 911. To get help right away.... But I never did.

As I wheezed through the automatic doors and hit the air conditioning, I thought to myself "This is nice.... but I need to sit down." I walked straight into the center aisle and right there at the end, next to the prescription pick up counter with it's white coated medical professionals, was a machine with a blood pressure cuff and a chair. A blessed, blessed chair. I have never been more grateful to have my legs stuck to molded plastic in my life, than I was when my ass hit that seat.

I plunked down, shoved my arm into the cuff, and hit "Go".

144 bpm
130/77

Hm. My blood pressure was usually 90/60. But 144 wasn't that high, right? I was a little confused. Were these numbers bad? I tried to read the instructions.

I took a picture of the screen. Enlarged it on my phone. Still couldn't read it.

I waited a few minutes, my pulse still pounding in my ears, my entire body throbbing. I put my arm back in the cuff and hit "Go".

140bpm
116/80

Now I was really confused. The blood pressure numbers were changing. Was that fast, to have them change like that? What did it mean if the bottom number was going up and the top number was going down? I needed a medical professional. I looked over at the pharmacists. I took another picture. Stood up. Walked around for a minute. I was starting to feel a little less weird, but a half hour had passed by this time since the episode had started. I went and sat back down.

"Go".

138bpm
115/83

I stood up again, and for some unknown reason I decided to leave CVS and walk back up the street and find Sam. I have no idea why I did not sit there and call 911. Or ask a pharmacist in their reassuring lab coat to make the call.  I have ZERO idea why I didn't call Sam and tell him where I was. In all of my disoriented wisdom, I decided that I should leave the public space with medical professionals without alerting them to my condition, and take a walk. Uphill. In 90 degree heat. And not tell my husband where I was going.

I. Am. A moron.

I found Sam a block later, walking towards me looking vaguely concerned. I reassured him that I was feeling better, and was going to call my cardiologist to ask if this was an emergency. I scrolled through my phone, dialed a number, asked for an advice nurse, and was put on hold for 10 minutes. I hung up and called back. I asked to please, please speak to a nurse. I would have to wait, I was told. Everyone was busy. I asked where the closest clinic was. The woman who answered the phone was annoyed with me. "Well, where are you?" she asked. "I don't know" I answered honestly. I hung up the phone and walked inside to the table where Bella had spilled her water and everyone else was done eating. There was a pile of soggy napkins on each bread plate. They were annoyed with me, and it showed. Bella wanted to go to the bathroom, so I took her. Then I ate the lunch I had ordered 45 minutes earlier, that was now sitting cold on my plate. I still felt awful. I went back to CVS.

"Go".

117bpm
106/81

Whatever. I'm fine.

So we went to the zoo. As one does in the middle of a cardiac emergency, when it happens during the first week of your vacation.

Long story short, I am obviously here to tell the tale, so all's well that ends well and whatever other cute phrases might be applicable feel free to insert them here, Pollyanna. Then GFYS, because let me tell you: experiencing SVT is terrifying, along with being really unpleasant and exhausting. It does not end well. It ends with you feeling like you have run a marathon and then been punched in the throat, then kicked in the ribs. Also, someone should have called 911, and maybe that someone should not have been me. AHEM. And probably, someone should have maybe decided that the zoo was not the best place to hang out that afternoon. But who am I to judge. I'm a grown ass woman, and I do what I like.

Which is why I am quite proud of the fact that the following Monday in the pre-dawn haze, I called a Lyft, and headed to Arlington alone, while the family slept soundly in our hotel room. I didn't wimp out. Not even when the driver got a little lost and it would have been so easy to tell him to just take me back to the hotel.

At 8am, I had a catheter ablation performed at the Virginia Hospital Center.

And you know what? Having metal wires threaded up my veins from my groin to my heart - while not the ideal way to spend a sunny Monday morning - was not as bad as SVT. And while using a bedpan in the middle of the catheter lab in front of the entire staff was one of my most humbling life experiences (of which there have been MANY, just dig into the archives for proof) I was wheeled out of there several hours later a healed woman.

I felt good. Damn good. So good I began complaining almost immediately about the mandatory four hours I had to spend lying flat on my back. I also complained about having to use a bedpan again. I also complained about having to eat lying flat on my back. I begged to sit up. To bend my knees. To use a toilet. But the nursing staff, while very kind, were also extremely firm. No. Not a chance. Cool your jets, lady.

Someone gave me my phone.

"Can you head over soon?" I typed out slowly.
"Van is out front," Sam replied quickly. "I just need the key."

By the time he arrived, I was really pissed off. My back was killing me. I had to pee again. I was hungry. There was nothing good on TV. At the three hour and fifty minute mark, they let me stand up.
At four hours post-catheterization, I left the hospital, climbed into the passenger seat of our rented minivan, cut off my hospital bracelets with nail clippers, stopped for a burger and a (decaf) Frappuccino, and was dropped off in front of the Howard Theater in Washington DC at 6:30pm.
At 8pm, I was onstage performing for the Moth StorySLAM. The theme was "Beauty". I talked about my children. All of them. And I cried, alone, in front of 400 people.

I have never felt more alive.

But that, my friend, is a story for another time.

Bringing it all back home

Remember a few years ago, when we went to the hospital the day after the Superbowl, and brought home a beautiful baby girl?

Me too.

And for almost her entire first year, she lived here. With us. Our (foster) daughter. We knew it was temporary. And after a few months we were rooting on her biological family, all the while loving her more and more each day.

We brought her to meet our family.

We fought to get her assessed and qualified for services she needed - and got the early intervention she deserved.

She slept on our chests, next to our beds, in our arms.

And then she was gone. Gone to live with her biological family full time, for the first time in her life.

We saw her occasionally, but to be honest? My heart was broken.
We took a few more foster cases, even as I could feel myself withdrawing, wishing with each new case that, instead of loving a new baby we could just have Bella a little more often.... but as the months passed, her visits were fewer and fewer. Shorter and shorter. And then.... they ended. We were not allowed to see her anymore. "It would be confusing", we were told. The issue, of course, is that we loved her so much - and she loved us in return - and the bond that had been created was reinforced with every visit. And perhaps that was keeping her from truly bonding with her biological family. We certainly didn't want that. So we kept her photo on the shelf, and her crib in her room, and her blanket carefully folded in the closet. I dreamed of the day that she called, or showed up on my doorstep clutching a few wrinkled baby photos I had given her family in a memory box with her name painted on the lid. I prepared myself for a long wait. But I had this feeling - I could barely acknowledge it to myself, never mind say it out loud. I just knew she would be in my arms again some day.

And then, quite abruptly, about a year after our last visit, I was allowed to see her again.

And it was just as it had always been. Well, almost. She was a little unsure. A little hesitant. Maybe a little confused. But she seemed to sense that something was familiar.

And our visits became more frequent.
And then she was allowed to spend the night again.
And now she is here for a few days at a time. She follows "Sissy" and "Mah" around the house. She calls me mama. She has her room, and her bed, and her blanket and her toothbrush and she rules the roost. She is the baby of the family, and she revels in it.

The details are confusing, contradictory, and ever changing. But for now, she is here. And will - if everyone can agree to work together - continue to be here. Because as a friend told me, when her visits were abruptly ended altogether: "How could having more people to love you, be confusing?"

