tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57410929659575356472024-02-21T12:25:41.347-05:00In the present moment...Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.comBlogger273125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-20304598966982903322019-06-30T12:28:00.000-04:002019-06-30T12:28:07.531-04:00My Dad...A Remembrance
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It’s
10:55 PM on Tuesday. And here I am sitting in the dining room of my parents’
house wondering what I am going to say on Thursday morning at 11:00 at Dr.
Don’s Celebration of Life, particularly since I am the host and first speaker
on the program. Of course, I’ve known for almost two months that I need to
write this, but the words won’t come because part of me somehow can’t believe
that he’s really gone. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">About
a week after Dr. Don’s death I was on Instagram just scrolling through trying
to distract myself from myself. I see the familiar handle “Dad Jokes”- this is a
guy who posts tons of stupidly clever jokes and puns <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- and I eagerly read the silly joke…Here it
is…</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“I’m
reading a horror story in Braille. Something bad is going to happen. I can feel
it.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I
chuckle and immediately start to text the joke to Dr. Don like I’ve done a
hundred times before because I know he’ll probably groan and then call me with
a much better joke of his own, but I stop myself…no Dr. Don to text. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">When
I was in college back in the stone age before cell phones, my dad would call at
odd hours to tell me jokes. Someone would pound on my dorm room door and shout,
“You have a call!” I would run to the stuffy little phone room to plop myself
on the uncomfortable orange plastic chair and say, ‘Hello?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Hey,
it’s Dad. I have a good joke for you…” and then he would launch into whatever
joke he was telling everyone that week. Complete with crazy voices, sound
effects and his own laughter. He’d finish with a flourish. He’d say
triumphantly, “That’s a great joke. Isn’t that a great joke?” but before I would
have a chance to answer he’d say, “Alright, Pup, I’ve got to be getting back to
work. I love you.” And then he’d hang up leaving me sometimes laughing and
sometime staring at the phone in wonder that he took the time to share that
dumb joke. Now, of course, I appreciate every one of those jokes that made me
laugh. Or shake my head. Or groan. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Tonight
there is no laughter. My parents’ house – also my childhood home - is silent
except for the tapping of my fingers on the laptop and the low hum of the air
conditioner. My daughter Esme is finally asleep after much stalling. Mom took
herself off to bed half an hour ago. Diane and Matt’s flight doesn’t arrive
until well after midnight. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Here
I sit. Stumped. How on earth do I sum up my dad’s life in a few pages? It seems
impossible.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Earlier
today I lament my lack of progress to my mom. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Are
you going to be able to get it done?” she asks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">My
brain shrieks, “Nope! Not going to happen!”, but I hear myself assuring her
that I will get it done. Then we start swapping stories about Dr. Don. Eventually,
she asks almost as an accusation, “Are you going to tell THE story? You’re
going to tell it, aren’t you?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“About
how you stalked Dad?” I reply. “It’s a good story…My Mom, The Stalker.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She
laughs, “I was such a wallflower. I can’t even believe I did that!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She
tells me the story for the umpteenth time and I listen as eagerly as if it’s
the first time I’ve heard it. She says, “I was working in the Registrar’s
Office at Brooklyn College and in September this really cute guy walked in. He
was wearing a light blue suit and he was tan. I saw him and that was it. He had
no idea that his life was about to get a lot more complicated.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Did
you tell anyone?” I ask.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Sure,”
she replies, “I told my mother I met the man I was going to marry. Then I found
out who he was. He would take his coffee breaks in the cafeteria in the Liberal
Arts building, so I made sure that I was there during those breaks. I would
wave to him and smile. It took a few months, but he finally asked me to sit
down. I did and then I asked him, ‘So, are you married, engaged, have a
girlfriend…?’ He didn’t. And he was really polite so he felt he had to ask me
out. He asked me if I would like to go to the Museum of Modern Art with him one
Saturday afternoon. Our first date was on December 12th, 1959.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">As
my mom retells her part of the story, I remember my Dad’s side of the story. He’d
say, “There was this cute girl. I didn’t know who she was, but she was always hanging
around, smiling and waving at me. Finally I asked her to sit down. You know the
rest. Our first date was at the MOMA,” here he pauses then begins again in a
voice still full of awe at the magnitude of his good luck, “All I knew was that
this wasn’t like any other first date I had ever been on. Your mother was smart
and funny. She knew all about art. I think we both knew right away this was
something different. I was overwhelmed.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">They
were engaged in March of 1960, but didn’t marry until August 1961 so Ellen
could finish her senior year. Ellen moved to Kansas City with Don so he could
complete med school. Then it was off to Grand Rapids for Don’s internship followed
by residency in Columbus Ohio. That’s where I entered the picture. Diane arrived
3 years later in Fort Lee, New Jersey. Eventually our family settled in
Hillsdale, New Jersey. However, that only lasted a few years. Grand Rapids came
calling again. We moved here in 1975. Dr. Don purchased a totally unique mid-century
modern house without my mom ever having seen it. He knew she would love it. And
she did. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I
take a break from writing this speech to get a drink of water, stretch and wander
around said mid-century modern house. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It
occurs to me as I look around my childhood home that it is a far cry from Dr.
Don’s modest beginnings in a 2-bedroom apartment in Staten Island, New York. My
grandparents owned a dry goods store. They worked long hours and did their best
to provide for their two kids. Don and his sister Phyllis didn’t lack for the
basics and even had a piano and piano lessons (quite a luxury in their
neighborhood), but there weren’t many other extras.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Earlier
this week I chat with my Aunt Phyllis. I ask her about when they were kids.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Your
father was such a good big brother to me,” she tells me. “Our parents worked a
lot and he needed to take charge of me when they were at the store. He never
made me feel like I was a burden to him. I always looked up to him. We knew all
each other’s friends. We double dated when we were in high school. He even gave
me little pointers on what to wear and how to behave. There was real mutual
respect between us. He took good care of me.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I
ask her about my dad deciding to become a doctor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She
laughs, “He had no choice. We were indoctrinated by our parents from the time
we were little. Donny would be a doctor and I would be a teacher.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Is
it surprising that my dad was a good and responsible big brother? That he took
care of Phyllis with kindness? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or that
he became a doctor? No. That’s who he was. He took care of people. His parents
might have pressed him to become a doctor, but I believe caring for people was as
natural to him as breathing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">My
dad’s skill and dedication to taking care of people meant that he worked long
hours. We understood that there were sick people who needed him. However, this
meant that Dr. Don focused on quality time with his family rather than
quantity. He took Diane and I to see Marcel Marceau when we were kids. I was an
aspiring cellist so Dr. Don arranged a Father – Daughter date to see Yo-Yo Ma.
There were annual fall treks to Robinette’s Apple Orchard for fresh cider and
cinnamon donuts. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And
weekends when he wasn’t on call wouldn’t be complete without a trip to the
American Bakery to purchase freshly baked rye bread and, of course, each of us
girls got a raspberry Linzer Torte Cookie. Diane and my dad were enthusiastic
runners and often ran together around our neighborhood and later in California
where Diane lives. I am a dedicated couch potato who loves to read and watch
movies so my dad happily sat with me to chat about books and old movies. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“What’s
your favorite movie?” I ask him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Dr.
Don replies, “’Roman Holiday.’ I was 15 when I saw first saw it and when Audrey
Hepburn came on the screen. Ohhhhh…I didn’t know what hit me.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">In
the summer we lounged happily by the pool. My parents would get on the phone to
their friends to announce “The flag is flying!”, which meant, “Come on over,
the water is fine.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And,
of course, there were vacations. My parents were avid travelers and Diane and I
were lucky that they instilled in us a love of travel as they planned amazing family
trips to places like Washington DC to visit the Smithsonian and the White
House, Colorado to ride horses, Boston to visit the USS Constitution and the
Museum of Fine Arts, and New York to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art and to
attend the theater.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I
should note here that I’m fairly certain Diane and I were the only children
ages 8 and 11 attending the Broadway Production of “The Best Little Whorehouse
in Texas.” Us kids had no idea what the show was about, but I remember loving
all of the energetic singing and dancing. Needless to say, Dr. Don and Ellen
got a lot of side eye that evening from all of the folks sitting near us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">My
Dad also treated himself and my mom to annual child-free vacations usually
someplace overseas. During the course of their almost 58 years together they
visited most of Europe, Russia, China, Japan, Morocco, Egypt, Kenya, Ecuador
and The Galapagos, just to name a few.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">When
I am about 9 years-old I get up the nerve to ask my dad about he and my mom’s
upcoming trip abroad. He is sitting in his chair in the family room listening
to classical music and reading the newspaper. I ask him, “Daddy, how come Diane
and I don’t get to go on this trip with you?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Without
missing a beat he looks over the top of his paper, replies with a straight
face, “Because they don’t allow children in Europe,” and returns to reading his
paper.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I
pause again to stretch, take a sip of water and then re-read what I’ve written.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">There’s
so much that’s missing. What have I forgotten?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That
by example my dad taught Diane and I the value of dedication, hard work and a
strong work ethic.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That
my dad was incredibly generous with everyone. You’d go out to dinner with him
and at the end of the meal as you’d try to split the check he’d wave his hand
at you and say, “I’ve got this. It’s my pleasure.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That
his generosity extended to bigger things and included a commitment to giving
back to the community. He and my mom are long-time philanthropists. My dad
believed that those who have the means are responsible for supporting the arts
and other worthy non-profit organizations. And not for any kind of recognition,
but because it’s the right thing to do.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That
he wanted his kids to have the things that he didn’t have when he was growing
up and he worked hard to provide them for us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That
when my mom was in serious condition in the hospital a number of years ago, my
dad said to me, “I think your mom could probably live without me, but I don’t
think I can live without her.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That
he was intellectually curious and loved to learn.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That
he was gregarious and had a seemingly endless capacity for talking with
everyone and anyone. A number of years ago I send Chris with my Dad to Costco
to keep him company. Upon their arrival home Chris pulls me aside and says,
“Omigod, EVERYONE at Costco knows your dad. And he knows all of them. By name. It
took forever to get through there because he talked with EVERYONE.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That
when he really got laughing he would laugh so hard that no sound came out.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That
his favorite exclamation was “Holy crow!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That
he always wore a tie to work and his tie collection took up an entire wall in
his walk-in closet.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That
when they were young and poor, my dad would donate blood so he could take my
mom out.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That
he was a teeny bit Type A and demanded a certain level of excellence from the
other doctors and the nurses with whom he worked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That
nurses were kind of terrified of him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That
he got a great charge out of goosing my mom’s bottom then turning to us with a
leering grin to say, “That’s good stuff!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That
he was always a night owl and did the late feedings and diaper changes when
Diane and I were babies.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That
he LOVED great food. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That
he was an awesome grandfather who’d give Esme horsey rides on his knees, have
long conversations with her, and make her shriek with laughter by pretending to
steal her belly button. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That
one of his greatest passions in life was classical music.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That
his greatest passion was teaching. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Earlier
this week I took some time to read the many sympathy cards and letters
addressed to my mom and our family. All of you had so many wonderful things to
say about Dr. Don that it seemed appropriate to end with your words.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Dr. Arlinsky was such a gem! We will miss our
chats and stories in the front yard. He was so very proud of his family and the
life he built here.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Don was always ready with a smile and a joke.
He was a generous soul who seemed to welcome everyone he met.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I never saw anything but a smile or an
infectious grin on his face, usually before symphony or a concert at Saint
Cecilia.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Don was one of a kind and had a tremendous
impact on everybody he encountered.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“A rush of memories come to me – all filled
with Don’s laughter and generous spirit. You were a wonderful team, a dynamic
couple and obviously in love. Dr. Don’s spirit will endure through the many
people he touched through a lifetime.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We have thought of you and Don often in the
last few weeks and especially at the Lincoln Center concert. It was wonderful.
It was also a testament to you both as so many enjoy the results of your
commitment to these programs. We will never hear another concert that meets
that standard without thinking of you both – avid, knowledgeable listeners and
spirited critics. We are fortunate that our circles have overlapped with
yours.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Don helped so many people over the years. His
legacy, however, will live on in how he shaped and molded future generations of
physicians. I feel honored and privileged to have been his colleague.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 15.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Don was such a fixture of training for so
many docs that his medical legacy will last for many many years. I first met
Don in 1978. He was kind, sincere and thorough. His sharp wit and ability to
penetrate to the heart of an issue always made for insightful conversation and
medical learning. His hieroglyphics for handwriting were hilarious and even he
couldn’t read them back at times. He was a generous person and in spending a
lot of time with him during training, I benefitted from his professional and
personal experiences. He repeated what he did for me with literally hundreds of
docs in training. Unbelievable devotion! His medical ethics and dedication were
legendary. I did not want Don to sit alone during your surgery at Metro. In
sitting with him, I asked him to fill me in on the details of his upbringing,
deciding to become a doc, meeting you, early practice years, and moving to GR.