She is part of our family - and we are part of hers. And we love her. All of us. What a gift.

Cinderella (is) Complex

Oh, hello there gentle reader. I know it has been a while.

I could make up all sorts of excuses about how busy I have been, and how crazy life is... which would be true. But I have to be straight with you - I got this totally obnoxious comment by a reader (not you, of course - never you) and I needed to take a minute. Step back from my brutally honest level of (over)sharing.

Because reining it in is never an option.

According to the commenter, I don't deserve to be a parent. BUT HE'S PRAYING FOR ME YOU GUYS. So thank goodness, all is not lost. Except, of course, my ability to write anything else for several months, so paralyzed was I by the message in my inbox.

Here's the thing about suffering from anxiety: shit like that, comments from someone who doesn't know you and obviously doesn't think you are funny and is sitting in judgment of you because YOU ARE A TERRIBLE HUMAN BEING AND MAY GOD SAVE YOUR SOUL - those comments are not easy to brush off. Nothing is easy to brush off. You automatically assume that everything - EVERYTHING - has more than just a little truth to it. Otherwise, why would they have said it? Why would they have done something  so heartless if there wasn't a really good reason for it? And besides, it is so easy - too easy - to believe the worst about yourself. To go straight down the rabbit hole and starting eating and drinking things you shouldn't in order to try to fix yourself. After all, it's not them - it is definitely you.

"Because they are a piece of shit" is not one of the options in your anxiety-riddled brain. Instead, you spend hours upon hours obsessing about how it could have been different. How you could make it better. What you could have said that would have made them like you, although, lets be honest, you are not likeable. Also you really aren't doing anything with your life and your hair is weird and your skin is a mess and you have no friends and no one likes you anyway.

And when I say "you" in the above paragraphs what I mean, of course, is me. This is me. This is how my mind works - or how it is broken, perhaps.

I'm itching. Right now, I am itching as though I am about to break out in hives. I might actually break out in hives - more from me scratching this invisible itch, than from whatever is causing the itch to begin with. My scalp, my chest, my face..... it is unbearable. I can't stand to be in my own skin.

I am anxious. About what, I have no idea.

Living with anxiety is usually totally manageable. It's just that sometimes, managing it requires a helmet, earplugs, blinders, an emotional support pony, and copious amounts of weed just to force myself to look at my phone in the morning. If you see a look of panic on my face, particularly in a social setting, kindly bring me a helmet and a stiff drink immediately, then point me in the direction of the bathroom so I can regroup. Or climb out the window.

"Why are you upset right now?" Sam asks cautiously as I scrub at my hairline while trying to load the dishwasher with my other hand. "Is it just the usual shit in your head, or is it something else. Like taxes or something."

"OH MY GOD WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?"

"What?!" He looks around frantically. "What did I do?"
"Bring up something I totally wasn't thinking about, a subject that you KNOW makes me sick with anxiety. NOW I AM GOING TO WORRY ABOUT THAT TOO."

"Oh for fuck's sake." he mutters.

My phone is dinging away, and a particularly lengthy alert sends it vibrating almost off the kitchen counter. I grab for it - still scratching my forehead frantically. "I WISH THIS THING WOULD STOP SENDING ME MESSAGES FOR A MINUTE."

"You could mute th-"

"I don't want to miss something important - what if one of the kids is trying to text me or my mom or someone..... I can't mute it, then I will just have to check it constantly. I just.... I don't know."

I slump down on one of the counter stools, feeling defeated. And exhausted. My phone buzzes. A calendar alert. Oh god - am I supposed to be somewhere? Or maybe a Facebook message. I reach for the phone hungrily, as much to end the buzzing as to satisfy my curiosity. Get my fix.

*deep breath* this is why social media is so dangerous for people with my brain.

And also so intoxicating.

The likes and comments - when they are positive - can make your whole day seem worthwhile.
But one negative comment - or even just a lack of a comment - can take you down like a baseball bat to the knees.

Trying to get through life with anxiety is actually, when you think about it, much like living as Cinderella. On the outside, you are looking good, dancing and laughing and the prince is falling in love with you more every day. But then the clock strikes midnight and it all goes right to shit - so you spend a lot of time watching the clock and trying to hold it together until you are at home and can fall completely apart in private.

Being on social media is more of the same. Here, for example, is an inner dialogue while I am cruising Facebook:

"Oh, look at that picture of my friends together having fun! They look gorgeous! That food looks amazing! What a fun time! I am not that pretty. I would look terrible in that dress and I always look awful in photos. But they didn't invite me anyway. Probably because I am so lame and wouldn't have been fun to have around. And I wouldn't be able to afford that dinner, from the looks of it. And talking about how broke I am is always so awkward. Easier to just not invite me at all, I'm sure. They probably think I am just trying to get them to pay for me, when I say I can't afford it. And that is not at all what I want. I would love to have more money and be able to do all of this fun stuff they are clearly doing without me. Oh god, what else did I miss. They were probably hoping I wouldn't see this. Or maybe they don't give two shits whether I see it or not, because they really care that little about me and my feelings. I suck. I am probably not going to be invited to hang out with them anymore. I'd better stop texting them like a desperate loser."

Boom.

So, I'll be over here with my support pony and a box of half-price chocolates I bought on February 15th. The house is a mess and I am in my sweatpants but feel free to stop by. You might prefer not to. I totally understand.

Nevermind.

Oh look, Instagram.....

We got one.

For the past two months I have been driving.

Up and down the Northeast coast, along the I-95 corridor that can switch from rural to industrial in the blink of an eye.

Up and down the mountain - a dormant volcano I call home.

In a rental car, or an enormous SUV, or an even more enormous food truck.

Traveling, working, learning, playing, every day something new.
Something frustrating.
Something terrifying.
Something exhilarating.

Sometimes all of those things and more.

The truck makes me so happy. I am content. I feel empowered. Having a business that is mobile puts me in the literal and figurative driver's seat of my life. I am still figuring out how to steer, and where to go.

And then, the phone rang. Because of course it did. Meet Angus. My co-pilot. He hasn't quite figured out Google maps, and he falls asleep as soon as I turn on the engine.....but we're getting there.

 

 

People think I am insane. More insane than my usual crazy self.

"A food truck and a baby? What are you thinking?" is a pretty common line of questioning.

 

But really, it's been fine. It's been great. It's been crazy.

Just like usual.

 

 

Because here is the thing. Every opportunity we have to foster a newborn, is a chance for us to contribute to society in a real and meaningful way. Which is the best way as far as I am concerned.

 

And also, it is really, really hard to say no when they call.

 

 

 

Because I know he'll stay.

I read an article today about a man who watched as his wife slowly died of cancer. In the piece, which is really remarkable both for it's laid-bare description of her illness and of his reaction to the loss, he discussed her anger. Her lashing out in frustration and confusion, and how she directed her anger towards him because, his friend told him, "She lashes out at you because she knows you'll stay."

Because I am able to make almost anything about me, narcissist that I am, I read that line and immediately felt this tremendous wave of guilt. This knowing. "I do that."

And I am not dying.

So what the fuck is my excuse?

 (I, me, my, mine..... narcissus, thy name is Daffodil. Oh man, it's all coming together for you right now, isn't it gentle reader?)

The point here is that if I took only one thing away from reading the article, it was not how fucking awful cancer is (but like I said, this article was eye-opening in that respect). I took away a reminder that I am going to carry with me for some time - if not forever - that I need to treat my husband well, every day.

Not because he will stay no matter what, but despite that fact.

My partner is a good man. A tremendous man. An excellent partner, a loving father, and my biggest cheerleader. He deserves to be treated not just with respect, but with kindness. No matter how fucking aggravated I am. No matter how tired, hungry, hot, stressed out or sad I am. No matter how much I need a cup of coffee, or how many loads of laundry I still have to do, or how many planes we still have to board to reach our destination.

No matter what.

This is not about cherishing the ones you love because who knows how much time we have. I get that. And that, quite frankly, doesn't really do it for me. I mean, carpe diem all you like. I am all about it. But to see a simple explanation for behavior that is clearly unnecessary and unhealthy and not a true reflection of myself or my feelings? Well. That one quote nailed it right to the wall for me.

All the same, I don't know what makes me think that this particular article is going to get me to change my passionate, bull-headed, hot-tempered ways. After all, I have seen friends experience the loss of their spouse. While it was shocking and heartbreaking at the time, it was pretty easy - too easy - to slip back into life-as-we-know-it. Which translates into me yelling and waving my hands in the air to express my frustration a great deal of the time. But today, I feel as though some invisible switch has been flipped.

I would so much rather be holding hands, then waving them around in the air.

Just when you thought you knew me.

I was going to title this post "Epilogue" but the idea of this being the end was too unnerving.

I mean, really. I am not going to close the door and turn the key and then walk away forever. You know I could never do that. I haven't got the willpower.

This is my 1000th post here. Isn't that something? And I have been thinking quite a bit about what I wanted to write for this milestone. Want I wanted to share. But really, what's left to discuss? There's not a lot that you don't know, gentle reader.

We have talked about self image and stretch marks and the infamous 11's that I Botoxed to kingdom come (several times).
We have talked about miscarriage and infertility and menopause.
We have talked about loving men and loving women and having sex and not having sex and how all of it was okay.
We have talked about giving birth and adopting and fostering.
We have talked about raising other people's children, and deciding not to raise other people's children, and the fact that sometimes, I don't even LIKE other people's children.
We have talked about finally writing a book, and then not finding an agent or a publisher.
We have talked about waitressing and roller derby.
We have talked about traveling, and about not wanting to get out of bed.
We have talked about severe depression and extreme joy.

We have talked about my life, and the lives of my family and friends, and everyone has been a very good sport about the whole thing.

And we have talked about Life Lists.

A few months ago, Sarah gave me a Passion Planner. Her note inside reads: "Author Your Fate".
And I sat down, and turned to the page corresponding to the date, and I wrote "I want to start my own business." And in the box labeled This Week's Focus I wrote: "Give notice at work."

So I did. Because I don't do shit halfway. I think we can all agree about that. I am an ALL IN kind of girl. And I knew that something in my life had to shift. I had to get control over my attention-deficit approach to life, dabbling in a million things and investing whole-heartedly in very little.

CPS had just called to see if I was ready for a new placement, so at first, I thought maybe I was about to get another foster case. They called again a week later while we were away on vacation, and when I didn't answer the call (I was on an airplane over the Pacific) they left a message assuring me that I was next on the list, and would get a call the next time they had a baby that needed fostering. So I sat around, very unemployed, the vision of a domestic goddess - cooking dinner and washing baby clothes and organizing things and waiting for the phone to ring.

When it finally did, it was not a social worker on the other end of the line. It was my destiny calling.

I don't really understand it myself, but I am buying a food truck and hitting the road.
I'll send a postcard when I have an update.

Talking about Adoption - a basic primer

I had an interesting experience recently, answering a child's questions about adoption.

It occurred to me that your child (or you yourself) might also have questions about adoption. Questions are good! But sometimes children are not equipped to give the answers, or are not ready to discuss their own adoption. Some adults are not comfortable discussing their experiences with adoption either. And that is okay. So the first most important thing I want to say is:

Pay Attention when Discussing Adoption. It is important to say from the start: it's okay to talk about adoption. Adoption is a wonderful amazing thing. BUT some people don't want to discuss it. And that is okay too. If you are getting signals that the subject is off limits - even subtle ones like avoiding eye contact or seeming nervous or attempts to change the subject... you need to drop it. There are lots of reasons why people might not want to talk about adoption. And there are just as many reasons why they want to tell you all about it. So looking for the cues is key.

Let's break it down:

Every Adoption is Different
There is no blanket statement or answer that actually covers every adoption scenario. And every adoptive parent has explained their child's adoption to them in their own way. Asking one person about their adoption will probably not answer questions about another person's adoption. Which means that every time you learn someone is adopted, you might have a lot of questions. And that is okay - but that does not mean you should ask them. Not everyone wants to discuss their adoption. Especially kids. Proceed with caution, and perhaps start by asking an adult rather than a child if you have questions.

Every Person who has had a Personal Experience with Adoption Feels Differently About It
It's true. Just as every person has their own special unique take on everything, the same goes for adoption. Some people are thrilled that they were adopted, some people are not. Some people are in touch with biological relatives, some are not. Some people feel comfortable discussing it, others don't. Some people know the story behind their adoption but a lot of people have no idea. Some people are in therapy to deal with issues surrounding their adoption, and for other people even bringing it up is a trigger.

Adoption is Private
The fact that someone is adopted, or that someone has given birth to a child who was then adopted, is none of anyone else's business until they make it your business. So asking prying or persistent questions is really inappropriate. I want to be clear: asking questions is not inappropriate - I am always down for a good talk about adoption - but if your questions are not being answered chances are that is intentional, and you should drop the subject altogether.

The Concept of Adoption can be Scary
For children, adoption can be a scary subject. The idea that anyone other than your parents could be your parents? Scary. The thought that you could be living in a totally different house with a completely different family in another country speaking a foreign language? Terrifying. So for children in particular, it might be best to keep the subject of adoption light and brief. Their imaginations can run wild and take them to a whole different place you never even considered. And if you leave them with unanswered questions, chances are good they will ask them at a totally inappropriate time. So remember to focus on love. Adoption is all about love.

You May Not Realize You Are Being Offensive
A year ago, I said something so totally insensitive and offensive that it still keeps me up at night and makes me feel terribly about myself. I assumed that someone's child was adopted, and I asked a question that was worded so badly that as soon as it was out of my mouth I wanted to reach over and grab it and shove it back inside me. I cannot even remember exactly what I said word for word, but I remember two things distinctly: what I asked was none of my business, and I - for some reason - thought that because I was an adoptive parent myself, I had the right to ask personal questions about their situation. I did not. It doesn't matter who you are - you could be the grandparent or the sibling or an aunt or uncle - adoptive or biological - but that does not mean you have any right to ask questions, or get answers.
Another time, I referred to someone's biological father as her "dad" and she corrected me - gently but firmly. Her dad was the man who had parented her for many years.

As I have said, every situation is different - so making assumptions, even one you think is totally politically correct and evolved - is wildly inappropriate.