Such a rich life! His last teaching moment: how to work hard, incredibly hard,
dedicate his life and work with medical excellence and balance as much as
possible a loving life with you and your family. He was so clearly proud of and
devoted to you and your children. He will be missed, but remembered.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
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</style>Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-811427829038160272015-08-19T07:11:00.000-04:002015-08-19T07:55:25.451-04:00Taking Care of MyselfSilence.<br />
<br />
Not something I hear a lot of these days.<br />
<br />
But this morning I rise at 5:18 (after hitting the snooze once) and head downstairs to my new toy.<br />
<br />
Treadmill.<br />
<br />
Thank you Mom and Dad for my birthday/anniversary present. My parents are The Bomb.<br />
<br />
For 50 glorious minutes I walk. By myself. No child grabbing my legs demanding attention/milk/snack/playtime. No guilt over not paying attention to my poor husband. No television. No iphone. No solitaire. No landline ringing. No computer. No noise except the clomp clomp clomp of my feet and the whir of the treadmill motor.<br />
<br />
50 minutes of solitude and exercise. <br />
<br />
In short...50 minutes of taking care of myself.<br />
<br />
Something I haven't done much of during my four year stint as a mom. When Esme was an infant, it was easy to throw her in the stroller to take long walks on the bike path or drop her at the day care at the gym. Once she got much more mobile it became much less convenient to get her and me to the gym. And once she refused to sit in the stroller it was no longer possible for me to take long walks outside.<br />
<br />
So I stopped.<br />
<br />
I focused all of my energy on taking care of my daughter and put absolutely zero energy into taking care of myself. I fed her well. Kept her healthy. But didn't bother doing the same for me and relied on convenience foods because I was often just too darn tired to take the time to make healthy meals.<br />
<br />
Consequently...I am fat.<br />
<br />
Now, now I hear some of you saying, "No you're not. Don't talk about yourself like that. You're beautiful."<br />
<br />
And I thank you for trying to make me feel better, but the truth is that I am fat. According to the scale and the standard Body Mass Index (BMI) numbers I am fat. Not just fat, but obese.<br />
<br />
Ugh.<br />
<br />
Now, mind you, I'm not the heaviest that I've ever been. Still have quite a ways to go to get to that number. Thank goodness. However, I also have a long way to go to get to what is considered a healthy BMI.<br />
<br />
Hence...the new treadmill and getting up pre-dawn to walk.<br />
<br />
You might be about to congratulate me for taking this great step forward toward better health, but don't just yet. You see, I've been putting it off this year even after I had a huge health scare in January.<br />
<br />
Yep. I was hospitalized. Thought I was having a heart attack. So I had an overnight stay in a luxurious cardiac room at the Naples Community Hospital in FL (did I mention that I was on vacation?) complete with a stress test and nuclear scan of my heart. Thankfully, no heart attack. Instead turns out that I have pretty severe reflux (GERD) and some new medication is taking care of that nicely.<br />
<br />
Whew! What a relief.<br />
<br />
So, you'd think after that scare that I would have gone right out and bought that treadmill to get going on avoiding a real heart attack, right?<br />
<br />
Nope.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing...my life, aside from the fact that I'm fat, is pretty awesome most days. I get to hang out with an amazing kid. We play. We go out to lunch. A lot. And we go out to dinner. We get ice cream or frozen yogurt a few times a week. I'm not much of a one for cooking. At all. I really really really like chocolate. A lot.<br />
<br />
Basically I kinda like my life the way it is.<br />
<br />
So for the last seven months I had been resisting the changes I need to
make. Going merrily along ignoring and denying what I know I needed to
do. <br />
<br />
But the reality is that I can't just hop on a treadmill and expect fantastic results if I don't do the other work of making myself and my family healthy food. And that takes work. Lots and lots of work.<br />
<br />
So I didn't do any of it. <br />
<br />
Until I had another health scare. Two actually - a pretty serious case of pneumonia and then a cancer scare. Thankfully, the pneumonia resolved and I don't have cancer.<br />
<br />
But I do have a great appreciation for the fact that I want to be around for my kid's high school graduation, first big job, wedding, birth of her first kid, etc. I want to be there for her. And I can only do that by giving up my old unhealthy ways and adopting a new lifestyle.<br />
<br />
So I have my new treadmill. That's the easy part.<br />
<br />
The hard part will be learning a whole new way of eating and really taking care of myself.<br />
<br />
But I'm making a start.<br />
<br />
So, if you see me chowing down on pizza somewhere feel free to give me the stinkeye because you know that I'm not supposed to be eating that sh*t anymore.<br />
<br />
Time to go shower and make myself a healthy breakfast.<br />
<br />
Wish me luck. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-79334894526174295212015-04-09T10:13:00.003-04:002015-04-09T10:14:36.710-04:00Domestic Goddess? Yeah, Not So Much...I am a crappy house keeper.<br />
<br />
It's true. <br />
<br />
There's no other way to say it.<br />
<br />
When I first quit my job to become a stay-at-home-mom I had all these fantasies of finally having the time to really clean my house every week. My home would look like those homes you see in magazines. Clean. Organized. Beautiful.<br />
<br />
I'd finally have the time to really learn how to cook. My husband would be so grateful and happy about eating wonderful home cooked meals. Meals I would cook Every. Single. Day. AND I'd pack his lunches. I'd plate everything so it looked like it was cooked in a restaurant. Elegant. Refined. I'd learn to bake homemade bread! <br />
<br />
I would do it all! <br />
<br />
I would be the next Martha Stewart...only a whole lot nicer. And with a sense of humor.<br />
<br />
Yes. I would be a Domestic Goddess!! I would finally have the TIME to do it all.<br />
<br />
What I didn't count on was having the time, but not the inclination. <br />
<br />
Or the ability.<br />
<br />
Here's what I've learned about myself as a stay-at-home-mom: I don't do well when I have to do the same task over and over and over again.<br />
<br />
It's boring. Monotonous. And it drives me crazy.<br />
<br />
Quite frankly, if my job as a stay-at-home-mom was an actual JOB for which I received pay, my ass would have been fired long ago. Don't get me wrong, I'm good at the mom part of my SAHM job. My kid is engaged, happy and we have a blast together. I'm good at keeping her happy.<br />
<br />
It's the at-home part of my SAHM job at which I suck.<br />
<br />
The thing is, when I get on a cleaning tear I do pretty well and I sort of like it. It's nice to see chaos become order and dirty become clean. In a few hours I can have our home - the public areas anyway - looking ship-shape and ready for company.<br />
<br />
But the cleaning never lasts. Ever. I just can't seem to MAINTAIN it.<br />
<br />
Today I look at the living room with the dirty sippy cup and breakfast dish on the coffee table and four pairs of dirty kid socks strewn on the floor along with 463 toys, two pairs of pajamas, the junk mail that my daughter keeps taking out of the recycling bin, a random box or two, three flashlights (daughter is obsessed with them) and the empty blue bin that is supposed to contain the toys in the living room...It's then I think to myself, "For f*ck sake! Didn't I JUST clean this place like 6 days ago??? And now I have to do it AGAIN???"<br />
<br />
It's the "again" part that always ruins it for me.<br />
<br />
Again. Again. Always again. <br />
<br />
Kind of like laundry.<br />
<br />
OMG.<br />
<br />
The laundry. How do three people generate so much EFFING laundry??? It just needs to get done again and again and again. It's NEVER EVER done. Ever. Didn't I JUST fold that pair of rainbow stripe kid leggings like yesterday and now they're dirty AGAIN???<br />
<br />
And then there's dinner.<br />
<br />
Does it have to happen every single night???<br />
<br />
I only know how to cook like 4 things. And if I want to cook something new that means finding a new recipe, grocery shopping and then actually cooking something that requires me to focus on the recipe while my daughter hangs on my leg begging for snacks. I can BARELY cook the stuff I KNOW how to cook, but to do a new recipe AND manage my kid??? Not so much.<br />
<br />
So instead I usually just make something easy for the kid, grab a bowl of cereal for myself and leave my poor husband to fend for himself<br />
<br />
Yeah, my poor husband cooks his own dinner when he gets home from a day of meetings and work stress. Really. I am totally not kidding about this.<br />
<br />
He should fire me.<br />
<br />
<br />
I am NOT a Domestic Goddess.<br />
<br />
Martha Stewart, I hate you.<br />
<br />
<br />Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-36890387170530437292015-04-07T10:27:00.004-04:002015-04-07T10:27:39.046-04:00Purple Jacket<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUhCv62KS4wVDMI6jzm6L9Nsn8cjSiS7Eb8BJ9XXl8XxFXAaHEZ9PGu96unTwH8elFCSLJkhhpkHS4thyphenhyphenijg9S7y9TTRn-ko7n6ADxWaqT6R47PyWtMB5r4S8A2vEtMA_0c2AzoSzvjbcg/s1600/IMG_9618.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUhCv62KS4wVDMI6jzm6L9Nsn8cjSiS7Eb8BJ9XXl8XxFXAaHEZ9PGu96unTwH8elFCSLJkhhpkHS4thyphenhyphenijg9S7y9TTRn-ko7n6ADxWaqT6R47PyWtMB5r4S8A2vEtMA_0c2AzoSzvjbcg/s1600/IMG_9618.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Some kids have blankies.<br />
<br />
Others have binkies.<br />
<br />
Yet others have their thumbs. <br />
<br />
And still others have a favorite stuffed animal. A lovey. A snugglie.<br />
<br />
My daughter has Purple Jacket.<br />
<br />
Not "a" purple jacket.<br />
<br />
Not "the" purple jacket.<br />
<br />
She has "Purple Jacket."<br />
<br />
The amazing thing about Purple Jacket is that he so so much more than a
jacket.<br />
<br />
Oh yes. He.<br />
<br />
Purple Jacket is a "he."<br />
<br />
Purple Jacket is my daughter's friend, snugglie, partner in crime and primary source of comfort...absolutely necessary for bedtime for close
to two years now and also for anytime that we are just hanging out. We used let my daughter wear Purple Jacket other places, but now he stays at home because if he were
to be lost....<br />
<br />
Life. As. We Know. It. Would. Be. Over.<br />
<br />
Despite having to stay at
home, Purple Jacket apparently leads quite an active life.<br />
<br />
A typical morning conversation with my daughter...<br />
<br />
<b>ME:</b> How's Purple Jacket this morning?<br />
<br />
<b>ESME</b> [shaking her head]: Not good.<br />
<br />
<b>ME:</b> Not good? What's wrong with Purple Jacket?<br />
<br />
<b>ESME:</b> He had bad dreams. Very bad dreams. He's tired.<br />
<br />
<b>ME: </b>Ohhhh. Poor Purple Jacket.<br />
<br />
<b>ESME:</b> Poor Purple Jacket. So tired.<br />
<br />
<br />
And a typical afternoon conversation with my daughter...<br />
<br />
<b>ESME</b> [upon walking in the house]: Where is Purple Jacket?<br />
<br />
<b>ME:</b> I think he's in the bedroom where you left him.<br />
<br />
<b>ESME</b> [flies to her bedroom to retrieve Purple Jacket]<br />
<br />
<b>ME</b> [upon her return to the living room]: How is Purple Jacket?<br />
<br />
<b>ESME</b>: Good!<br />
<br />
<b>ME</b>: He had a good long nap while you were at school?<br />
<br />
<b>ESME:</b> No! He had a party!!<br />
<br />
<b>ME:</b> Purple Jacket had a party??<br />
<br />
<b>ESME:</b> Yeah! On my bed! He had cake and ice cream and tato chips and cake and ice cream and lots of friends. He had a big party!<br />
<br />
<b>ME:</b> Wow. That's amazing. Purple Jacket leads quite a life when we're not home.<br />
<br />
<b>ESME:</b> Yeah! Amazing!<br />
<br />
<br />
Recently we've had a bit of a Purple Jacket emergency. When Esme is taking him off, she breaks Purple Jacket's zipper. Now for most kids this wouldn't be a tragedy, but for my daughter...well, one of the main features of Purple Jacket is The Worry Spot....that part at the waist where the two jacket halves comes together and the zipper starts. Purple jacket always has to be zipped so with her fingers Esme can gently "worry" at the fabric and the start of the zipper. And when she is super tired or in need of extra comfort she gently rubs the Worry Spot under her nose. For some inexplicable reason this soothes her and calms her down.<br />
<br />
So when the zipper is no longer functional...<br />
<br />
And my daughter is distraught at having no Purple Jacket for bedtime and for self-soothing... <br />
<br />
Yep. You bet. I rush him the next day to our lovely seamstress (because I am useless with a sewing machine) and beg her to fix him. Gotta give the woman credit. She looks at this somewhat ratty old fleece jacket, takes in my request to have a new zipper put in, and doesn't bat an eyelash at what is obviously a ridiculous fix. It takes a week and four times the original cost of the jacket (which I picked up for $4.99 at a re-sale shop), but Purple Jacket is good as new. <br />
<br />
Life as we know it is not over.<br />
<br />
I'm looking forward to getting home today to see what new adventures Purple Jacket has had while we've been out of the house.<br />
<br />
<br />Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-10778422208940875922015-03-17T10:07:00.001-04:002015-03-17T10:18:05.728-04:00Can I Really Call Myself A Writer?"What do you do?"<br />
<br />
It's what grownups ask each other by way of a greeting because we so often identify ourselves by what we do professionally.<br />
<br />
"I'm a stay-at-home-mom," I reply.<br />
<br />
And if I'm meeting someone who is not another SAHM, but instead a member of the "working world" that statement is often met with a blank look or a tepid, "Oh, well, that's nice." <br />
<br />
So, then I add, "Oh, and I'm also a writer."<br />
<br />
At this point the non-SAHM perks up with a, "Oh! Really? What do you write?"<br />
<br />
Apparently learning about what I write is more interesting than hearing stories about making snacks, wiping butts, and hanging out with my 3.5 year-old daughter.<br />
<br />
"I write a blog and I'm working on my first novel," and then I add with a laugh, "which is languishing in my laptop."<br />
<br />
So there it is.<br />
<br />
I'm a writer.<br />
<br />
Of sorts.<br />
<br />
Truth be told I have not worked on my novel in earnest since my daughter arrived in our lives three and a half years ago.<br />
<br />
I always knew when I made the choice to stay at home with my daughter that my creative life would take a hit. Raising a kid is hard work. It takes time and energy. When we decided to adopt one of the conditions I laid out to my husband was that we would need to live on his salary. I knew full well that I would not be capable of raising of a small child and holding down a job outside of the home. And so I left a career in which I had burned out and started my SAHM gig. And for the most part it has been awesome.<br />
<br />
Except...<br />
<br />
It didn't occur to me that I would not be capable of raising a small child and at the same time having a creative life. That I would stop writing. <br />
<br />
But I did.<br />
<br />
Only recently have a I resurrected this blog.<br />
<br />
And my novel?<br />
<br />
Still languishing in this laptop.<br />
<br />
Am I really a writer?<br />
<br />
I don't know.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-79098802021295147592015-03-10T10:48:00.000-04:002015-03-10T10:57:53.357-04:00Togetherness"It's a LOT of togetherness," I often hear myself saying in conversation when I'm talking about my life as a stay-at-home-mom.<br />
<br />
"A LOT of togetherness."<br />
<br />
I wouldn't have it any other way.<br />
<br />
But, man, is it ever a lot of togetherness. Oy.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing that you aren't supposed to say about being a stay-at-home-mom:<br />
<br />
Being a stay-at-home-mom is kind of driving me crazy.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong...I LOVE my daughter. I love love love love love her. I love her like I've never loved anybody. It's an intense, crazy, deep love that makes me ache when I look at her. How did I get so lucky to be the mom of this amazing person??? When I see her wicked smile and her dimple. Omigod...the dimple. It's the cutest dimple EVER. And I hear her laugh. Pure joy. It fills me up. I know that I am the luckiest mom on the planet. Bar none.<br />
<br />
Really.<br />
<br />
But then she has one of her spectacular meltdowns. Omigod. The meltdowns. Brutal. For both of us. <br />
<br />
Or we get done with swimming lessons at 10:00 a.m. on a Wednesday morning. We get ourselves dressed and I look at the clock to see that it is 10:52. Dear God...WHAT am I going to do with this child for another SEVEN HOURS AND EIGHT MINUTES until we have dinner???<br />
<br />
Or the day where we have NOTHING on the schedule and she flat out refuses to go to gymnastics open play or Kidz Wurld indoor play center. <br />
<br />
And the fact that she stopped napping when she wasn't even two and a half years old. What kid stops napping that young???<br />
<br />
"Oh, he naps for at least two hours everyday. Most days it's closer to three," a mom I meet at gymnastics open play tells me. Her kid is four and a half.<br />
<br />
Four and a half years old and he naps for THREE HOURS???<br />
<br />
In my dreams.<br />
<br />