Adoption is NOT SAD
It is not sad to be adopted. Adopting a child is like getting every single gift you will ever receive, all in one package. There can be sad circumstances surrounding the facts of the adoption (which is why it is private and some people may not want to discuss it) but being adopted is not sad. Being adopted is being loved just for being YOU. Being adopted means someone loved you so much that they wanted to take care of you forever. They didn't have to - they wanted to. That is a really big deal.

The best and most basic advice I can give you about adoption is this:
Adoption is all about love.
A parent does not become a parent because of anything they do with their reproductive system.
A mommy isn't a mommy with her tummy. A mommy is a mommy with her heart.
A daddy is not a daddy because of anything he did before the baby was born - a daddy is a daddy once that baby is in his arms.

Mommies and Daddies become Mommies and Daddies because of what they do for their child, with their child, and because of their child. And it takes all three of those, by the way. You can't just choose one of the above actions and label yourself a parent (or grandparent either.)
Family is not about genetics. Family is about love, and support and encouragement and acceptance and above all presence. Not presents. PRESENCE.

You have to be there, in the trenches, to be a mommy or a daddy.
And adoptive parents are ABSOLUTELY the child's "real parents" - they are the people loving and caring for and feeding and educating and otherwise PARENTING. Being a "real parent" has nothing to do with sperm and egg. Period.

And just because you have a personal connection to adoption does not give you any special permission to make blanket statements or ask personal questions. You do not speak for every adoptive parent, adopted child, or biological relative. And neither do I.

Please understand that all I have shared here is my personal take on adoption, and is merely written down to give you something to consider. I am simply adding my voice to what is, admittedly, a very crowded conversation.

If you have any questions that I have not addressed regarding adoption, or explaining adoption to your kids, please comment below or feel free to shoot me an email. I can try to find you an answer. :)

Lucy turns ten

You all know the story by now.

But the story behind the story, is how we came to terms with adoption.

When we got the very first phone call, when Lucy was still in utero, I was jacked up on fertility drugs. Sam was lining up syringes along the kitchen sink every morning, and watching me cry myself to sleep most nights.

Our responses to the question "are you interested in adopting" were different.

Mine was an immediate yes.
Sam was more "I don't know about this."

My answer was based solely on my desire to have a second child.
His answer was more about the reality of having an adopted child and a biological child, and raising them together, and whether it would feel different or forced in some way.

It took him about 5 seconds of holding Lucy the morning she was born to realize that was not going to be an issue.
It took me 10 years to come to terms with my immediate "yes".

The bottom line is that, in saying yes to adopting, I was acknowledging in some deep down part of myself that I would never have another biological child. It was something I knew. It was not a choice (there were plenty of reasons why I was not able to conceive a second time). It was, rather, accepting that I no longer had a choice.

No matter how badly I wanted it, no matter how far down I reached within myself for the strength to keep trying, I knew it. If I wanted to have another child, I had to look elsewhere. And it has taken me ten years to accept the truth.

Ten years to stop hating myself for giving up.

Ten years to stop discretely scanning the faces in the grocery store, wondering if one of them was Lucy's biological parent.

Ten years of secretly resenting the person who was able to grow this precious beautiful person that is so obviously my child.

Ten years of avoiding the questions about her ancestry for school projects.

Ten years of leaving her family medical history blank at the pediatrician's office.

Ten years of feeling guilty for saying she and Max get their blonde hair and blue eyes from their grandparents. I mean, maybe they both do. But I only know for certain that Max does.

Ten years of tiptoeing around the details in front of Lucy, and wishing them away.
Wishing I had been there to prevent them from putting erythromycin ointment on her eyes at birth, since she had an immediate reaction to it.
Wishing I had been there right from the beginning so that she hadn't spent any time alone in the nursery.

Wishing I could have looked her biological parents in the eye and thanked them.

Today, ten years later, the fact of her adoption is - in fact - not that important. She is so much our child that it is impossible to mistake her for anyone else's.

People talk about the miracle of birth, and the gift of adoption.
But in my reality, birth was a gift, and adoption was a miracle. And I am so glad I can finally see that.

My Love/Hate relationship with Children's Museums.

Let's just be honest.
I don't play.

I'm not the mom lying on the floor building a huge block tower (bad knees) or organizing a massive art project (big mess) or baking 100 cupcakes (takes too long) or out riding bikes or playing tag or - good lord no - going on a family hike.

I like my kids, I want them to be happy, I make sure they can do all of these fabulous things - just not with me.

Is that wrong? It's okay. I don't mind being wrong. I am not going to force myself to do something I didn't even enjoy as a child. As a kid, I liked to read and roller skate. End of story. I still like to do those things, and thankfully so do my kids, so it's all good and they don't want to play with me anyway thank goodness. I do grownup things, and they do kid things, and then every so often we do something special together that we all enjoy wholeheartedly.

Like going to children's museums. I really like taking my kids to museums.
In theory.

However, the children's museum would be a lot more fun without other kids. And their parents.

I know I am not alone. At the Science Center this weekend - a place that is not exclusively for children but is definitely geared towards the grade-school set - there were a bunch of us parents on the sidelines, parents who had spent a crapload of money for an adult admission and were clearly hoping the crowd might thin so we, too, could try that slalom ski simulator, or use our brainwaves to move the ball across the table, or maybe even take that rotating rock climbing wall for a spin. I mean, we weren't going to take the spot from a child. This is all about them, right?
 At least, in theory.

So I shut my mouth and applied more hand sanitizer.

And then two grownups in a row each got on the skiing simulator, despite the line of kids behind them, and went not once, but twice, and continued to stand on the simulator long after the word "DISQUALIFIED" flashed up on the screen and the ride was over. Someone had to actually tap one guy on the shoulder and tell him that his time was up.

During the overly-long wait, a crowd formed. Kids started cutting in front of my kids. And then parents started cutting in front of my kids. And then watch out, because I was no longer going to act like a mature, refined grownup. Who cares if other kids were waiting for a turn?

Dammit, I was going to climb on that skiing simulator and RIDE THE SHIT OUT OF IT.

(Side note, it turns out that riding a skiing simulator is actually much harder than it looks. And you know, kids have a lower center of gravity so these sorts of things come much easier to them. Ahem.)

And then, just as it was about to be my turn, a kid who could not have been more than 6 years old stepped right in front of me and climbed on the simulator, pounding on the start button like he was a game show contestant. I stood there, wondering what, exactly, had just happened. I was clearly in line and had been there for quite some time. I had been walking towards the simulator when he leaped in front of me.

I was not pleased.

His mother must have felt my eyes burning into the back of her neck because she turned around, looked me up and down and said "You weren't waiting to ride this, were you?!" Her eyes widened with surprise (which was really just barely disguised disgust) and when I said, as magnanimously as possible, "Oh, it's fine, he can go" she smiled brightly and turned on her heel just in time to watch the word "DISQUALIFIED" flash on the screen and to see her son begin pounding on the start button to take a second turn.

And that is when it dawned on me that the only thing worse than a badly behaved child  - or a museum full of them - is a badly behaved parent. After 3 hours of coaching our children to "let the next person have a turn", and "make sure you aren't cutting in line", and "please let everyone off the elevator before you get on", and all of the other constant gentle reminders of manners and courtesy that parenting requires, only to watch other parents set the poorest example possible (and their children behave accordingly) it occurred to me that, actually, none of us were having much fun at all. Rather than feel shame at wanting to try out an activity or exhibit, I felt disappointed that the adult admission cost twice as much as the kids, and yet I was not able to actually experience the center without getting all Lord of the Flies-meets-Survivor in order to actually touch anything, never mind enjoy myself.

As we went to leave, I looked around. At the hands-on activities, where parents and kids were jostling for position, at the building room, where kids were stepping up and knocking down other children's creations - or commandeering them entirely, at the outdoor exhibit, where children were running and screaming and shoving, even in front of the snack bar, where some kid threw his popcorn on the ground and kicked it all over because he didn't get a Slush Puppy, while a mother fed a toddler hard boiled egg and managed to smear egg on every surface, along with spreading both egg and pieces of shell liberally across the floor for everyone to step in. A hard boiled egg? Really?

This was not fun. This was like being in a psych ward. Parents wandered past in a daze, holding juice boxes and coats, clearly wondering what the hell they had been thinking and why they didn't serve alcohol at the snack bar.

Silly parents, that's what your fancy Hydroflask is for.

But taking my cue, we left. And went straight to a pub where we could all relax and have a conversation, and I could teach kids the important stuff like how to choose a wine, what the different kinds of beer taste like, and how ordering several appetizers is just as acceptable as choosing one entree. Better, even. And they even gave out crayons and paper, then hung the resulting masterpieces on the walls with titles, descriptions, and prices.

Though I think we can all agree, the work is priceless.

Giving in and giving up

This used to be a fun place. Stories about derby, family fights in Walmart, peeing or not peeing in the bushes next to the valet stand..... Ah, we have had some good times.

But the last few years this journal of mine has become downright depressing. People grab tissues before they start reading, or message me that they can't get through my post at work. I am bound and determined to change that, because the next book I write will not be about the emotional roller coaster of fostering. And I think I need to change directions here first, so that the book might have a better chance to follow.

However.

It is almost impossible for me to write anything until I write about the boys.
We gave them up yesterday, and they were moved to a new foster home.
And I am going to tell you about it, and let you judge me and flame me because god knows I am doing that to myself already. But there may be someone out there who needs to hear this because they are feeling trapped or scared or guilty, and I want them to read about my experience and just know that this happened. And that sometimes, it happens.

I am actually sitting here writing this while I sob, because there is no way to even begin to broach this subject without wanting to simultaneously cry and throw up. It's a reality that many foster families experience, but it was a first for me, and so utterly traumatic that I am not sure where to go from here. Part of this is that I am so completely, utterly exhausted I cry at the drop of a hat anyway. I am exhausted physically, emotionally and yes - even for this godless soul - spiritually.

What started out as an answer to my prayers became a living hell. And I am not using those words lightly. Two babies, brothers - in a terrible situation, needed a family to care for them when their own family could not. We never take two children. We never take toddlers. Babies are what we do. Period. Middle of the night feedings, round the clock care, and a newborn for Christmas. It wouldn't be the first time. But a toddler? No. I just...... well.... maybe? Sure. I can do it. I mean, it was the week before Christmas. And when I walked into the CPS office, I knew I had done the right thing. The newborn still had the sticky tape on his skin from the tubes he had been fed with in the hospital. The toddler - exactly 10 months older even though for the life of me I couldn't make that math work - was seemingly without rules or routine. And when we got back to the house I discovered one other detail.
He was angry. Very very angry.

The last two months have been spent comforting people almost 24 hours a day.

Comforting the newborn with thrush, jaundice, digestive issues, an infected eye, a fierce diaper rash, and all of the extra care needed for an infant born with meth in his system.

Comforting the toddler who was suddenly without his mother, who had been exposed to meth for most - if not all - of his life, first in the womb and then via breastmilk, and who was no longer the baby even though he was, in fact, still a baby.

Comforting Lucy, who got the news that her beloved Ella had been reunited with her biological family and that two babies had moved in and taken "little sissy's" place, from her teacher during school lunch.

Comforting Max, who adores babies and was taken aback when the toddler started screaming and simply did not stop. For two months.

Comforting my husband, who realized that a new baby had taken up residence in our bedroom and he was probably never going to get laid again.

For the past two months I have rarely slept for more than 2 hours at a stretch. Every member of our family - including the baby - has been hit, bitten, kicked, punched and head butted by a raging toddler. We have had our entire life, and any semblance of order or schedule, ripped to shreds. We were living in what felt like a communist state - not just at the whim of Child Protective Services, and a crazy visitation schedule that interrupted naps 3 days a week, but also under the control of a small, bowlegged dictator with a dimple and an inner rage that seemed boundless most of the time. We were in a constant struggle to comfort a child that would not allow himself to be comforted.

We were trying to give equal attention and one-on-one time to two children who needed all of our attention all of the time. If I picked one up, the other would cry. And if I put one down to pick up the other, there would be more crying. I couldn't do anything right, and everything felt wrong. The toddler was constantly in danger, chewing on anything he could find from shoes to power cords to door hinges, slamming fingers in drawers that had child-locks on them, and sometimes simply snapping those child locks into two pieces during one of his rages. The baby was always uncomfortable, despite switching formula, sleeping propped up, adding probiotics to his diet, removing dairy, and dosing liberally with gas drops.

I knew this case would be hard, but it felt impossible at times.

I was determined to see it through. I did not want to cause any disruption, I wanted to keep them together, in a safe and quiet home that I had always been able to provide. We just needed to give them some time to settle in, I assured everyone.

And then after the first month, I thought maybe we were turning the corner, and that perhaps things were getting easier. The baby had settled in nicely, and the toddler was sleeping, well, a bit more. At least at night. Naps were not going well at all. In fact he refused to be put in a crib at all.

I was fooling myself. And when I read a letter my son wrote telling me that he didn't think he could live with a toddler anymore, and when my daughter told her teacher that it was horrible to be at home, and when my husband sat me down and told me that I was not being very nice to them because I was so strung out from trying to keep everyone safe and fed and clean and where they needed to be when they needed to be there.... well. I listened. I heard them.

And when I heard my daughter scream while I was in the bathroom, I knew, even as I struggled to pull up my pants, and ran out still clutching toilet paper in my hand, I knew it had to stop. When I saw her crouched on the floor trying to wrestle her finger out from between the toddler's teeth, when I saw her tears and heard the baby crying in the corner and saw that no, I really couldn't leave them alone for even one second, well.... I stopped. I got ice and bandages, and put my daughter out of the toddler's reach even as he continued to lunge at her. I sat down and picked up the phone and called CPS and said "We can't do this anymore." I stared at the huge bruise on my arm, watched my daughter rocking in a corner, saw the welt on the baby's cheek where the toddler had thrown a toy on his head while I was changing his diaper that morning, and I realized in one gut-wrenching moment that I was not doing either of them any good. That I needed to let someone else give it a try. The state wouldn't separate the boys, wouldn't let me keep the baby and let the toddler check out a new living situation - even just for a few weeks. I couldn't just have the toddler moved, I had to give them both up. So I did.

It makes me sick in my heart to pin this on a little boy, a gorgeous vibrant little boy, who needs more love than I could possibly give him. But that is what happened. We could not live with this child. This is not to say that someone else cannot, which is why I have faith that he just needed to be in a different type of situation, Maybe a place with other small children to play with, maybe in a place that was not the place he was brought to when he was taken from his family. I just have to believe that there is a home out there where he can feel safe and a family who can make him feel happy and loved enough.