Moms hate naps at first because infants take so many of them which makes it hard to schedule your life. But then as life gets crazier when the kid starts becoming more mobile and active, moms come to appreciate and NEED The Nap. The Nap gives moms a break from the togetherness. You use it to clean the house, have a cup of coffee, sleep, or sometimes just sit and relish the quiet.<br />
<br />
When my kiddo officially gives up her nap I feel like I might actually
have a nervous breakdown. <br />
<br />
No napping leads to a LOT of togetherness.<br />
<br />
Twelve straight hours of togetherness most days.<br />
<br />
Without a break. <br />
<br />
Here's something that many people don't know about me: I'm an introvert.<br />
<br />
You wouldn't know it about me because I am super chatty, I like to meet new people, and I do like to be out and about. I have decent social skills. I'm not a typical introverted introvert. I'm an extroverted introvert.<br />
<br />
But I need alone time.<br />
<br />
I need it. Crave it. Have to have it. <br />
<br />
Serious quality alone time to recharge my batteries.<br />
<br />
Alone time where I have an opportunity to be quiet and creative. When I can make art, write, read, and use my brain in a different way than when I'm in mom mode.<br />
<br />
But with twelve hours of togetherness with my three and half year-old daughter...there ain't a lot of quality alone time to recharge. I'm pretty much totally exhausted at the end of every day. So my end of the day alone time isn't quality alone time AT ALL. I collapse in a heap on the couch where I watch television as my body twitches and vibrates because I am over-tired and over-stimulated. Watching television doesn't really help much, but in general I have little brain power for anything else at the end of my day.<br />
<br />
Here's the other thing you aren't supposed to say about life as a stay-at-home-mom:<br />
<br />
Being with a small child for twelve hours a day is a grind.<br />
<br />
It is.<br />
<br />
Wiping butts, cleaning up crayon on the walls chasing your kid through the library to get her to stop running and yelling, searching for the same lost toy every single day, watching the same episode of Curious George for the 47th time, keeping your kid entertained and clean and fed and engaged every single day, being the primary educator and disciplinarian every single day. It's. A. Grind.<br />
<br />
Please, don't get me wrong...there are SO MANY parts of the day that are also TOTALLY AWESOME. I love watching my kid running and jumping and walking the balance beam at gymnastics open play time. And our couch tickle fights are spectacularly fun. Hearing her whoop with excitement when she hears the theme music for her favorite cooking show, The Pioneer Woman. Listening to her tell her hundreds of stories everyday is the stuff that makes life with her the best. Watching the wheels in her brain turn and seeing her learn something new. Completely awesome and amazing.<br />
<br />
However, it's a lot.<br />
<br />
A lot. A lot. A lot. A lot of work. A lot of togetherness with no break.<br />
<br />
And I know...this is MY choice to stay at home with her. Please, no one needs to remind me. <b><i>I chose this life.</i> <i>I choose this life everyday even when I think I might have a nervous breakdown because of it. </i></b>I choose to be the person who raises my daughter. I choose the grind. And I am SO LUCKY that I have that choice. That my husband earns enough to keep us in house and home so that I can spend twelve hours a day with our kid. That my husband is OK with me "opting out" of the work force to be a "SAHM." I KNOW that I am lucky.<br />
<br />
Really. I do. <br />
<br />
But, man, it's still a LOT of togetherness.<br />
<br />Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-78578279446885793622015-03-03T11:06:00.000-05:002015-03-03T11:08:18.583-05:00No Comfort"I DON'T WANT YOU!" my three and a half year-old daughter roars, fists clenched at her sides, body rigid, tears and snot coating her face.<br />
<br />
"I DON'T WANT YOU!" she roars again mid-meltdown then jumps up and down screaming at the top of her lungs.<br />
<br />
I hardly recognize this enraged little person. 95% of the time my kid is joyful, happy, hilarious, and extremely kind.<br />
<br />
But that other 5% of the time.<br />
<br />
Meltdowns. <br />
<br />
Spectacular, epic, blow-the-roof-off meltdowns.<br />
<br />
Filled with rage. <br />
<br />
In the midst of these spectacular epic meltdowns my normally super affectionate, loving, huggy girl directs all of her rage at me. <br />
<br />
"What can I do for you?" I ask her in my calmest voice. "What can I do for you?"<br />
<br />
"NOTHING! GET AWAY FROM ME!" she shrieks, body still rigid, fists still clenched and eyes now closed as if the very sight of me is just too much to bear.<br />
<br />
She rejects my attempts to comfort her.<br />
<br />
She rejects me with every fiber of her being. <br />
<br />
Sometimes her meltdowns last for just a few minutes, but on occasion she can rage for close to an hour. It is so awful to witness her fury and her suffering as huge emotions overtake her.<br />
<br />
If I'm honest with myself, it's also extremely painful to have all of that rage directed at me.<br />
<br />
It's especially painful because I secretly worry that she rejects me in this way because I'm not her birth mother, K.<br />
<br />
Is there some deep part of her that understands that I am not the woman who gave birth to her? Does she subconsciously want K and thus rejects me?<br />
<br />
When she screams "I DON'T WANT YOU!" I secretly panic that she will always reject me because somehow I'm not her "real" mother.<br />
<br />
I wonder and worry, if K were raising her would Esme just collapse in K's arms and allow herself to be hugged and comforted? Would she let K do that for her when she won't let me? Will she ever let me comfort her through a meltdown?<br />
<br />
"I don't want you," Esme says again breathing hard, but she is running out of steam.<br />
<br />
"What can I do for you?" I ask again.<br />
<br />
"Nothing," she snuffles then walks to the couch where she seizes her beloved purple fleece jacket. She takes her "worry spot" (the bottom front where the zipper comes together) and gently rubs it under her nose. Her preferred method of self-soothing.<br />
<br />
I take a step toward her and ask gently, "Can I give you a hug now?"<br />
<br />
"Not yet," she says hiccuping, a few tears still rolling down her cheeks. <br />
<br />
"OK, I'll come back and check on you in a few minutes."<br />
<br />
I walk into the kitchen where I sag against the counter exhausted and hurt, trying and failing to not take it personally. Trying and failing to be confident in my role as Esme's "real" mom.<br />
<br />
Wondering and worrying.<br />
<br />
A few minutes later I return to the living room to sit down near her on the couch. "Can I give you a hug now?"<br />
<br />
She shakes her head, but she moves closer to me and we sit together, not quite touching, in silence for a long time. <br />
<br />Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-80613072017047005982015-02-26T10:38:00.000-05:002015-02-26T10:38:12.321-05:00Margaret's Birthday"There is a cat," says my 3.5 year-old daughter.<br />
<br />
We are sitting at a table in our local library and she is "reading" to me from a <i>Rainbow Fairy</i> chapter book. Whenever we come to the children's section of the library she immediately secures the lone red plastic wagon with the blue handle (there are also two blue wagons with yellow handles, but apparently these are less desirable than the red) and rushes to the chapter book spinners to peruse and select her books. Recently she announces that she will only select the <i>Rainbow Fairy</i> books with the PINK covers.<br />
<br />
Conveniently there are dozens and dozens of Rainbow Fairy books with pink covers.<br />
<br />
Once her wagon is loaded to almost overflowing, Esme comes to me to "check out" her books. This involves me sitting with an old computer keyboard in my lap "scanning" each book - passing it over the keyboard while saying, "Beeeeeep." I scan them. She puts them back in the wagon.<br />
<br />
Today Esme grabs my hand when we're done "checking out" her books. "Come," she says, pulling me to my feet.<br />
<br />
"Where are we going?"<br />
<br />
"To a party!" she says with a grin.<br />
<br />
"Whose party?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"Margaret's party! It's Margaret's birthday party today."<br />
<br />
Margaret is Esme's baby doll. The doll who goes EVERYWHERE with us. Whose clothes, despite numerous washings, have degraded to a rather unfashionable shade of pale grey. Who is, according to my daughter, the source of all trouble in our house. When I comment that the living room is a huge mess, Esme informs me, "Margaret did it. Margaret makes big messes!" When I trip over the scooter suddenly laying behind me on the kitchen floor, Esme says with a straight face, "It was Margaret." And when I return to the living room one day after folding some laundry in the bedroom to discover an entire bowl of Triscuits crumbled to little bits and spread all over the couch...the apparent culprit, "Margaret."<br />
<br />
We really do love Margaret despite her trouble-making tendencies.<br />
<br />
So, apparently, today is Margaret's birthday (it was also her birthday a week ago Thursday, several times in January and on multiple occasions throughout the last six months) and we're having a party in the library.<br />
<br />
Esme pulls all of the rolling chairs from the computer desks over to a table. There is no one else in the children's section right now so I make no objection.<br />
<br />
"You sit here! In this one," says Esme pointing.<br />
<br />
"OK."<br />
<br />
She then pulls half a dozen Rainbow Fairy books from her hoard, slaps one on the table in front of me and says, "This is yours. You read."<br />
<br />
OK.<br />
<br />
"No, wait!" she says, yanking the book out of my hand. "I read this one to you."<br />
<br />
She opens the book to the middle and begins in the sweet sing-song voice she uses when she tells her stories, "There is a cat. The cat doesn't want to be picked up. I pick up the cat. I say, 'Shh cat. You OK. You OK.' I put the cat down. The end!"<br />
<br />
She closes the book and looks at me with a huge smile. <br />
<br />
"You have so many stories to tell," I say to my daughter. "So many stories to tell."<br />
<br />
She laughs. <br />
<br />
And with that she opens another book to tell me yet another story. This is what the rest of the party consists of - her "reading" the rest of the half a dozen books to me and Margaret. Some of the stories have a plot and even make some sense, but most of them simply involve Esme experimenting with different words in nonsensical combinations, half-talking and half-singing. <br />
<br />
I'm pretty certain based on prior experiences that Margaret will have another birthday soon. Probably not in the library. More than likely at home where Esme will "bake" her a cake in her play kitchen and I will be commanded to sit at the kitchen table where I will have to eat the pretend cake over and over and over again. Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-6194526581248460992015-02-22T19:08:00.000-05:002015-02-26T10:40:18.880-05:00You Never...Until You DoDo y'all have a list of "nevers" in your head?<br />
<br />
You know the list...that slightly self-righteous all-knowing "Well, I'll never do this" or "I'll never do that" list.<br />
<br />
"I'll never date a bad boy."<br />
"I'll never lie to my parents." <br />
"I'll never take the easy route."<br />
"I'll never get married."<br />
"I'll never have kids."<br />
"I'll never get fat."<br />
"I'll never stay in a bad marriage." <br />
"I'll never get divorced." <br />
"I'll never take a job that I don't feel passionate about."<br />
Etc. Etc. Etc.<br />
<br />
I didn't know that I had a "never" list when my husband and I set out to become parents some five odd years ago. In the front of my brain I just assumed I'd become a mom and it would be all rainbows and unicorns and sweetness and light.<br />
<br />
OK, well maybe no rainbows and unicorns, but I thought it would be awesome.<br />
<br />
And it is.<br />
<br />
Mostly.<br />
<br />
I know that I am incredibly lucky to have the life I do with my husband, my daughter, a nice house, money in the bank, and the opportunity to stay home to raise my daughter. Truly, it's a great life and I know I shouldn't complain.<br />
<br />
But. <br />
<br />
But three and a half years into this momhood gig I realize that I've had a "never" list lurking in my brain. <br />
<br />
My list goes something like this, "When I'm a mom..."<br />
<ul>
<li>"I'll never 'let myself go' and will always take care of myself so I don't get fat and unhealthy."</li>
<li>"I'll never neglect my marriage." </li>
<li>"I'll never judge other moms for their choices."</li>
<li>"I'll never leave the house while wearing sweats or yoga pants."</li>
<li>"I'll never let the laundry go for days and weeks." </li>
<li>"I'll never leave the house unless I've showered and done my hair and make up."</li>
<li>"I'll never leave dirty dishes in the sink overnight or for days at a time."</li>
<li>"I'll never put my child's needs before the needs of my husband and our marriage."</li>
<li>"I'll never resent my husband for having a job outside of the home when I'm home all of the time."</li>
<li>"I'll never let my kid eat food for which we haven't yet paid."</li>
<li>"I'll never let my kid have a tantrum in public."</li>
<li>"I'll never raise my voice to my child and will always speak to her patiently."</li>
<li>"I'll never check out mentally when I'm with my child."</li>
<li>"I'll never plop my kid in front of the television for hours at a time so I can get things done." </li>
<li>"I'll never check out mentally when I'm with my husband." </li>
<li>"I'll never give up time with my girlfriends."</li>
<li>"I'll never stop being a good friend." </li>
<li>"I'll never stop writing, blogging and making art."</li>
<li>"I'll never spend every evening on the couch zoning out in front of the television." </li>
<li>"I'll never give up date nights with my husband."</li>
<li>"I'll never lose the things about myself that make me me."</li>
</ul>
<br />
And I never do any of these things.<br />
<br />
Until I do.<br />
<br />
All. Of. The. Time. <br />
<br />
I almost always leave the house while wearing sweat pants or yoga pants. Do my hair? Wear makeup? Seriously? That never happens. I haven't been thin or healthy in quite some time. I find myself judging other moms for things that I know that I do with own kid or that I am afraid of doing. I don't want to be THAT mom who is yelling at her kid on the playground. But sometimes I am. <br />
<br />
Do I pay attention to my amazing husband beyond talking about our daughter or general domestic issues? Not so much. Here I have this wonderful, kind, brilliant and loving life partner, but I can hardly remember what it feels like to be in a romantic relationship with him because I don't make the effort these days. I'm too worn out from being a mom. Or at least that's what I tell myself to justify not giving him more of me. He always gets the last and worst of me. I'm not the wife that I want to be. <br />
<br />
What about my totally awesome kid? She's funny, kind,
energetic, and one of the most engaging people I've ever met. But I'm
not the mom I want to be because I'm not in the present moment with her
the way I should be. I'm so tired and sometimes just plain resentful of constantly
having to be on duty for her. She gets me all of the time. But she doesn't get the best of me. At the end of the day especially I am always impatient and in a hurry to get her to bed. I'm not kind. I'm not the mom I want to be.<br />
<br />
My house is consistently a wreck. It takes too much energy and patience to try to wrangle my 3.5 year-old into helping put away the 800 toys and all of the household items that she just HAS to put on the floor every single day. I always put off doing the laundry and the dishes. And when was the last time my floors saw a mop? Ha! I'm not the housekeeper I want to be. <br />
<br />
And my friends? Well, I see them a few times a year and I keep them updated a few times a week on Facebook. I'm an awesome friend...yeah, not so much. I'm not the friend I want to be.<br />
<br />
Blogging? Writing my novel? Making art? Haven't done any of that in I can't remember how long. I'm not the creative person I want to be.<br />
<br />
Truth is, I'm pretty much a hot mess right now. I find myself in that territory many moms find themselves in: I've lost the things that make me me because I let the "never" list take over.<br />
<br />
I never.<br />
<br />
Until I do.<br />
<br />
But now.<br />
<br />
Time to set the "never" list aside.<br />
<br />
Time to get back to being me.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-32257277911664286452014-06-25T22:44:00.001-04:002014-06-25T23:00:32.391-04:00Transracial adoption: One of these things is not like the other...<b>An interesting incident from January 2012 when I was still a new mom...</b><br />
<br />
We are in line at the grocery store, my five month-old daughter sound asleep in her baby carrier on the cart and me watching the woman in front of us unloading her cart's contents onto the belt. The woman is blonde, blue-eyed, petite, and pretty. The little boy standing next to her - probably five years-old or so - has to be her son because he looks exactly like her. He is adorable. I can't help staring at him.<br />
<br />
The little boy notices me gazing at him so I give him what I hope is my best "I really like little kids" smile. Thankfully he smiles back. Then he notices the baby carrier sitting on my cart and makes his way over to me.<br />
<br />
"Can I see the baby?" he asks me in a raspy voice.<br />
<br />
"Sure, Buddy," I say and move aside.<br />
<br />