Because it wasn't working here. I learned, in the hardest possible way, that there are going to be times you have to say "no". Times when you have to say "enough". Times when you have to say "I need a break" or "this is not a good fit for our family". And I am learning that it is okay. It is. It has to be. Someone has to come first - and sometimes, that person is going to be you. Or your family.

People who have seen me with our foster babies have frequently called me an angel, told me I was a blessing. I am not an angel, I am an exhausted human being. I have handed in my halo and cut off my wings. I know that there are people who don't understand, and who are disappointed in me.
Or disgusted with me.

I know I am.

2 under 1: Remembering to put on a bra is good enough for now

Hi there.

For the last month I have written so many posts in my head during middle of the night feedings, only to have them erased when I wake up in the morning. Actually it feels like every thought in my head meets the same fate these days.

I am trying, man. I am trying. But this is no fun at all. On the outside, it might look great now and then. The boys are beautiful, and sweet. The photo ops are plentiful. But there are a lot of issues here, and as we struggling to figure it all out, and find the boys the help they will need to navigate the world around them, it is exhausting.

It's not just the fatigue.

It's trying to get the babies to sleep - maybe even at the same time. Maybe even somewhere other than my arms.

It's figuring out why they are crying when you are woken out of a dead sleep, and resolving the issue before the cry escalates to a blood-curdling shriek and they wake up the entire house. Usually we hit shriek status almost immediately, so as a result it sounds like I am living with a herd of howler monkeys. Especially at 4am for some reason.

It's remembering to bathe on a regular basis. Or maybe just get my hair wet and comb it.

It's holding back the tears when I finally do take a shower, and then instantly find myself covered in barf - or worse - while I am still wrapped in a towel and trying to brush my teeth.

It's learning to live with the screaming and crying and reminding myself that they are safe and loved, and that I can't do more then I am doing. That sometimes they will have to wait, or sit in a playpen for a few minutes while I, oh I don't know, poop. Alone.

It's doing everything with one hand. Everything.

It's coming to terms with leaving your grocery cart at customer service and apologizing for having to leave in the middle of shopping because someone's diaper leaked and someone else is hungry even though they were changed and fed before we went in.

It's taking the time to make sure they eat before they go to visit their mom, because chances are they won't get more than a bottle of formula while they are there.

It's celebrating when I get everyone in the car and actually drive away from the house on the first try.

It's feeling proud of myself when I leave the house in clean clothes and a bra.

It's the sense of accomplishment when I get the kids where they need to be when they need to be there, or when I both remember I have an appointment and actually get there on time.

It's washing AND drying the laundry, and then actually putting it away. It might not be folded, but it's not on my sofa.

It's realizing that I might actually need a minivan, and then finding a way to avoid driving one after all.

It's having a community that understands that when I get a new case, I have to clear my calendar for a while, and not making me feel terrible when I don't show up.

It's admitting I need help, and having friends and family show up to save my ass, cover me at work, or just sit and hold the baby so I can take a nap.

None of this comes natural. None of this is easy or fun. But it is keeping me sane. And saving my marriage. And giving my kids a mom who can still function most of the time.

Not all of the time. But it's good enough for now.

It has to be.

This is all I've got.

I could have said no.

I could have said no. I know this.

Ella was asleep in the backseat as I drove her resolutely to her grandmother.

I knew she was going to be gone all weekend.
I was preparing myself for her to be gone forever.
I hoped we might get one more night with her before the final transfer.
And then my phone rang.

He had a baby for me. For Christmas. Two babies, actually. My heart leapt in my chest.

There were a few minutes of discussion, mostly about the logistics. Where, when, how.... but never an "if".

I said yes. Anyone who knows me just went right ahead and added an "of course" to the end of that sentence.

I said yes, and then I said I had to check with Sam. Which I did, just to be clear. I did call Sam.

And then I called them back and said yes again. And then I went to work like it was just an ordinary day.

When I finished my shift I went to pick up the boys. We call them that, these days. "The Boys".
They were waiting for me in a windowless playroom, a paper shopping bag with their belongings sat precariously on top of the play kitchen. There were a few shirts for each boy, a few pairs of shorts for the older one. Some diapers. A small pack of wipes. 2 empty bottles. No shoes or socks. No food. No milk. While I had been shuttling plates full of food out of a hot kitchen, they had been sitting in a series of over-airconditioned rooms, hungry. They hadn't eaten in hours, either one of them. I rubbed at the guacamole smear on my apron guiltily.

The cherub with a head full of ringlets was toddling around the room, picking up each toy he encountered, putting it in his mouth, putting it back down, moving on. Across the room, a tiny wizened face looked up at me from the social worker's arms, mouth puckered, eyes confused and distant.

I went down to my car and retrieved a bottle of ready-made formula from the diaper bag. First things first. Feed the boys. I stood in the public bathroom in the hallway outside the office rinsing and rinsing and rinsing those two empty bottles from their paper shopping bag. Scrubbing them as though I could somehow erase the hours of hunger.

I drove home with two carseats jammed in the backseat of my compact car. I stopped for formula along the way. I had an hour until the Winter Break potluck at school. I was still in my uniform. The Boys were asleep in their carseats. I had a wedding to officiate at sunset.

I didn't think of Ella at all in those first frantic hours. And then, after everyone was bathed and asleep, she was all I could think about. I walked in and out of the nursery, the cherub sleeping in Ella's bed. I had taken out her stuffed pig when he lay down, and handed him a stuffed elephant instead. I couldn't bear to see him cuddling her Petunia Pig.

Now I stood in the doorway holding Petunia, staring at this new baby in her place. I turned, and watched the newborn squirm and then fart, immediately stretching and then settling into the corner of his bassinet with a contented sigh, his mouth slightly agape. I smiled without thinking. Sweet baby boy.

It is a blessing for all of us, I kept telling myself. Ella is with her family. The boys are safe with me. My arms will not ache with emptiness this weekend. There will be no empty crib and carseat to carefully pack away.

Not yet.

I could have said no. Of course I could have.
But I said yes. Of course I said yes.

The Unwinding

A huge part of life as a foster child is spent in the car, being driven to various appointments, visits and checkups.

And through it all, you have to leave them with strangers, watch strangers take them and walk away from you. And it is difficult, of course.

You get used to it.

Because it is always in the back of your mind, that someday they will leave in the back seat of a stranger's car... and they won't come back. The door with the county seal on the side of it will close. And they will look at you through the window, and you will wave goodbye, and they will be gone.

It is happening. For real this time. Not like all the other times, when social workers threw out impossible goals and unmeetable timetables. Gathering strength and speed, it is finally something I can see - and feel. It is time for Ella to live with her biological family.

To be sure, it is not the family we started out working with. The family tree has many branches, and a strong and steady one has been found. It is a relief, but it also means that she is leaving - and my heart is tight in my chest, tears welling up just thinking about it. I shouldn't be surprised. It has been 10 months, 10 lovely months as a family of five, but we are really a family of four and it is important to recognize and embrace that truth from time to time.

That time has come.

I knew it was really happening when Ella's grandmother met me, and the first thing she did was wrap her arms around my shoulders and give me a hug. She thanks me, over and over again. They are grateful. And excited. And getting ready for their lives to change completely.