Grasping the cart handle he hoists himself up for a good look. Apparently this is a kid who really likes babies because he gets a goofy big smile on his face. At this moment his mom notices him missing from her side and looks around to see him standing on my cart. She looks as though she's going to call him back so I give her my most "it's OK" smile with a little hand wave and she relaxes while the cashier continues to scan and bag her items. After another moment the boy's smile fades as he looks from Esme to me and back again several times. He steps down from the cart and with a serious expression says slowly and loudly, "S h e ' s v e r y b r o w n."<br />
<br />
The petite blonde looks alarmed at this loud pronouncement from her son.<br />
<br />
"Yes, she is," I reply.<br />
<br />
"She's very brown," he repeats, "and you're NOT."<br />
<br />
A look of sheer horror settles on the face of the little boy's mom, but I wave her off gently before she can interrupt.<br />
<br />
"No, I'm not," I say with a chuckle.<br />
<br />
The little boy thinks about this for a moment and then asks, "So, is your husband brown?"<br />
<br />
"Omigod," says the little boy's mom her face flushing in utter embarrassment.<br />
<br />
Personally, I don't think she should be embarrassed at all. Her kid is a genius! How many five year-olds would make that leap? <br />
<br />
"No, Buddy, my husband isn't brown."<br />
<br />
He looks confused.<br />
<br />
"My daughter is adopted."<br />
<br />
"What does that mean?"<br />
<br />
The boy's mother is now making quiet strangling noises with her face in her hands, "Honey, please!"<br />
<br />
Ignoring his mother's near panic, I say, 'That means that my daughter grew in someone else's tummy, but that lady couldn't tale care of her when she was born. So my little girl came to live with me and my husband and now we're her parents."<br />
<br />
"Oh, OK," he says cheerfully walking back to his mother's side.<br />
<br />
"I am SO sorry," says the mom looking as if she'd rather be anywhere else.<br />
<br />
"Please don't apologize. It's just fine. Really."<br />
<br />
My daughter is brown. <br />
<br />
Very brown.<br />
<br />
And I am not.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-62241852702382864672014-06-23T00:14:00.001-04:002014-06-23T00:34:40.102-04:00I'm Back (and Conversations with Esme...)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghZIBc0-v5By4TqUNxMeer2PHPKSWY_mvDNw6VkEf6uFfOeyd6-Pi-mXwevoo2DLrkgpJEMkWf9byaxiK_KSOBUpMZS0Mym_kILin6AX-CAswutjHZOV0IuTWPmwEn-jJ_dTiumKt1hwv1/s1600/IMG_8276.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghZIBc0-v5By4TqUNxMeer2PHPKSWY_mvDNw6VkEf6uFfOeyd6-Pi-mXwevoo2DLrkgpJEMkWf9byaxiK_KSOBUpMZS0Mym_kILin6AX-CAswutjHZOV0IuTWPmwEn-jJ_dTiumKt1hwv1/s1600/IMG_8276.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></div>
<br />
It's hard for me to believe that my amazing girl is almost three years old.<br />
<br />
<br />
And that I haven't written on this blog for more than two years. What the heck happened???<br />
<br />
Motherhood.<br />
<br />
That's what happened.<br />
<br />
Diaper changes, sleep deprivation, walking circles around the kitchen island in the middle of the night trying to get her back to sleep, schlepping her in the car seat here and there, teething, barfing (her, not me), bottle feeding, baths, sleep deprivation, multiple daily clothing changes, getting barfed on, getting barfed on some more, getting barfed on again, sleep deprivation, crying in my car because I'm so tired, hearing her first laugh, seeing her first smile, watching her roll, then scoot, then crawl, then pull herself up, then take her first step, and more steps, then run, then say her first word and her second word, trips to the playground, more trips to the playground, etc. etc. etc.<br />
<br />
Losing myself entirely for almost three years in this wonderful, terrible, fabulous, maddening and transformative thing called motherhood. When I started this blog back in 2009 to explore my husband's and my adoption journey, I had every intention of then writing about our family post-adoption and about my experience with motherhood. But somehow writing about motherhood just never materialized. I was just too busy. Too tired. Too much of a mom and not quite as much of the me I was before I became a mom.<br />
<br />
But here I am again. Feeling the need to write. And what else would I write about? Being a mom is my full-time gig. It's what I do. It's what's in my brain. It's kind of all I know these days. So basically it's all I know to write.<br />
<br />
So, to kick off the re-boot of this blog I am going stop making excuses for why I've been gone so long and instead get you up to speed on my girl via some of my favorite conversations with Esme who is, as I already mentioned, amazing.<br />
<br />
Actually she is A-M-A-Z-I-N-G. Super smart, extremely independent, uber social, fearless, compassionate, charming, and has a great sense of humor.<br />
<br />
<br />
<u><b>February 8, 2014</b></u><br />
<br />
Filed under "What Not to Say to Your Child":<br />
<br />
ME: OK, Sweetie, it's time to get dressed.<br />
<br />
ESME [goofs around in rocking chair]<br />
<br />
ME: Guess you don't want to go to the mall today. Guess we won't replace your bracelet.<br />
<br />
ESME [hopping off chair]: Go mall! Go mall!<br />
<br />
ME [lifting Esme onto changing table]: Well, we have to get you dressed. Can't go to the mall in your pajamas. Well, you could, but then I'd be a crap mom.<br />
<br />
ESME [laughing hysterically]: Crap mom! Crap mom! Crap mom!<br />
<br />
<br />
<u><b>March 19, 2014</b></u><br />
<br />
At the library with La Munchipessa.<br />
<br />
ESME [picking up a toy stuffed frog]: Frog is sad.<br />
<br />
ME: The frog is sad? Why is he sad?<br />
<br />
ESME: Has no friends.<br />
<br />
ME: The frog has no friends?<br />
<br />
ESME: Nooo.<br />
<br />
ME: That is sad.<br />
<br />
ESME [rolling a toy car with two Little People in it to the frog]: Frog has new friends!! [smiles]<br />
<br />
<br />
<u><b>May 5, 2014</b></u><br />
<br />
ESME [pointing to her purple sock monkey doll]: This is baby.<br />
<br />
ME: Purple Monkey is your baby today?<br />
<br />
ESME [nodding, but also frowning]: The baby sick.<br />
<br />
ME: She's sick? Oh no.<br />
<br />
ESME: Need to go to doctor office. The baby sick. Need to go to doctor office.<br />
<br />
ME: OK, we better call to see if we can get an appointment.<br />
<br />
ESME [pointing to Purple Monkey's little leg]: The baby has cramp! Has cramp!<br />
<br />
ME: Oh no.<br />
<br />
ESME: [rubbing Purple Monkey's leg and smiling a huge smile]: Cramp all gone! Baby feels better!<br />
<br />
<br />
<u><b>May 11, 2014</b></u><br />
<br />
I am in bed while my husband and daughter are busy in the kitchen making pancakes for me. (And I know this because La Munchipessa just ran to the bedroom door, announced, "We making pancakes for you!" and then dashed off again.)<br />
<br />
Happy Mother's Day to me!!!<br />
<br />
[addendum: In related news, La Munchipessa just reappeared in the doorway to announce, "We have syrup!"]<br />
<br />
<br />
<u><b>May 31, 2014</b></u><br />
<br />
So, I'm fighting the spring/early summer crud [cough cough cough sniffle sniffle sniffle]. My daughter;s take on the crud...<br />
<br />
ESME: Open you mouth.<br />
<br />
ME [opening my mouth]<br />
<br />
ESME: You have germs in you mouth.<br />
<br />
ME: Yes, I have germs in my mouth.<br />
<br />
ESME [pointing to herself]: I doctor. I make you feel better.<br />
<br />
ME: You're the doctor and you're going to make me feel better?<br />
<br />
ESME: [nodding enthusiastically] : I doctor.<br />
<br />
ME: What do you recommend for me to feel better?<br />
<br />
ESME [thinking]: Soup!! [runs to her covered water table where she busily combines dirt and grass in a bowl] I make you cake. You feel better.<br />
<br />
ME: Well, thank you. I think cake will make me feel better. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-54706021573294022992012-04-08T11:27:00.000-04:002012-04-08T11:27:30.893-04:00She comes home...part 8<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrTBEi1quqnRkAB_FYTroGrtzFxn6uJUYkA0BjepV5VjbLIE2UMc5HiGIqy-RHFr-35gzNEj0QDAiFYLM3HvFKYKK94TaJWCT40NMD2_jIJ_klycZCEJlwnkIPxsfW6FPZ6hbVXG9St78r/s1600/IMG_0843.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrTBEi1quqnRkAB_FYTroGrtzFxn6uJUYkA0BjepV5VjbLIE2UMc5HiGIqy-RHFr-35gzNEj0QDAiFYLM3HvFKYKK94TaJWCT40NMD2_jIJ_klycZCEJlwnkIPxsfW6FPZ6hbVXG9St78r/s320/IMG_0843.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It's difficult for me to describe witnessing my husband hold his daughter for the first time. I'm not sure that I can beyond including the above photo in this post...It's still my absolute favorite photo of the two of them together. The quiet wonder and joy of the moment.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Several hours or so before this photo is taken... I tuck Esme into her carrier and load her into the car to make the trek to the airport to pick up Chris, who is finally able to travel to Orlando to be with us for the weekend. According to the airline website his flight is on time so I expect to park the car, meet Chris at baggage claim and have some time to introduce him to his daughter. Imagine my surprise and dismay when I receive a text mid-way on my drive to the airport that his flight is 25 minutes early. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Crap. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So, now I'll be picking Chris up curbside.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A short time later I see him standing there with his backpack slung over his shoulder. Smiling. Looking a little tired and nervous.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I ease the car over to the curb, get out and walk around to greet my husband with a long hug and a kiss. Then wordlessly he opens the rear passenger door and leans in to get his first real look at our daughter. Tears immediately spring to his eyes. Happy tears. "She's so beautiful."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We have to get going before airport security shoos us away on this busy travel Friday.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Do you want to ride in the back with her?" I ask.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He shakes his head.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And then we're off to the attorney's office so Chris can sign the papers.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We don't talk much on the way and laugh a little hysterically when I call up the wrong address on the GPS landing us at the pediatrician's office instead of the attorney's office. A quick panicked call to the attorney and we're off again.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Finally we arrive. Chris gently lifts the carrier out of the car. It is apparent that he is already mesmerized by his little girl.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Soon we are settled into a small conference room. The attorney leaves us to gather the papers. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Do you want to hold her?" I ask Chris, taking Esme out of her carrier.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"No, I'll wait until we're back at the hotel," he says wistfully. Then he looks at Esme in my arms. "Wait. Yes. I do."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So I hand her to him. For a few seconds he looks as if I've handed him a live grenade.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"It's OK," I say.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">She looks so very tiny in his hands.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He gazes at her already full of love and adoration.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I take a few photos. He is lost in the moment, but finally looks up and I snap a few of him smiling, too. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then the attorney is back and Chris is signing papers while I change the baby's diaper and give her a bottle. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And then it's done.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Chris and I are now Esme's legal guardians.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We return to the hotel to begin our first weekend together as a family. While we do many fun things including dinner out at a Thai restaurant, a trip to Babies-R-Us to buy a Snap-n-Go, and her first visit to an art museum, what I remember most about the weekend is Chris holding Esme. Singing to her. Dancing slowly with her around the hotel room. The way he gazes at her. It is obvious that he is completely smitten.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We joke now that we're doomed. That one day our daughter is going to look at Chris and ask sweetly, "Daddy, can I have a pony?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And he's going to reply, "A pony? Of course! What color, Honey?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You can see it all in this very first weekend. </div><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1QaAc8iyVE-a9BwRNgMawPDe6K4h2bW8PepAqLa-x5EnoMq1gwguzTlBKW5McfVvWwsgeVn1dNI5EDAXMzZ7-LJaMbFGWJ3XwNkaCkD6EMyQhsK3i6r5wVqTzg3mw9NihN6IMSClYSsR_/s1600/IMG_0871.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1QaAc8iyVE-a9BwRNgMawPDe6K4h2bW8PepAqLa-x5EnoMq1gwguzTlBKW5McfVvWwsgeVn1dNI5EDAXMzZ7-LJaMbFGWJ3XwNkaCkD6EMyQhsK3i6r5wVqTzg3mw9NihN6IMSClYSsR_/s320/IMG_0871.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Sunday comes all too soon and I find myself driving Chris back to the airport so he can return to his last week of work at the job he is leaving. Neither of us wants him to go. But he'll be back in five days.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He kisses our daughter gently. He kisses me gently. And then he's gone. </div>Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-86957800935956287692012-03-21T00:18:00.000-04:002012-03-21T00:18:55.960-04:00She comes home...part 7"I don't know how you did that! Taking care of a newborn all by yourself in a hotel room! I couldn't have done it."<br />
<br />
Numerous people express these sentiments to me upon our return home with Esme.<br />
<br />
"Well...I didn't really have a choice," I reply. <br />
<br />
I'm sure before all of this craziness happened if someone had told me that I'd be spending 10 days with an infant in a hotel room, the majority of those ten days alone with her, I probably would have fainted at the prospect.<br />
<br />
Fainted dead away. <br />
<br />
But the truth is that once we get to the hotel and it's just Esme and me...I'm more relaxed than I have been in almost three years.<br />
<br />
After the insanity of our failed adoption in March, getting the news of Esme's birth on the heels of Hurricane Irene and the mad rush of getting myself to Florida, after the agonizing and waiting, making the final pact with K, nasty Nurse Stink Eye, the signing of the papers, the clueless attorney, and finally (painfully) saying goodbye to K...being alone with Esme in a clean, quiet hotel room seems comparatively easy.<br />
<br />
Even relaxing.<br />
<br />
"I didn't have a choice," I reply to the folks amazed by my ability to take care of a newborn alone in a hotel room. "But honestly, compared to the two and a half years of waiting and everything else that happened on our adoption journey...taking care of her turned out to be the easy part."<br />
<br />
Esme is a quiet baby.<br />
<br />
She sleeps most of the time wrapped up like a burrito. Over the course of two days at the hospital I have become adept at swaddling. She cries when she wets her diaper and when she's hungry. However, I am extremely grateful that she is apparently one of those babies who, when a need is addressed, immediately stops crying. She isn't one of those babies who gets herself all worked up.<br />
<br />
Our room is spacious with two queen sized beds, a decent sized sitting area and a tiny kitchenette. Because we're in Orlando - Land of <strike>the Evil Empire</strike> Disney - hotel rooms are plentiful and cheap. A room this size and quality near where we live would be in the hundreds for just one night. But here it's affordable. And conveniently the hotel is right across the street from Target. Anything I need is just one minute away.<br />
<br />
Our first night together as mother and daughter is relatively quiet. Upon our arrival in our temporary home she sleeps in the portable bed-top sleeper while I get all of the various baby stuff set up in little stations around the room. Once that's done I sit next to her on the bed to watch her sleep. Wrapped up burrito-style she is very still, although from time to time she moves her little head in a circle and her mouth opens wide in a silent cry. And then she settles back down into deep sleep.<br />
<br />
Do newborns dream?<br />
<br />
"Hello, my little burrito," I whisper to her.<br />
<br />
Some part of my brain thinks that I should be panicked about being here on my own with her, but I'm not. She's quiet and content. I'm quiet and content.<br />
<br />
I send text messages and photos to Chris and our families. She sleeps, eats, makes wet diapers, and occasionally opens her dark-brown-almost-black eyes. I'd like to think she can see me, but I know from my reading that she sees virtually nothing at this point in her life. Her world is made up of sound, taste and other physical sensations. Like most newborns, she isn't crazy about being naked. Her skinny legs and arms flap manically when I change her. Her way of saying, "Holy crap it's cold in here!!!"<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry, my little burrito," I say and try to dress her quickly. The teeny tiny newborn clothes are simply gigantic on her. Every time I change her I can't help but be delighted by her big feet. Well, giant for her...they are tiny little feet, but look ginormous on her pencil skinny legs. She has long, slender toes.<br />
<br />
When she is awake, I lay her the length of my thighs and just gaze at her. Every little movement is adorable. She makes soft smacking sounds. And sometimes she sighs deeply.<br />
<br />