That is what happens when babies arrive. Especially when the baby is a big surprise.

We know a little bit about that, around these parts.

Ella, under my desk at work the week after we brought her home. 

This is what giving two weeks notice looks like.

And as this new little family forms and strengthens and bonds and moves forward, at the same time Ella's connection to our family must loosen until it finally comes undone. It starts slowly: the visits happen at first once a week, and then more often, longer, slowly adding an overnight here and there. A weekend. And while she is with us, I am also very oh-so-carefully you might not even realize it pulling away. I go out at night so that someone else puts her to bed. Other people give her bottles. I start packing her clothes and toys and bedding, and sending them with every visit so that more and more of her things are there every week. Things that smell like me. Things that smell like our home.

I know that it really doesn't matter, but I wonder if she will notice my absence as I slowly fade into the background.
If she can feel the distance I am gently putting between us.

We are staring our first overnight visit square in the face, and I just can't quite imagine waking up and not seeing her wide grin. Every morning for the last 10 months her big brown eyes and gummy smile have greeted me from the bassinet next to my pillow.

And then the crib at the foot of my bed.

And for the past month or so, from the nursery doorway.

Like I said..... the distance between us is growing, slowly and purposefully.

She is toddling around now, cruising along the furniture and even letting go every once in a while.
I am following her example. Letting go for a few quick moments at a time, more and more often, for longer and longer periods of time. And it helps that she is more independent now, and doesn't need me every moment of the day.

She is getting bigger and stronger, and outgrew that infant carseat in no time at all. 

She's not a tiny baby anymore.

She learned to wave goodbye a few weeks ago, carefully waggling her fingers slightly as she holds her hand aloft uncertainly. She stares at her palm as her fingers move, mouth agape, not realizing that she herself is the one wiggling them. I make a mental note to discuss this with her occupational therapist next week. It is one of the last appointments I will attend.
I won't be there for her 1 year checkup.
I won't be there for speech therapy in January.
I won't see her walk or run for the first time.

I am realizing all that I am going to miss, and all that I will no longer be responsible for, and every time it is a tiny shock of awareness. A jolt of reality.

I am carefully freeing the end of the string that binds us, and she is lifting up and away from me, a bright sunshiney yellow balloon of joy and laughter, slipping through my hands with a contagious chortle and loud squawks of excitement.

It's time. I know it is time. But oh, it's hard.

Hold Your Fire

 starlight.com

Save it.

Save your outrage. Keep it with you. Nurture it. Bring it out and show it for all to see, and then tuck it away for a while, a few minutes or a few hours or several days or a week, a month, a year if you must. If it too much to bear right now, it is okay. If you need to take a break, if you are exhausted and overwhelmed with sadness, then put it away, deep inside you. Let that spark inside you rest, and recover and grow stronger again so that it is infused once more with the power of your feelings as they are right this minute. Remember this day. Remember last night. Remember last week. Remember last summer. Those things - all of those things - happened. Take a breath. Look around.

Hold your fire.

Reach out your open hand. Lift someone up.

But don't forget. Don't let that flame of anger be snuffed out. Always be ready. Always be ready to stand up for what is right, and to squash all that is wrong - so very wrong - in this world. In the world around you.

There is a lot to be outraged about. Your flame will burn brightly if you remember it is there.
If you bring it out into the light.
If you show it to others.
If you say what you are thinking out loud to those around you.

Because the only way that each of us can make a difference, is by adding all of our relatively small contributions and perspectives to the larger discussion. It is easy to be indignant on social media. It is simple to change your profile photo to one reflecting your views on the latest tragedy. But it is the little things that you yourself can do, every day, that make a difference.

This is true with all things in life, but it is especially true in the face of a tragedy.

Hold your fire. Because it is a weapon more powerful than any gun. Your words and actions can someday hit their mark. Can hit it over and over again until the inequality and fear is smashed.
Torn apart.
Burned to the ground.

So that your light can shine through.

Direct your anger and that dark feeling of helplessness towards the inequality in this country. Towards the very real fear that exists between people, and police, and the laws of our country. Police should not be afraid. The people they serve and protect should not be afraid.

It is okay to be angry. I don't understand how anyone can NOT be angry.
But everyone - the people on the streets and the snarky politicians who think they know best, and the cops in their riot gear hoping they are going to make it home to their families...... they all need to remember.

Hold your fire. Hold it up. Let it shine, and warm you and others.
Lead the way.

Death by Stand Up

I love stand up. I could watch Louis CK for hours, and the first record I ever bought was an Eddie Murphy album at a garage sale in 1984. Imagine a little white girl lying in her bedroom in Newport RI,  listening to Eddie Murphy on her Fisher Price record player... that was me. This was one of my favorite bits:



Mind blowing.

That is where it all began. Way back then, a seed was planted. And for the past two weeks, Tuesday nights from 9-11, I have been sitting through an open mic stand up show, trying to work up the courage to even think about maybe someday getting up onstage.

"Why in the hell would you do something like that" you ask?

I have no idea. Sitting through an open mic - any open mic - is at times painful, horrifying, encouraging, reassuring, embarrassing, inspiring and empowering. And all of that without even leaving the safety of my seat. Rarely do you see someone perform at open mic and think "this is the next big thing". I mean sure, sometimes that happens too - but not very often, so you have to be prepared to handle extreme levels of emotional discomfort in the meanwhile. If you go into it with an open mind, all in all, open mics can be incredibly entertaining - until you think about getting up there yourself. Then the entertainment factor dries up almost immediately. Which is why I find myself sitting there letting it wash over me, trying to remain neutral, a casual observer. Watching other people get up and do something you don't have the balls to do is an interesting mind game.

"I could do that," I think as I am sitting there watching someone totally at ease, moving through their routine with casual precision. And maybe I get a little smug. They make it look so easy - too easy. I sit up a little straighter. I start to think "I should just go for it. I have a couple of funny stories to tell. I can pull together 5 minutes. Let's do this thing."

And then I watch someone fumbling with their notes, trying out some new material to deafening silence and I think with my sinking heart and rapidly deflating ego "I could do that," and suddenly I am not feeling quite so fanfuckingtastic.

So now I am sitting there, flummoxed.
I thought I could do it, it didn't seem so hard.

But as I hear the chairs squeaking across the floor, as people stand up and file out, moving on to the next bar, the next drink, the next shot at entertainment, I feel a cold sweat on the back of my neck, and for once it's not a hot flash. The guy up there is dying, slowly and painfully, while we are all sitting there watching - or carefully not watching. Politely clapping when it seems like the only way to respond. A few people muttering "ouch" after a particularly gnarly joke that is so politically incorrect my mouth is left hanging open. He's getting desperate now, no subject off limits, the sweat visible on his forehead, the clock counting down his five minutes that have felt like fifteen. And then he says goodnight and I breathe a sigh of relief and clap loudly as if to encourage him to get off the stage quickly while he still can.

And suddenly another comedian is up there, and we are stuck in that room for another five minute set before I could even think about politely slipping out.

Sam squeezes my hand, because of course he is there with me, to clap and cheer if I ever manage to get up, or to hug me and escort me offstage if I freeze and lose my shit. It could go either way, I see that now.