I touch her face, her hair, her hands and feet. I am certain that she is the most perfect baby ever and tell her so, "You are the most perfect baby. Ever."<br />
<br />
She doesn't reply, but looks in my direction with wide unseeing eyes. And sighs deeply.<br />
<br />
I'd like to think she understands that already after just a few days I adore her with every fiber of my being. <br />
<br />
No matter how tightly I wrap her into her burrito blanket cocoon, her left hand inevitably makes its way up and out of the top of her swaddling blanket. She sleeps with her fingers pressed to her cheek. This just kills me it's so sweet.<br />
<br />
"I think we should call her Houdini," I say to Chris. "Her left hand will not be contained. She gets it out of the swaddling every time I do her up!"<br />
<br />
He laughs, but it is obvious that he is incredibly sad to be missing her first day away from the hospital. Her first day as part of our family.<br />
<br />
"You'll be here tomorrow," I say trying to ease the ache, knowing it doesn't help.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-52809190116487737952012-03-07T09:13:00.000-05:002012-03-07T09:13:42.393-05:00She comes home...part 6My stomach is doing uncomfortable flip flops.<br />
<br />
I sit on one of the couches in the airy third floor hospital lounge, but it's impossible to get comfortable. From time to time I get up and walk around just to be doing something. When I'm not walking or glancing at the door, I'm sending text messages to Chris.<br />
<br />
10:50 AM [ME]: I signed all the papers. The attorney now in with K having her sign everything. OMG. This is really happening.<br />
<br />
11:01 AM [CHRIS]: I'm at my desk. Having a bit of trouble breathing.<br />
<br />
11:01 AM [ME]: me too<br />
<br />
11:20 AM [CHRIS]: Anything?<br />
<br />
11:20 AM [ME]: Still waiting<br />
<br />
11:21 AM [CHRIS]: This is nerve-wracking.<br />
<br />
11:21 AM [ME]: What about this entire experience hasn't been nerve-wracking???<br />
<br />
11:22 AM [CHRIS]: Bonus wracks for being so close to it happening. I'm sorry I'm not there with you.<br />
<br />
11:22 AM [ME] I'm sorry too. But you'll be here tomorrow and we will just get to hang out without anyone else around!<br />
<br />
Two hours earlier I arrive at the hospital to find K watching television and the baby laying next to her asleep.<br />
<br />
"You just missed her being awake," says K.<br />
<br />
"That's OK," I reply. "I'm sure she'll be awake again soon."<br />
<br />
K nods.<br />
<br />
"Do you want to hold her?"<br />
<br />
I nod as K hands her to me. The baby doesn't even stir during the hand-off. One little hand peeks out of the top of the swaddling blanket.<br />
<br />
"How are you?" I ask K.<br />
<br />
"I'm OK," she says looking at me and then back at the tv. "I'm OK."<br />
<br />
Again, I wonder if she is trying to convince me or herself that she truly is OK. <br />
<br />
"Are you sure?"<br />
<br />
She nods her head.<br />
<br />
I try one last time. One last time I'll say it and then there's no going back for either of us.<br />
<br />
"There's still time to change your mind," I say.<br />
<br />
The statement...a question really...hangs in the air between us for a minute before K says, "No. I'm OK. I'm OK."<br />
<br />
She looks back at the tv. I look down at K's baby in my lap. Sleeping. Content. Unaware of the pact being made and confirmed by the two women who love her more than anyone else in the world will ever love her. <br />
<br />
Finally the attorney arrives. A pretty woman with dark hair in her mid-thirties. She smiles broadly as she introduces herself to K and to me. She coos over the baby announcing that she has a 5 month-old at home. After a few minutes of chit-chat she turns to me and says, "So, have you and your husband chosen a name?"<br />
<br />
"Esme Louisa," I reply.<br />
<br />
'That's beautiful," says the attorney with another big smile.<br />
<br />
"Unless you changed your mind and there's a name that you like," I say turning to K hoping, even though I love the name we've chosen, that K will tell me that she's changed her mind and would like to have a part in naming her baby.<br />
<br />
She shakes her head, "No. I'm OK. That's pretty."<br />
<br />
Esme Louisa it is.<br />
<br />
And then the attorney is leading me out of the room explaining that I have to be in a different part of the hospital while K signs the papers. She leads me to the lounge, pulls out a huge packet of papers and proceeds to go over each one with me. I'm sure that I'm supposed to read each one thoroughly, but I can't seem to focus properly because I'm so nervous. So, I nod a lot. Finally, the attorney announces that she needs to go review all of the documents with K, which will take a while. I try my best to read everything per the attorney's instructions, but just end up locating all of the places I'm supposed to sign and, with shaking hand, do just that.<br />
<br />
The lounge is empty but for me. People come and go from the maternity ward, but no one stops here.<br />
<br />
The minutes drag by.<br />
<br />
Then at 11:32 the doors open and there is the attorney with a big smile on her face.<br />
<br />
K signed the papers.<br />
<br />
The attorney gives me a quick hug. I hand her my signed papers. We return to K's room. The moment I see K is so terribly, horribly bittersweet. She is crying. Big tears. I want to hold her, to tell her that it's all going to be OK. I want to adopt K along with her baby. She is so young and scared. She needs someone to take care of her. Seeing her cry and knowing what we've done...I am so heartbroken for her. So happy for me and Chris, but so heartbroken for her.<br />
<br />
Part of me just wants to take it all back. To un-sign everything and go back in time to before we even knew about K and her baby.<br />
<br />
I walk to her thinking that I will put my arms around her, but she thrusts Esme Louisa in my direction and turns away.<br />
<br />
I can't blame her. I'd probably turn away from me, too, if I was her.<br />
<br />
The attorney, oblivious to K's pain and only interested in my joy, jumps in front of me with a camera and says, "Smile!'<br />
<br />
So, I do. Then the attorney says, "Give me your phone and I'll take some pictures for you."<br />
<br />
So, I do and she does.<br />
<br />
"How about a picture with K?" says the oblivious attorney.<br />
<br />
"Well, I think that's really up to K. I don't want to intrude on her privacy," I respond.<br />
<br />
K is not crying anymore, but is still obviously shaken by what has just happened here. <br />
<br />
"Oh, I guess I always think that everyone wants their pictures taken. It's such a happy occasion!"<br />
<br />
Not for K. <br />
<br />
This attorney really is clueless.<br />
<br />
I look at K who says quietly, "I don't think I want my picture taken."<br />
<br />
"I understand," I reply. "That's totally fine."<br />
<br />
The attorney looks confused and disappointed. She puts her camera away. Finally, she announces that it's time for her to go. She congratulates me again, makes some vague noises in K's direction and leaves us.<br />
<br />
I am wrung out and have no words left to text my husband so I simply send him this photo:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj43mYgJPlLZSGKI-8qCh94kdZWnDb-aWlFHPMlcYN3UkJ2LHR1navJ9umH9uzWvY9ehxkdLr48jhpoKiI3Gv5IiiOm56B1f31bCriuuB-4Hd4FwJ7_0TAH5iqA3Fs2Z2LKUA7x416JzORe/s1600/IMG_0826.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj43mYgJPlLZSGKI-8qCh94kdZWnDb-aWlFHPMlcYN3UkJ2LHR1navJ9umH9uzWvY9ehxkdLr48jhpoKiI3Gv5IiiOm56B1f31bCriuuB-4Hd4FwJ7_0TAH5iqA3Fs2Z2LKUA7x416JzORe/s320/IMG_0826.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<br />
And then I sit on the low pink couch with my daughter and her mother. One of us is sleeping soundly while the other two contemplate the enormity of what we've just done.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-3232809590955381872012-03-05T10:20:00.001-05:002012-03-05T11:48:01.129-05:00She comes home...part 5"I can't get her to wake up to eat," I say quietly to the night nurse, B. "She is sleeping so deeply. I've tried everything, but she just won't wake up."<br />
<br />
I'm very worried about this because the baby hasn't eaten in more than two hours. Nurse Stink Eye, upon returning the baby earlier in the evening after her tests are complete, looks at K and reminds her that because the baby is so small she needs to eat every two hours. No exceptions. She looks at me with the evil Stink Eye and says nothing before leaving the room to sign off from the day shift. I don't know if it's me personally that has her so up in arms or adoptive moms in general. Regardless, I'm relieved knowing that she won't be back this evening.<br />
<br />
"Ahhh, give her to me," says Nurse B with a big smile. It's obvious that she loves babies.<br />
<br />
It's late. 11 p.m. or so. K is sound asleep after taking a sleeping pill and I've been sitting with the baby for several hours now after a quick trip to my hotel room to freshen up and have a quick bite to eat (a frozen lean cuisine from the hotel snack shop. Yum. Not.)<br />
<br />
Since arriving at the hospital five hours ago I've exchanged numerous texts and phone calls with Chris, who is kindly keeping everyone else in the family updated about events down here. It's too much for me to reach out to everyone. I'm pretty exhausted.<br />
<br />
Every conversation I have with Chris involves me saying, "I wish you were here" and him replying, "I wish I was there, too" and both of us still uttering things like, "I can't believe this is happening" and "what if she won't sign the papers?" Still, we try to remain optimistic.<br />
<br />
"I wish you'd send a picture of you and the baby together," Chris tells me.<br />
<br />
"No, not yet. It wouldn't be right. Not until the papers are signed and she's ours."<br />
<br />
"Mmm," he replies, "yeah, you're right." <br />
<br />
We also spend time reviewing our list of names and narrowing them down to our final choice. If we're to sign papers tomorrow then the baby is going to need a name for the birth certificate. It doesn't take long, thankfully. It's a good choice. A sweet lovely name. <br />
<br />
Earlier, long before my conversation with Chris, I ask K if she has a name picked out, "Is there a name that you like? Have you picked one out?"<br />
<br />
"Ohhh, nooo," K replies, "no you should choose."<br />
<br />
"Are you sure? If there's a name that's special to you, we'd certainly like to consider it."<br />
<br />
"No," she says in her breathy voice, "there is no name."<br />
<br />
I can't help wondering if there is, but don't pry any further. Her mind seems made up to let Chris and I name the baby. Part of me is relieved, but part of me is also sad because I had been hoping that K might want to participate in naming her little girl.<br />
<br />
There have also been several calls with the FL adoption agency throughout the evening. The ladies there seem to be all at once excited for me to be spending time with the baby, but also nervous about me spending time with K (they encourage me to try to take the baby to another room, but I don't feel right about that and even if I did want to it certainly didn't feel like Nurse Stink Eye would let that happen.) I keep receiving warnings from the adoption agency folks to not share any personal information with K: "don't give her your phone number" and "under no circumstances let her know where you live" and my favorite (NOT) "And for God's sake don't give her or offer her any money." It's unnerving to have the adoption agency people display so much distrust for K. And it's the one completely sour note (aside from Nurse Stink Eye) in this whole experience. <br />
<br />
"Newborns sleep a lot and sleep heavily. Sometimes it's hard to wake them up," Nurse B explains.<br />
<br />
Nurse B is young - maybe 30. She is pretty with long, long brown and a friendly open smile. Additionally, it is obvious that she is confident with her little charges as she easily handles the baby. There is also the added bonus that Nurse B, unlike Nurse Stink Eye who looked at me as if I were some sort of mutant from another planet, acts kindly toward me. Even though I'm not the woman who gave birth to this baby, I am the adoptive mother and Nurse B treats me like she would <i>any</i> new mother.<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm surprised to see her removing the swaddling blanket, the tiny onesie, the baby's hat and even her itty-bitty diaper (it's SO tiny...it looks like it should be for a baby doll!) The baby stirs in the chilly air, but sleeps on. I am startled to see just how teeny tiny she is out of the swaddling blanket. Her arms and legs are <i>skinny</i> and she has surprisingly huge feet. Nurse B and I both laugh at the sight of those huge feet on such a little person.<br />
<br />
Nurse B flips the now naked baby over, pats her bottom hard, and then tickles her feet...also hard.<br />
<br />
"Ummm," I say, "should you be doing that? She's so tiny."<br />
<br />
Nurse B laughs.<br />
<br />
"Oh, ya gotta be kind of mean to them at this age," she says with a happy grin, "or they won't wake up."<br />
<br />
Finally after more bottom patting, tickling and flipping over the baby lets out a loud cry.<br />
<br />
"Quick," says Nurse B with a chuckle, "stick the bottle in!"<br />
<br />
I stick the nipple in the baby's mouth. She immediately starts to suck. Nurse B hands her to me. Feeding her for the first time makes my mouth go a little dry and throat tighten up, but in a good way. I can hardly breathe I am so happy.<br />
<br />
The baby makes surprisingly quick work of one of the two ounces.<br />
<br />
And promptly gets the hiccups.<br />
<br />
I must look a little panicked because Nurse B says, "This is really normal. Newborns get hiccups a lot. Their tummies are not even the size of your thumb. They eat too fast and - boom! - hiccups. Just put her on your shoulder and pat her on the bum. She'll burp and eventually the hiccups will go away."<br />
<br />
I carefully place the baby on my shoulder and gently pat her little behind.<br />
<br />
"Oh, you can be a little more firm than that," says Nurse B, "she won't break."<br />
<br />
So, I pat a little harder.<br />
<br />
"That's it," says Nurse B. "You can go even a little harder. You're doing great." <br />
<br />
Burp!<br />
<br />
And then she's sound asleep again.<br />
<br />
Nurse B very kindly walks me through diapering and swaddling. The she gets up to leave saying, "I'm here all night and I'll be back in to check in on you."<br />
<br />
'Thank you so much," I reply, "you've been really kind."<br />
<br />
It's dim in K's room. I stretch out on the couch with the baby in my arms. I'd take more photos of her, but don't want to risk waking her with the flash. I've sent quite a few pictures already - a few even show her with her eyes open on those rare occasions when she would wake up. Her irises are so dark they appear black. She can't focus on anything when they're open.<br />
<br />
"Yeah," I say to her the first time she opens her eyes, "this is kind of a big confusing world isn't it, huh?"<br />
<br />
Throughout the evening K watches me with her baby. We talk a bit, but not as much as I though we would. At one point K says, "She's a good baby, just like my older daughter. She was quiet like this. Happy."<br />
<br />
"How old is she now?"<br />
<br />
"She's 4 years old."<br />
<br />
"Omigosh," I reply. "That's such a fun age."<br />
<br />
K doesn't respond with anything more than a sweet smile. I know from the adoption ladies that K's daughter is living in St. --- with K's mother. I don't know how long it's been since K has seen her daughter, but I don't have the nerve to ask nor do I think it's my place to ask if she isn't going to volunteer the information.<br />
<br />
As K watches me hold her baby earlier in the evening, I wonder what she must be thinking and feeling. Her face appears placid and reveals nothing of her thoughts or emotions. <br />
<br />
And now K is sleeping deeply while I get to know the little person who she brought into the world. The maternity ward is finally quiet. I'm exhausted, but not quiet ready to leave this little one to the care of the nurses for the night.<br />
<br />
I touch her tiny face and feet and hands, marvelling at how perfect she is.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-7646150561305993502012-03-04T09:27:00.001-05:002012-03-04T14:03:46.257-05:00She comes home...part 4"Wow..." I say softly to the bundle in my lap, "you are a very tiny little person,"<br />
<br />
The very first thing I ever say to my daughter.<br />
<br />
I'm sitting on the low, pink couch next to K's bed. The baby lays along the length of my thighs. One of my hands gently cups the back of her head (her little head barely filling the palm of my hand at all) while my other hand rests gently on her tummy. My hand covers her entire body she is so little (I learn later that she is 5 pounds 9 ounces...pretty much the smallest a newborn baby can be without needing to spend some time in the NICU.)<br />
<br />
A teeny face peeks out from between a pale blue/pink striped hat and the swaddling blanket. The face has dark skin (I'm surprised that her skin is more pale than I had expected) no discernible eyebrows yet, barely visible eyelashes, a broad-ish nose, and a sweet heart-shaped mouth.<br />
<br />
She is sound asleep.<br />
<br />
I look up to see K watching me with her daughter. Her face is unreadable. I have no idea what she must be thinking as she watches me hold her baby. Of what she thinks of me. Of knowing that tomorrow may be the day that she gives her daughter to me forever.<br />
<br />
"She is so beautiful."<br />
<br />
"Yeah," K replies in her deep yet breathy voice.<br />
<br />
I look back down at the tiniest person I have ever held. She sleeps deeply. I imagine coming into the world is a fairly exhausting process.<br />
<br />
"Is it OK if I take a picture of her?" I ask K.<br />
<br />
She nods.<br />
<br />
And so I pull out my phone, click one picture and send it to Chris. And then one more as the little bundle stirs.<br />
<br />
I finally notice that the social worker is taking her leave of us, but not before she introduces me ("And this is the adoptive mother") to the day nurse who has come to check on K and the baby.<br />
<br />
The day nurse nods at me, but says nothing seeing me holding the baby. She, in fact, looks at me with an expression like she smells something bad. If I weren't so mesmerized by the baby, I'd probably be really upset by this woman's obvious dislike of me or perhaps her discomfort, but at the moment I can't let myself get upset. The social worker and K don't seem to notice me getting The Stink Eye from the nurse. <br />
<br />
Soon the social worker makes her escape and Nurse Stink Eye makes several more visits over the next 30 minutes to check on her patients and, no doubt, to make sure I haven't dropped her little charge. Before she signs off from her shift, Nurse Stink Eye announces that they have some tests to run on the baby, transfers her from my arms into a waiting hospital bassinet, and whisks her from the room.<br />
<br />
I look at K.<br />
<br />
Now is the time.<br />
<br />
I have to talk to her and say what's been in my head since the moment I found out that I was coming to Florida to meet her and the baby. So I get up and sit on the edge of her bed.<br />
<br />
'This is weird, isn't it?" I ask her.<br />
<br />
"Yeah," she answers solemnly.<br />
<br />
We look at each other for a minute saying nothing and then I hear myself saying the thing that I've been dreading saying, but knowing that I can never move forward with any of this if I don't, "You know...you can still change your mind. We haven't signed any papers."<br />
<br />
She stares at me for half a minute.<br />
<br />
"No, I wouldn't do that," she says in her strangely deep yet breathy voice. "I wouldn't ask you to come all the way down here and then back out. I'm not that kind of person."<br />
<br />
I look away, not able to speak. This is so hard. I can't even imagine how hard it must be for K. What she must be thinking or feeling. <br />
<br />
Finally, I look back and say, "I know. But you can still change your mind. Chris and I will be OK if you do. We'll be fine."<br />
<br />
"No," she says, "I'm OK. I'm OK."<br />
<br />
But I don't know if she's saying it to convince me or to convince herself.<br />
<br />
"OK," I nod, echoing her. "OK."<br />
<br />
And again we look at each other in the awkward silence following what is the real agreement between us. No adoption agency people, no papers, no attorney, no social worker.<br />
<br />
Just the two of us. Here in this room together.<br />
<br />
Making a pact that she will give her baby to me and I will take care of her baby for the rest of my life.<br />
<br />
We are OK.<br />
<br />
"So," I say breaking the silence, "do you have any questions for me? Anything you want to know?"<br />
<br />
"No, not really," she says, "they told me a lot about you." <br />
<br />
I nod.<br />
<br />
But before I can say anything else, Nurse Stink Eye returns with the baby and hands her to K giving me another withering stink eye look, which I choose to ignore. Instead, I look at mother and daughter. They look perfect together. She looks right holding this little baby.<br />
<br />
This is so hard.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-37271090559010328192012-03-03T08:50:00.001-05:002012-03-04T14:03:28.670-05:00She comes home...part 3I don't understand how airplanes work.<br />
<br />
Or how skyscrapers don't fall down (I generally do not go into tall buildings.) Or how parking garages can safely hold hundreds of thousands of pounds of vehicles and not collapse (this completely freaks me out and I attempt to park on the street whenever possible.) Or how bridges remain standing year after year after year so that drivers can get from Point A to Point B over large bodies of water (these I cannot avoid as I live in a state riddled with bridges that I must frequently drive across. Usually I turn up the music really loud. I don't know why I think that this will prevent the bridge from collapsing beneath my car as I drive over it, but somehow it soothes me.) <br />
<br />
But mostly it's the airplanes that terrify me. I just don't understand how they stay aloft.<br />
<br />
At all.<br />
<br />
Unlike some people who get over their fears as they get older, my terror of flying has only grown exponentially. However, I don't let it stop me from traveling. I won't let myself not visit places because of my irrational fear. I get on planes when I have to. <br />
<br />
And I sleep.<br />
<br />
Sleep is my coping mechanism.<br />
<br />
I always grab a window seat, roll up my favorite fleece jacket to use as a pillow and force myself to fall asleep for the duration of the flight.<br />
<br />
But not on August 31, 2011.<br />
<br />
On this day on my way to Orlando to meet the baby who might become part of our family, I am too keyed up to sleep. And too anxious up to read, to play a game on my phone, to make chit chat with the woman sharing the row with me, to eat, to do anything more than breathe shallow breaths.<br />
<br />
And to wring my hands.<br />
<br />
Yep, for the entire flight I wring my hands like a character out of some Regency period novel. I'm so filled with anxiety about what's going to happen or not happen and wondering if this adoption is going to fall through that it's all I can do.<br />
<br />
Finally the pilot announces our arrival. What seems like a small eternity later the passengers deplane. Could they go <i>any</i> slower? Dear God! Don't they know that I <i>have</i> to get to the hospital???<br />
<br />
Once on the ground, as instructed by E at the Florida adoption agency, I call the social worker who's waiting for me at the hospital. Despite being informed of my needing to catch a later flight, the social worker sounds incredibly perturbed that I am only just now at the airport. In a snippy tone she says, "You need to get here right away. It's the end of my day. I want to get out of here by 6:00."<br />
<br />
Not kidding. She really says that to me. I've just hauled my ass more than 1,200 miles to get to Florida not knowing whether this adoption is going to happen...and she tells me to hurry it up because it's the end of her day?<br />
<br />
Ummmm...aren't social workers supposed to be kind of compassionate and caring? Because, quite frankly, this one seems to be a major bitch.<br />
<br />
I assure Ms. It's-The-End-of-My-Day that I am making every effort to get there ASAP. She reiterates that she's done and needs to leave. I try to politely sign off.<br />
<br />
Thanks to the help of a nice sky cap, I am able dash off to rent a car while behind me he lugs my huge purple duffel bag, my big suitcase and the car seat.<br />
<br />
I must look frantic because the young woman at the rental car counter asks, "Ma'am, are you OK?"<br />
<br />
"Yes. Um. Well, no. It's just that -" and out tumbles a mess of words that include "adoption" and "not sure it's going to happen" and "social worker really upset" and "later flight" and ending with "I'm feeling a little overwhelmed."<br />
<br />
The young woman gives me a very kind smile. And she also gives me an upgrade. Without asking all of those "would you like...?" and "can we offer you...?" questions car rental people usually ask. It appears that noting my frazzled state she just gets me set up with a car...no hassle and no fuss. I thank her profusely and then turn to dash to the garage, the sky cap huffing and puffing to keep up while pushing my huge luggage on a cart.<br />
<br />
Finally I am in the car on the highway and that much closer to the pissed off social worker, to the young woman (K) who just gave birth yesterday, and to the baby girl who may or may not be coming home with me in a few short weeks.<br />
<br />
Even though the air conditioning is blasting away, I am sweating.<br />
<br />
At last, the hospital is in sight. Then I'm parked. And finally I'm standing in the hallway just outside the locked maternity ward waiting for the social worker to come to the door to let me in. I'm surprised when she actually greets me with a smile. I was expecting her to continue in It's-the-end-of-my-day bitch mode, but instead she chats amiably with me as we walk down the hall. Guess she's happy that I'm here. I hope that I am returning her amiable chat because all I can focus on is the fact that my stomach seems to have fallen uncomfortably to my feet. There is a distinct possibility that I might throw up I'm so nervous.<br />
<br />
"What?" I hear myself asking.<br />
<br />
"I'm going to take you to meet K and the baby."<br />
<br />
"But, I um...isn't there papers and stuff for me to sign?" I stutter.<br />
<br />
"No, not tonight. The attorney will come tomorrow. C'mon, let's go meet K."<br />
<br />
And before I can object she walks toward one of the rooms. I follow. Hardly able to breathe.<br />
<br />
K is in bed. Her hair is pulled back into a high pony tail. No makeup, in a hospital gown and just a day after being in labor and giving birth yet she is absolutely beautiful. Dark chocolaty skin, almond shaped eyes, high cheek bones, small pointy chin, a small gap between her two front teeth. I knew she was pretty from the grainy photo we had received from the adoption agency. But the photo doesn't do her justice at all. <br />
<br />
"Hi," I say.<br />
<br />
"Hi," she says, sounding a little sleepy.<br />
<br />
The social worker is introducing us and I'm sure she must be saying something important, but I'm not hearing any of it. I can't take my eyes off of K. And then I notice a tiny little bundle in white laying next to her on the bed.<br />
<br />
A tiny little baby-shaped bundle. With a teeny blue and pink striped hat covering her little head. I can't see her face.<br />
<br />
K, seeing my eyes stray says, "Do you want to hold her?"<br />
<br />
Her voice is deep-ish, but very soft. Her speech lightly accented.<br />
<br />
"Are you sure?" I ask, not reaching out for the little bundle. "Really?" I feel frozen to my spot.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, it's OK," she says picking up the bundle and holding it out to me. I don't move. "It's OK," she says again.<br />
<br />
And suddenly I am holding the baby.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-37239052864751151762012-02-27T13:20:00.002-05:002012-03-04T14:03:07.876-05:00She comes home...part 2<b> Tuesday, August 30, 2011. Late evening.</b><br />
<br />
The extra-large purple LL Bean duffel bag on wheels is sitting in the nursery where it has remained (fully packed with all things newborn baby....diapers, onesies, swaddling blankets, pacifiers, car seat base, etc.) since early March. Since our other adoption fell through.<br />
<br />
Chris and I never had the heart to unpack the carefully packed duffel bag once we found out that we would not be going to Arizona on March 11 to meet the little baby we thought and hoped would be joining our family.<br />
<br />
So there it sat. Waiting for another chance to be used.<br />
<br />
And now we arrive home after the madness of this evening: desperate calls from T at our adoption agency...learning that we might be parents to a baby born today in FL...being told that we'd have to get to Orlando tomorrow...telling T at the adoption agency that I'll be heading down to FL...the scramble at my mother-in-law's to get me plane tickets, a rental car and hotel reservations (and having to explain to the hotel that we have no idea how long we'll be there - possibly two weeks or three)...telling our families.<br />
<br />
It's all a blur.<br />
<br />
Now Chris is unpacking, checking the contents and re-packing the extra-large purple duffel bag.<br />
<br />
"I just want to make sure that we didn't forget anything when we packed this back in February."<br />
<br />
My husband is a very smart man. <br />
<br />
My tired brain is spinning as I try to get my own bag packed. Florida in August. It's going to be hotter than hell. Tank tops. Lots of tank tops. And shorts. And a short black skirt. I try to pack neatly and hope that I've made sensible choices, but figure that I'm not going to a wilderness and can just buy everything I need when I'm down there.<br />
<br />
"This is so crazy," I think to myself and apparently I say this out loud as well because I hear Chis pipe up from the nursery, "Yeah, it is."<br />
<br />
Soon we're in bed. Staring at the ceiling. Holding hands. Little bursts of slightly hysterical giggling erupt out of us from time to time. And just as many bursts of fear and doubt. What if I get down there and this falls through? How can we go through that again?<br />
<br />
Somehow we fall asleep.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Wednesday, August 31, 2011</b><br />
<br />
Chris drives me to the airport. I know it's killing him that he can't go with me right now. He's finishing the last two weeks at his long-time job and preparing to start his new job at a new company. There's no way he can come with me. Assuming that the papers are signed tomorrow and this little baby becomes ours, Chris will fly down on Friday to spend the weekend. And then, depending upon how long I'll have to be in FL (because this is an inter-state adoption there are papers that have to be filed in courts in both RI and FL...it takes time for the various judges to sign off on these things. The adoption agency tells us I could be there up to three weeks.) he'll come back down the next weekend.<br />
<br />
We say our goodbyes curbside with a long intense hug.<br />
<br />
I head to the counter to check in and check the extra-large purple duffel bag and my big suitcase. Then it's off to the gate. My heart is racing. I'm sweating.<br />
<br />
Finally I'm sitting in a chair at the gate with the other passengers waiting to board. Can't read because I'm too keyed up (I usually pass the time in an airport reading) to focus. Can't watch the tv because it's some moronic morning show and I'm too keyed up to focus. Can't do anything except worry about what's going to happen when I get to FL.<br />
<br />
Will this all fall apart again? <br />
<br />
At last the flight is boarding.<br />
<br />
Just as I'm getting near the front of the line my cell phone rings. It's a FL extension. I fumble quickly to answer. It's E from the Florida adoption agency. I hop out of line to take the call.<br />
<br />
"Hi Jennifer," says E, "I just need to tell you to not get on the plane."<br />
<br />
My heart drops to my feet.<br />
<br />
Oh, God. Not again.<br />
<br />
"It turns out that your BCI check is expired."<br />
<br />
An all too brief sigh of relief is replaced by utter panic. <br />
<br />
"What???" I gasp. "I don't understand, we just had our finger prints and everything re-done for our home study renewal. Our social worker told us that everything was all up-to-date. I mean...I'm supposed to be getting on the plane <i>right now</i>."<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry, but it looks like your BCI just expired. Without a current BCI we can't move forward."<br />
<br />
"So," I say, trying to collect myself, "what <i>exactly</i> does that mean?"<br />
<br />
"Well, it means that you need to go get your BCI check done today and then you can come down."<br />
<br />
"Oh, God. OK. Honestly, I don't even remember what that is or how to do that," I say, hearing the panic in my voice. "Can you help me with this? Let me know where I'm supposed to go and what I'm supposed to do?"<br />
<br />
"Sure, let me get the information and address for you and I'll call you back. Actually, I can text it to you."<br />
<br />
I dash to the guy taking the plane tickets and say, "I have to get off this flight immediately. Where should I do that?"<br />
<br />
He directs me to the other gate agent a few feet away standing at the counter.<br />
<br />
She is very petite with short whitish hair. If I had to guess, I'd say she's in her early fifties.<br />
<br />
"I have to get off this flight," I gasp. I must look pretty panicky because she - Carol according to her name badge - asks me if I'm OK.<br />
<br />
The whole story quickly comes tumbling out of me - adoption, expired form, having to get to Providence and back, and still make it to Orlando today otherwise we might not be able to adopt this baby. She makes numerous sympathetic noises as I'm talking and emits a number of "omigods", but I can see that she's sincere and obviously concerned for me. Carol kindly checks every available flight to Orlando. Luckily there are seats on every flight.<br />
<br />
"I'm just going to put a great big alert about your situation on your reservation. When you get back from Providence just go right to the ticket counter and they'll get you on the next available flight with no hassle. Your luggage is already on this one so it should be there when you get down there."<br />
<br />
I thank her profusely and run though the airport to the taxi stand.<br />
<br />
"Where are we going?" says the taxi driver, a woman about my age.<br />
<br />
"Oh, God," I say fumbling with my phone trying to retrieve the address, "I have to go get this BCI thing in Providence and - "<br />
<br />
Before I can even finish my sentence the driver says, "Oh, sure, I know right where that is."<br />
<br />
"Really?"<br />
<br />
"Yep. Have to get that done myself every year t drive the cab."<br />
<br />
"Oh, thank God something is going right today."<br />
<br />
She gives me a questioning look in the rearview mirror. So, of course, in my agitated state the whole story comes tumbling out.<br />
<br />
"Don't worry," says the driver, "I'll get you there, drop you off and if there's no parking I'll just drive around the block a few times while you're in there. We'll get you back to the airport lickety split."<br />
<br />
She really says "lickety split."<br />
<br />
The driver chats amiably with me. I hope that I'm actually answering her coherently because all I can think is that I hope this doesn't go horribly south if there's a massive line at the BCI check place and I can't get down to Florida in time.<br />