The next set is smoother, the mood lightens, people who managed to sit through the last round are relaxing, less frantic as they wave for the check. They are done, make no mistake, they are leaving - but maybe they will finish this drink first. Maybe. I focus on the stage again, listening hard. By the second week I am seeing some familiar faces up there, hearing some familiar material, maybe twisted just slightly to see if it will get a bigger laugh. I realize that some of the awkwardness and muttering is part of the schtick. Oh, that's good. It was intentional. See. I could do this. Sure I could. I can play awkward. I sit forward again. putting weight on my toes, contemplating putting my hand up when they ask who's next. Because why not? Why not me?

I sip my drink, scan the crowd, wondering if they would think anything I had to say was worth sitting through. "I don't need them to laugh," I say to myself, "I just need them to not leave."

This is a new low.

I am not even concerned about entertaining them, I just want to make sure they can sit through my five minutes? This is not why people do stand up. Or maybe it is, as the next comedian climbs onstage with a fistful of index cards. Oh sweet jesus, he's throwing an accent into the mix. I don't think I can bear it. "NO ACCENTS" I type into the notes I have been making on my phone for the past two weeks.

I nudge Sam. "Go get the check," I say through gritted teeth. He looks apprehensive. "I can't stand up, this guy is in the mid-"

"For the love of all that is good, go get the check or I will NEVER work up the courage to get up there." I hiss at him through a pasted on smile, my eyes still focused on the stage.

My jaw is clenched tight with anxiety as the jokes move one after the other, as this guy goes through index card after index card, working so hard to develop this material, to hone his craft.

Another comic ends his set by thanking everyone who had the balls - or ovaries - to get up onstage and I clap with relief because YES this is something I can agree with wholeheartedly. And it's also my out. I have neither balls nor ovaries, and as we sail through the door to the parking lot, I remind myself that I might never get up there, and it's okay. I can blame my ovaries - or lackthereof - for that.

The Foster Baby Takes a Vacation

I must apologize for the weeks of quiet here in Paradise. We've been gone, you see. And re-entry is a bitch.

Let's get up to speed.

When last I wrote, we were leaving on our vacation. But you didn't know that. I wasn't sure if I wanted to go, to be honest. The last time we went on a vacation while we had a foster case, we weren't allowed to bring the baby and she was transferred to a new home the day before we left. I almost had a nervous breakdown. I lay on the couch and sobbed for hours before we left for the airport, heartsick over my little charge and imagining her wondering where she was, and why she had a new mama. It was a really dark, confusing time.

So as our date of departure neared this time around, my panic was almost palpable. I had cancelled our summer vacation, because we could not get permission to travel with Ella and I refused to have her transferred to a new foster home. I would not do it. This time, this case, this child was going to be different. After we cancelled that trip, I tentatively planned to go in the fall - and this time her mother said it was okay for us to bring Ella. Miraculously, Ella's father agreed, and we booked our tickets immediately. However, I soon learned that agreeing the baby can travel, and signing the permission slip, are two different things. This permission slip is a much bigger deal than the one you sign to allow your child on a school field trip. And as with everything in foster care, nothing is for sure until it is signed and notarized and approved by the court.

Saying we could go was nice, but I needed signatures.

And I didn't have them.

Then I heard that Ella's father had signed. I let myself hope. I bought Ella a hat and a jacket. Socks. Leggings. Warm clothes for the New England weather. I waited. I needed one more signature. I didn't want to get too excited. I had been down this road before. We got a court date. I submitted all of the travel information. I waited.

I was leaving in less than 3 weeks.

Ella's mother was gone. Her phone was shut off, she didn't answer the door, we heard she had moved but no one knew where. Everyone was looking for her.

I was leaving in 2 weeks.

Out of nowhere, she called a week later. She wanted to see Ella. We had court in 4 days. She said she would be there. I did not have her signature.

And then the day came. Our hearing was in the morning so I got up early. I brought Ella to a friend's house. I dressed in my most respectable mom attire. I drove to the courthouse with shaking hands. I was leaving in 48 hours.

When I walked through the metal detector outside the circuit court, Ella's father was there. I stood in the hall, full of people . I sat on the hard bench, leaned back against the cold granite. Anxious. Would her mother show up? Would she say I couldn't take her with us?

I watched everyone who got off the elevator. Not her. Not her. Not her.

I stood up when the case was called. I hugged a friend who was there for work and had found me in the crowd. I smiled at some familiar faces. I walked into the courtroom alone.

As the case began, I sat, silent. My heart was in my throat. The court reporter looked up, recognized me, gave a small wave. A tear ran down my cheek. My hands were clenched together, gripping the paperwork I had printed out the night before with our flight information.

Her mother wasn't there.

The lawyer - my lawyer, I suppose, stood up. Told the judge we were traveling in a few days and wanted Ella with us. Around the room others stood up, one by one, in agreement. We came to the last person in the room. Her mom's lawyer. She did not say no. She did not say yes.

More tears.
Hands clenched tighter.

The judge asked a few questions. Ella's father answered. Yes sir. No sir.
Everyone took notes.

And then he said yes. He didn't just say yes, of course, he said something formal and official for the record, but all I cared about was that he meant yes.

Yes we could go.
Yes we could bring Ella.
Yes she would stay with me.

I covered my mouth. My shoulders sagged. I looked across the courtroom and found Ella's father watching me.

"Thank you" I said.
He nodded. "You're welcome."

He was excused, and as he walked past me he stopped. I held out my arms. And we hugged, awkwardly, but still. A real hug. He stood up and walked out of the courtroom, slinging his backpack over one shoulder as the door swung shut behind him.

Two days later we boarded a plane. All of us. Even Ella.

The trip was a whirlwind, but the one steady in all of it was our beautiful children - all three of them - who despite a 6 hour time difference and a grueling travel schedule, were well behaved, eager to try new things, happy to see family again, and content in the backseat for long stretches of time playing road trip bingo and staring agog as we flew through the EZ Pass lanes at the tollbooths - which is the height of bad-ass excitement for island kids.

The tolls were $110.00.
I counted.

And the next thing I knew, we were on a plane again. Just Ella and I, this time. Flying back home at the end of our trip, the court documents still in the outside pocket of the diaper bag ready to show at a moment's notice.

Ironically, that paperwork I had waited so long for and worried so much about ended up being totally unnecessary for my travels. No one asked to see it. Not even once.

Maybe no one asked because they couldn't imagine anyone but an actual mother voluntarily traveling alone for 22 hours with an infant. Maybe they didn't want to stop the lady trying to board the plane with a sleeping baby strapped to her chest, lugging her carry on and her personal item, plus the stroller, to ask if she could find a document proving she was supposed to travel with that baby. Maybe they didn't want to bother the wild-eyed, sleep-deprived woman who finally handed the baby to a total stranger so that she could use the plane's bathroom without a baby on her lap toilet-papering the cubicle and flushing the toilet repeatedly. Maybe they watched me circling the airport while I tried to stay awake during both of my 3 hour layovers in two different time zones and thought better of asking me for anything.

All I know is that, during that trip, I had just a moment - just a tiny flicker, mind you - of wondering why the hell I had wanted this so badly.

But then I looked down, and smiled, and it all came rushing back.
She is an excellent traveling companion, this one.