<br />
Miraculously, there is no line. I rush to the window, thrust my driver's license through the little slot and say desperately to the guy behind the glass, "Do you know how long this will take?"<br />
<br />
"Bout 5 minutes," and walks away with my i.d. before I can say anything else.<br />
<br />
"Oh, thank God!" I say when he returns 3 minutes later with the completed form, "would it be possible for you to fax it to this number?" I thrust a piece of paper through the little slot in the window.<br />
<br />
"Um, we really don't do that, ma'am."<br />
<br />
"Sir, please! The thing is - " and I launch into the whole story about having to have the form faxed or not being able to potentially adopt the little newborn girl waiting for me in FL.<br />
<br />
I must look either very desperate or very crazy because he says, "Come on back" and buzzes me through the door.<br />
<br />
He hands me off to a lady who hasn't yet heard my tale of woe so I repeat it while she's doing the faxing on an antiquated looking fax machine. Seems like it's taking forever, but finally a beep and a receipt slowly prints out from the machine. She hands me the receipt and the original form. I thank her profusely and dash out of the building praying that the taxi hasn't been driven off by the parking police, but there she is right outside the building with her blinkers on.<br />
<br />
"All set?" the driver asks me.<br />
<br />
"All set," I say and lean back to try to get my breathing to normalize.<br />
<br />
When we arrive back at the airport the driver says, "Not bad - 36 minutes door to door."<br />
<br />
"You are awesome," I reply and give her a ridiculously big tip. "Thank you!"<br />
<br />
I dash into the airport and rush to the ticket counter. Again, miraculously, no line. And true to Carol's word there's no hassle with me getting on a later flight to Orlando.<br />
<br />
An hour later I'm finally sitting on a mostly full flight bound for Orlando taking deep breaths and trying to stop my hands from shaking. We're just about to take off.<br />
<br />
"If there's a Jennifer W--- on the plane, please press your call button," a female flight attendant's voice calls out over the intercom. 'Jennifer W---- if you're on the plane please press your call button."<br />
<br />
Oh, God. What now?<br />
<br />
My hand still shaking I press the call button. And there running down the aisle is little Carol, the lovely gate agent who listened to my story and made sure that I'd have no problem getting on this later flight. She reaches my row and says with a concerned look, "Did you get the form you needed???"<br />
<br />
"Yes. Thank you so much!"<br />
<br />
"And is it a little boy or girl that you're going to get?"<br />
<br />
"Girl."<br />
<br />
She gives me a huge hug. I hug her right back and give her a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you again."<br />
<br />
"Good luck!!!" she says with a huge grin and then hustles off of the plane. The door closes immediately behind her.<br />
<br />
We start for the runway. We head to Orlando.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-49443252837451367422012-02-25T13:49:00.001-05:002012-03-04T14:02:39.620-05:00She comes home...part 1It's 2:37 a.m. and before our 5 week-old daughter can wake up her daddy with more "I'm hungry!" cries, I scoop her up out of her bed-top co-sleeper and whisk her off to the nursery for a bottle.<br />
<br />
Later, after I've laid my sleeping daughter back in her co-sleeper and I'm settling myself back to sleep next to her, it hits me that I am <i>really</i> a mom. This is the first time in these crazy first weeks of parenting that I scoop her teeny-tiny-not-quite-6-pounds-body out her co-sleeper without worrying about dropping her. Or worrying if I'm doing it "right." Or jostling her too much. Or <i>thinking</i> about how to cradle her head just right against my arm. I do it with absolutely no worries. Automatically. Effortlessly. It's like I've been doing this all of my life...scooping, holding, feeding, rocking, putting her back to bed - all just one continuous series of fluid, practiced, confident motions. <br />
<br />
I am a mom.<br />
<br />
And now here we are and she's almost 6 months old. She is no longer the tiny, fragile newborn who came to be part of our family right on the heels of Hurricane Irene. Instead, she is a sturdy little person who loves to stand up (still with assistance), bounce like crazy, blow exceedingly spitty raspberries, meet new people (our little girl is a social butterfly), look at everything, gnaw on my face, chew on her dad's fingers, smile, show off the one beautiful dimple she has on her right cheek, and laugh. Oh, how our little Munchie loves to laugh.<br />
<br />
"Enjoy every minute. It goes SO fast," is what I heard from every mom I every met when we started the adoption process.<br />
<br />
I didn't believe it.<br />
<br />
But it's true.<br />
<br />
So many times during these six months I think about writing this post. Telling the story of how Chris and I finally came to be parents to our remarkable, beautiful little girl, but somehow never get around to it...not wanting to miss any of my daughter's life.<br />
<br />
And in just 5 days she'll be 6 months-old. Where did the time go?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Hurricane Irene. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">We have no electricity. No phones. No hot water. And even our cell phones don't work well enough to place or receive calls because of damage to our town's lone cell tower. Occasional text messages make it through, but even this isn't reliable. Our neighbor has a big honkin' generator, use of which he kindly offers us because he has one extra line available. At least the stuff of the fridge and freezer might make it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Despite the lack of electricity, phones, hot water and the like, Chris and I feel truly lucky that we did not experience any flooding (been there and done that...don't need to ever go through that again) nor did our house or neighborhood suffer much by way of physical damage. It is hard to get around the first day after the storm because of downed branches, but otherwise we are all safe and unharmed.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So life is inconvenient, but good.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">August 30, 2011...Day 3 of no electricity/phones/hot water. Chris texts me with the brilliant suggestion of dinner at a favorite restaurant in the next town over, which has had power restored. I am overjoyed to be getting out of the house.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I arrive early at the restaurant and decide to take advantage of cell availability to check Facebook on my phone. When I turn on the phone I am startled to see multiple voice mail notifications on the screen. No one <i>ever</i> calls me on my phone (I'm a text junkie, but can't stand actually <i>talking</i> on my cell phone. Makes no sense, I know...) Checking my messages I am shocked to hear T from our adoption agency.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My brain goes into overdrive. The words wash over me..."been trying to reach you all day"...."need to speak with you"..."urgent"..."right away"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">For a moment I am frozen.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I haven't thought much about the adoption in close to two months. My last blog post was in early July. In truth, I had just put thoughts of adoption away in the far recesses of my brain. After everything that happened in the spring and all of the sadness and doubt I just shut down that part of me...figuring that it was probably never going to happen.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I had given up.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And now T is leaving me desperate messages.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And I'm sitting in my car not calling her because I am stunned.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">But finally I pull myself together enough to search the car for pen and paper. Then with shaking hands and a stomach that's doing uncomfortable flip flops I dial T's number. She answers right away.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">These are the bits of the conversation I am able to grasp..."have a situation"...."young woman"..."far along in her pregnancy"..."due date September 10"..."no drugs or alcohol"..."she gave birth today"..."healthy baby girl"..."you need to be in Florida tomorrow."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">What?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My brain-in-overdrive stops momentarily.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Omigod," I finally say with an hysterical laugh, "we just got hit by Hurricane Irene. Our house has no power, Internet or phones. We don't even have cell service! The only reason I'm talking to you is because I'm in the next town over and there's cell service here. I'm meeting Chris for dinner. He'll be here in a few minutes. Can we call you back?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Of course, but we do need to make a decision about this ASAP because we've showed the mother your profile and two others. If you guys want this then I really want to let her know more about you and everything that you went through this year and how gracefully you handled it."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Yes, yes. Of course, thank you. Omigod. Ummm...we'll call you back in like twenty minutes."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Chris arrives and I can see by the look on his face that he has also talked to T.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"I couldn't reach you," he says with a slightly wild look in his eyes. I'm sure that I must look much the same.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">We both stand outside the restaurant looking stunned. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Should we talk about this over dinner?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Yes.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And so we sit down in our favorite Mexican restaurant trying to grasp the reality of the situation. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The timing just couldn't be worse. Aside from the fact that we currently have no power, phones, Internet or hot water, Chris is also just beginning the final two weeks at his long-time job. He's accepted a new position at a different company. There's no way he can go to Florida. Not tomorrow anyway.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">We laugh a little hysterically about how awful the timing is.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And then we look at each other.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And we know that we have to do this. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"We'd be crazy not to do this, right?" I ask Chris.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">He nods. "Yeah. We'd be crazy...wouldn't we?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">A few seconds or maybe it's a few minutes pass by. Finally, Chris gets up to go outside to make the call to T. When he returns we somehow manage to get through dinner, although neither of us eats very much as we wait to hear back from T to learn our fate and the fate of the baby born this day. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Will we be chosen? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">We don't have to wait long before T calls with the news that one or both of us need to get on a plane to Orlando tomorrow.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Neither of us cry. We hug. We sit down again in stunned, happy silence. We laugh again at the awful, awful timing and keep saying things like, "This is exactly the way we DIDN'T want this to happen" and "Omigod" and "we don't even have any power at home!"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Then dinner is over and we're outside heading to our cars so we can race to my mother-in-law's house to utilize their Internet (although we haven't told her why) to get me plane tickets and a hotel room in Orlando. But as we make our way to our cars it all gets to be too much and my knees start to buckle.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"I need to sit down," I say to Chris who helps me to the curb. I lean into him and finally sob. The tears that I have been holding inside me for months. "I don't think I can go through it again if this falls through," I say through my sobs. "I can't do it again."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"I can't either."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">After a few minutes we manage to pull ourselves together. The rest of the evening is a blur of making arrangements to get me to Florida. (Chris will fly down a few days later for the weekend assuming that everything goes through.) Chris is on his computer dealing with plane and hotel reservations. I'm on the phone with my bank notifying them of potential large charges on my credit cards because I'll be traveling and potentially adopting a baby. Then I call my immediate family to share our news. Needless to say, my family is surprised and delighted (and although they don't say it, I'm sure scared for us knowing what we went through earlier in the year.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My dad says, "Anything you need. You just call us. Anything and anytime. OK? We love you." </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Chris' mom and step-dad arrive home from doing work on their boat to find us ensconced in their kitchen. After a "what's going on?" from his mom Chris explains what's happening.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"What?" says my mother-in-law looking completely stunned, "say that again."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Jenn is going down to Florida to meet our daughter."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"What?" is all my mother-in-law can say. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">At this point...that's kind of how we feel.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-38315530807987035892011-07-06T09:34:00.000-04:002011-07-06T09:34:44.966-04:00A new kind of lifeMy first day in eight years without a paying job.<br />
<br />
It feels...odd.<br />
<br />
Yesterday people at work tell me that I must be so relieved. That it must be nice to be getting rid of my stress. And, yes, it is.<br />
<br />
But I haven't totally gotten rid of stress in my life...just the stress of working in a job at which I was pretty good for a long time, but on which I had burned out some time ago.<br />
<br />
Now there's new and different stress...<br />
<br />
We're officially a one-income family until I can figure out a way to generate some income while I'm a stay-at-home-mom. Hopefully with my writing.<br />
<br />
I've committed to getting the house in shape for the baby's eventual (and hopefully soon!) arrival in our lives. That means cleaning out all of the closets, getting rid of more accumulated stuff to make way for new baby stuff, baby proofing, painting the baby's bookshelves and dresser, and the big project - sanding/priming/painting the remaining trim on our main floor. That's seven door frames (both sides), four window frames, and all of the baseboards. May not sound like a lot, but if you've ever sanded/primed/painted trim you'll know that it's a huge, time consuming, tedious and tiring task. Still, when it's finally done the house will feel fresh.<br />
<br />
And then there's making sure that I'm using my time wisely and efficiently each day. That I don't allow myself to get lazy. That I don't sleep in everyday, but I get up and go to "work." That I make a list of things needing to get done each day and that I <em>do</em> them.<br />
<br />
As part of my daily "get things done/don't get lazy" regime, I need to make progress on my book. Big progress. Now that I'm not dealing with the exhaustion (or the excuse of exhaustion...) of a full-time job I am making the commitment to myself to write everyday.<br />
<br />
Every. Single. Day.<br />
<br />
To make writing part of my daily list of things to do because until now I've been pretty haphazard in my approach to getting this book written. Some days I don't even look at it. Other days I'm off at the coffee house for six hours clackering away on my laptop and ignoring the rest of my life. It's time to learn a little discipline when it comes to pounding out my novel.<br />
<br />
Then there's also the stress of being the person who is now available to get "stuff" done. The cat needs to go to the vet. The plumber is coming to deal with the leaky faucet. Deliveries. Other house stuff. Grocery shopping. Cleaning. Laundry. That's all going to fall to me because I'm the one that will be home and not "working."<br />
<br />
My conversation with my husband this morning:<br />
<br />
<strong>CHRIS:</strong> So, what's on tap for you today for your first day of freedom?<br />
<br />
<strong>ME:</strong> Well, I need to head to the Target in W to get sheets and beach towels for the trip. And also those t-shirts that I like so much, but they didn't have a whole lot left at the Target in S. Um, and then I have a couple of other errands to do and then an appointment with N (my therapist) at 2:30. And then I'm going to come home and deal with laundry.<br />
<br />
<strong>CHRIS [furrowed brow]:</strong> Mmmm. Um.<br />
<br />
<strong>ME:</strong> What?<br />
<br />
<strong>CHRIS:</strong> Would you mind doing the laundry this morning?<br />
<br />
<strong>ME [furrowed brow]:</strong> Why?<br />
<br />
<strong>CHRIS:</strong> So everything has time to dry today. I'd really like to pack this evening so we can get on the road tomorrow as soon as I get home from work.<br />
<br />
<strong>ME [brow still furrowed]:</strong> Um.<br />
<br />
For about half a minute I'm annoyed by my husband's perfectly reasonable request/suggestion.<br />
I have my schedule planned out for the day! The way <em>I</em> want to get things done in the order that <em>I</em> want to get them done. And now he wants me to change my whole schedule to take care of the laundry this morning???<br />
<br />
I'm about to make a really stupid comment to the effect of what is on my mind which will surely start something that involves serious bickering. But I stop myself. Suddenly feeling very foolish and embarrassed for being annoyed for even thirty seconds.<br />
<br />
He's right, of course.<br />
<br />
It certainly makes more sense to get the laundry done and hung up this morning before I head out for the day. And, aside from my 2:30 appointment, do I really have a set schedule? Nope. Just my handy list of things to do and purchase.So, getting the laundry done this morning? Not such a big deal.<br />
<br />
<strong>ME [flushing slightly with embarrassment and hoping that Chris doesn't notice]:</strong> Of course. I'll take care of it.<br />
<br />
The first load of laundry is in the washer right now. It's still early and I have plenty of time to get everything done that I want to today.<br />
<br />
<div data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><div data-mce-style="text-align: center;" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Just because I don't have a paying job doesn't mean that I'm not going to be working or that I won't have stress.<br />
<br />
I'm just going to have a different kind of job. And there's going to be different kinds of stress. And I'm sure that there will be days where I wish desperately that I was heading into the office. Days when if I have to look at another load of laundry or clean out another closet I will likely lose my mind just a little.<br />
<br />
Hopefully that's in the distant future (or, even more hopefully, not in the future at all.)<br />
<br />
But for now I've signed on for a new life of being the person in our house who takes care of the "stuff" and who has to learn how to fill her days in new ways - with writing, taking care of our home, hopefully taking care of a baby very soon.<br />
<br />
Am I excited?<br />
<br />
Yeah, kind of.<br />
<br />
Am I scared?<br />
<br />
Yeah, a little.<br />
<br />
OK, a lot.<br />
<br />
But here I am and I want to be in the present moment with all of it.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-22718267639678270692011-07-04T20:56:00.001-04:002011-07-04T21:03:27.922-04:00Maybe next yearMost days I'm OK.<br />
<br />
I do not spend much time these days obsessing about the adoption that fell through earlier this year or the one that has yet to happen.<br />
<br />
Most days I'm OK.<br />
<br />
I go about my business. The business of living. The business of trying to be in the present moment.<br />
<br />
But then it creeps up on me. Stealthily. <br />
<br />
The sadness. The longing. <br />
<br />
Like yesterday.<br />
<br />
In many ways yesterday is a good day. Gray and rainy. I spend the day in my jammies, reading the last book in my very favorite fantasy series, hunkered down on the couch, enjoying the cat snuggled up beside me. The house needs to be cleaned, but I ignore it in favor of the life of the mind and imagination.<br />
<br />
It is only in the evening when it's finally dark enough for the fireworks to start and I head out with my husband onto our back deck to watch them that I realize how sad I am. <br />
<br />
How yet another holiday has almost come and gone.<br />
<br />
And we are still not parents.<br />
<br />
I try to enjoy the fireworks, but fail and head back inside to finish my book.<br />
<br />
Last year at the Independence Day parade we talk about how great it will be "next year" when we have the baby with us. We laugh and wonder if she'll make it all the way through the parade or if the heat and the noise will be too much for her and we'll have to pack up and head out early. <br />
<br />
And yet here we are at "next year" and next year's parade...<br />
<br />
Still no baby. Still not parents.<br />
<br />
Today we head to the parade, but surprisingly, I am not sad. Apparently I had my little moment yesterday. Instead I clap for the marching bands, clap for the veterans from the Korean War, Vietnam, and WWII, eat a forbidden hot dog, laugh at the tiny Chihuahua a few feet away barking like mad and desperate to get at the passing Clydesdale horses, and thoroughly enjoy watching parents with their children all around us enjoying the day.<br />
<br />
And hoping that maybe next year...Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-77420926617631455542011-06-29T22:39:00.000-04:002011-06-29T22:39:29.967-04:00Mental illness: There but for the grace of God, go I...She is in line in front of me at the Dunkin Donuts. It isn't that she has a bad odor drawing my attention to her because she doesn't have one, which is surprising.<br />
<br />
It is her oddness.<br />
<br />
The way she holds her arms away from her sides, hands dangling, and sways ever so slightly. It's the short brown obviously unwashed hair standing straight up in the back with large flakes of dandruff embedded in it. It's the droopy, dirty, strapless sundress and the dirty white flip flops that make me look at her more closely. Her tan feet are filthy with long, sharp looking toenails that have not seen a clipper in many, many months. I notice that her long, sharp looking finger nails are dirty as well. When her arms are not held away from her sides she plucks and plucks at the skirt of her dress. I'm guessing that she is somewhere in her early fifties, although it's hard to tell. Her face, except for her rapidly blinking eyes, is slack and immobile.<br />
<br />
The young girl behind the counter quickly gets the woman in the sundress her two powdered sugar jelly donuts and a large coffee all the while pointedly not looking at the woman or speaking to her except to say "That's three dollars and eighty-two cents."<br />
<br />
Donuts and coffee in hand the woman in the sundress makes a beeline to a table with her flip-flops slapping loudly against her filthy feet as she walks.<br />
<br />
The young girl behind the counter, obviously relieved that the crazy woman is gone, chatters loudly at me as she takes my order. I take my bottle of water and grab a seat.<br />
<br />
From across the restaurant I watch the woman in the sundress. It's hard not to. I am embarrassed to find myself staring, but she doesn't notice. She has dumped the donuts on the table without the benefit of a napkin. The table top is now covered in powdered suger. One of the donuts has a large bite taken out of it. Half of the woman's face is covered in powdered sugar, but she makes no attempt to wipe it off. Doesn't even seem to notice. Her eyes blink rapidly as she chews and she continually plucks at the skirt of her dress. After swallowing she stops blinking and plucking, stands up, grabs the partially eaten donut and makes a beeline to the trashcan. Slap-slap-slap go her flip flops. She throws the donut away, taps the door of the trashcan four times and then slap-slap-slaps her way back to the table to grab the uneaten donut and repeat the whole slap-slap-slap/throwing away/tapping process all over again.<br />
<br />
Now other people in the Dunkin Donuts are watching her. It's obvious to them that she's not right in the head and they stare at her. As I am staring. She still doesn't notice.<br />
<br />
The remains of her original twenty dollars are on the table next to hers. She grabs a five dollar bill and returns to the counter where she orders another two donuts (same kind) and another large coffee. The same young girl waits on her and is apparently still too embarrassed to look at her. The woman sways and plucks at her skirt until her order is ready. Her sundress is falling down. I am suddenly afraid that the entire Dunkin Donuts is going to be treated to seeing this woman quite naked. Amazingly, the woman notices her dangerously drooping sundress and hikes it up.<br />
<br />
Back at her table, the woman in the sundress again dumps the powdered sugar covered donuts on the table. But now she stops. The plucking and the swaying stop. She holds her arms out straight from her sides and looks perplexed. Furroughs her brow. It's obvious that she is confused. Then she suddenly appears upset. Something is wrong, but she doesn't know what. She pulls her arms back in, furiously plucks at her skirt a few times, blinks rapidly and then just about leaps out of her seat to grab another five dollar bill and head back to the counter.<br />
<br />
This time she takes her third order of coffee and donuts to a completely different table on the other side of the Dunkin Donuts leaving the mess of her orginal two coffees and second set of donuts on the first table. She also leaves the rest of her money out on the other table. Again she dumps the donuts on the new table. Now she studies them and her current location. A brief smile plays on her face as she picks up one of the donuts to take a large bite apparently much more satisfied with <i>this</i> table and <i>these</i> donuts. She chews, blinks rapidly, and plucks at the skirt of her dress.<br />
<br />
I pull myself away from the spectacle of this seriously mentally ill woman because I have to get myself to work. But not before I sit in my car for a few minutes breathing deeply, wondering if I should <i>do</i> something, not knowing what to do for the woman in the sundress, feeling guilty about not knowing what to do, and then simply being thankful for my life.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-92039108280066105962011-06-12T16:52:00.002-04:002011-06-12T16:56:29.160-04:00Am I an awful person?I'm sitting in my favorite coffee house today trying to get some writing done when she walks in with her friend.<br />
<br />
She can't be more than 15 or 16 years old. Laughing and giggling. Very pretty with long dark hair, dark eyes and tanned skin. She is wearing one of this season's popular floor length "maxi" dresses.<br />
<br />
And she is also very obviously very pregnant.<br />
<br />
She and her friend purchase their coffee and treats and sit at the next table over from me chatting happily away. I know that I am staring at them, which is terribly rude, but I cannot tear my eyes away from them so distracted and distressed am I by the sight of this pregnant girl.<br />
<br />
Distressed and distracted not by <i>her</i> or her pregnancy, but rather by <i>my reaction to her and her pregnancy</i>.<br />
<br />
"How can you possibly take care of a baby at your age?" I ask her in my thoughts. "You're just a child yourself!"<br />
<br />
I wonder whether she's planning to keep her baby, if her family is going to step in with help and financial support. Will this young woman's parents step up and raise the child if she cannot or will not raise it? Is the father going to be involved? Will they live at home with her family? Or will this young woman try to live on her own with the baby?<br />
<br />
Then suddenly some part of me contemplates getting up and walking over to this young woman to introduce myself and ask her outright if she's considering adoption. To tell her that there is a couple living just a few miles away who would make wonderful adoptive parents for her child. That the woman who would make a great mom is me! Standing right in front of her!<br />
<br />
<i>Urgh! Ach!! WTF??? How can I be thinking these things???</i><br />
<br />
Quite suddenly my mouth goes dry and I start to sweat with the shame of it all. I am so ashamed that even <i>just one</i> of these thoughts has for one millionth of one second been rattling around in my brain. So ashamed.<br />
<br />
This young woman's pregnancy is clearly <i>none of my business</i>.<br />
<br />
And, further, I have absolutely no business whatsoever judging her for being young and being pregnant.<br />
<br />
Soon the young women finish their coffee and treats and make their way out of the coffee house leaving me behind with my terrible thoughts. Leaving me feeling...<br />
<br />
Bad.<br />
<br />
Selfish.<br />
<br />
Judgmental.<br />
<br />
Predatory.<br />
<br />
Does this make me an awful person?Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-39070332119460324852011-05-22T12:45:00.000-04:002011-05-22T12:45:12.288-04:00I am still not a momIt's been 70+ days since we found out that the adoption fell through.<br />
<br />
In that time I've: wept, blogged, withdrawn from the world, come back out into the world, exercised, not exercised, gained and lost 6 pounds, gone back to therapy, attended a conference for work, decided that I'm going to have a nervous breakdown if I continue my work, tendered my resignation (effective July 1), started looking into new careers and returning to school, cleaned my house, let my house become a complete wreck, avoided the subject of adoption, talked incessantly about adoption, got weepy when I would see little babies out with their moms, came down with The Plague, missed a week of work, started revamping my novel.<br />
<br />
And...<br />
<br />
At least over the course of the past week, I stopped thinking about the fact that I am still not a mom.<br />
<br />
Until today.<br />
<br />
It just kind of hit me. And I don't know why. I walk into the house after my trip to the gym and there it is loud and clear in my head:<br />
<br />
I. Am. Still. Not. A. Mom.<br />
<br />
Which then leads to this thought:<br />
<br />
Chris. Is. Still. Not. A. Dad.<br />
<br />
And the really sad thing is that we're not having those great little conversations that we had been having for a long time before the adoption fell through...<br />
<br />
"We're not going to be able to sleep in on the weekends anymore once the baby comes."<br />
<br />
"I can't wait until we get to take her to her first PawSox game!"<br />
<br />
"Omigod. I am so not looking forward to the poopy diapers."<br />
<br />
Nope.<br />
<br />
It seems like we've kind of lost our enthusiasm.<br />
<br />
We've turned our attention to other things to avoid thinking about the fact that we were supposed to be more than two months into parenthood by now.<br />
<br />
I am still not a mom.<br />
<br />
Which kind of sucks.<br />
<br />
However, there's not much I can do about that now except be in the present moment.<br />
<br />
And so in this present moment I am off to drink a green smoothie, have some lunch, shower and then hit the grocery store.<br />
<br />
Life goes on.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5741092965957535647.post-39504986306241689432011-05-18T08:53:00.000-04:002011-05-18T08:53:13.916-04:00Being with discomfort"Did you take anything for that?" my husband asks me a few days ago during the height of what I am now calling "The Plague." The "that" he's referring to is me practically hacking up a lung every twenty minutes or so.<br />
<br />
"No [<i>coughs</i>]," I reply in a deep scratchy voice through a stuffed up head and chest. "I'm waiting until I go to bed for the night [<i>coughs</i>] to take any cold meds [<i>sneezes and blows nose twice</i>] so I can at least breathe a little better while I sleep. [<i>coughs</i>] During the day I'm just trying to let [<i>sneezes</i>] this thing make its way [<i>coughs</i>] through my system."<br />
<br />
He looks at me as if I have lost my mind.<br />
<br />
"Yeah...umm...OK."<br />
<br />
A few hours after this conversation I still cannot breathe. I'm huddled in my nest of blankets on the living room couch and still hacking away. Our elderly cat is enjoying the warmth I'm emitting as a result of my fever. She lays snoozing on top of me, opening her eyes each time I cough to regard me with a baleful glare as if to say, "You're disturbing my nap. Hush."<br />
<br />
Like my husband, I'm sure the cat would love it if I would just take the cold medication.<br />
<br />
Nope.<br />
<br />
Unlike those folks who medicate themselves day and night in an attempt to squelch every symptom of an illness, I prefer to simply be still and quiet and let whatever upper respiratory yuck (because that's usually what I get) just run it's course.The cold meds aren't going to make it go away any more quickly. If anything, I sometimes think squelching the symptoms slows the progress of a virus through your system forcing it to linger.<br />
<br />
Better to just let it do its thing and get it over with.<br />
<br />
Yep, that's my strategy.<br />
<br />
It hits me as I'm laying there trapped under the cat and coughing yet again: In spite of feeling wretched, I am actually <i>good</i> at sitting with physical discomfort.<br />
<br />
I am good at just being quiet for days on end and being still and sitting with the discomfort. At waiting it out and letting it run its course.<br />
<br />
How weird is that?<br />
<br />
In the next moment it hits me that, sadly, I do not possess the same skill when it comes to my mental and emotional life. While I might be good at sitting with physical discomfort, experiencing psychic discomfort of any kind...yikes!<br />
<br />
Nope. Not good at all at being quiet and being still when it comes to sitting with difficult emotions or thoughts.<br />
<br />
Like most people, I want to squelch the symptoms of discomfort in the realms of the mental and the emotional - numb them with things like food, movies, televsion, my computer, solitaire, anything fun and pleasant that will distract from the discomfort.<br />
<br />
How sad is that?<br />
<br />
And especially now when I have just given notice at my job, with no new job in the wings and my future plans uncertain. I'm making the leap into parenthood (hopefully, if our adoption ever goes through) and potentially into a writing career.<br />
<br />
Yep, there's definitely going to be some psychic discomfort heading my way.<br />
<br />
Maybe I should replicate my nest of blankets from my days with The Plague? Think that would help?Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17630947376220821702noreply@blogger.com1