Dear 2005 Me

Here’s my contribution to The ‘Dear Me’ Project. 

Dear 2005 Me (a pre-mama mamagigi),

I know that right now you are aching to be a mother and most times it feels like it will never happen, and that no one understands the hole in your heart.

I know that right now your daydreams and even your nightdreams are filled with hopes of sharing your life with a child. And with these dreams come snippets of a happiness like nothing you have felt before. I know that when you wake up, the gleeful butterflies will slow to an uneasiness in your gut as you remember it is not yet your time and it was just a dream. And even though you have never truly known the happiness in being a mom, you know it exists because in those dreamy moments it teases and taunts you, giving just a taste of its blissfulness. And I know that in your most lonely and angry and restless-with-the-waiting moments, it seems like that happiness will never find you in a permanent way.

I know that so far your journey has been long. I also know that now, as you wait for your phone to ring and your life to change with “Hello?” you are asking yourself all sorts of questions about when and if and why not and how-come-it-hasn’t-happened-yet. It’s okay. You’re human and this is natural. But please do not let these questions haunt you and eat at your soul.

I know that you wake each morning and the first thought in your mind, even before you have silenced the alarm clock, is whether today will be the day. I also know that, in the dark of night, when another day has passed with no news of a child to fill your arms, you drift to sleep, slowly and painfully, tears of helplessness wetting your pillow and stuffing your nose.

I know that you struggle with the insensitivity of some of those around you. Although this insensitivity is infuriating, try to find comfort in knowing it will teach you to always try to be gentle to others — for you know not what they endure, deep in their core, at night when the lights are low.

I also know that you mark each passing day in the calendar of your mind, making hopeful promises that motherhood might arrive by Memorial Day. Then Mother’s Day. Then your birthday. As these dates come and go, you begin to hope for July 4. You find yourself anticipating such holidays and social events with the notion you will have a little one to share them with. I wish I could convince you to simply enjoy these days for what they are. But I won’t try, because although it hurts so very much and you so desperately want these milestones to come, sometimes we just have to hurt.

I know that sometimes the passing days marked by a dull routine of work, then home, then work, then home are too much to bear. And I know that sometimes you must leave your desk and find a bathroom stall to quietly cry away the moments you cannot handle any other way.

I know that you have prepared a nursery with every detail a top priority. I know that walking by the room and its still rocking chair and empty crib do not hurt as much as if the room was still an office chock-full of papers, with a computer, file cabinet and desk. Instead, it is chock-full of hope. Because having a room with baby accouterment means surely a baby will come. After all, forever leaving this room unoccupied would be an evil trick by the universe. One you know you don’t deserve. I know how once in a while you go in there and sit in the creaky rocker, and try to feel the energy of the baby you hope will one day be there to keep you awake in the wee hours of the night. It’s okay to do that. Sit, look around, take it all in. You have made a loving home — a womb of your own — for a child that will come. I promise.

I know that as seemingly everyone around you is giving unsolicited advice about being patient, relaxing and going to a movie “because it will be the last one for a long time,” you want to tell them where they should really go. Because you cannot believe they don’t understand that movies are the very last thing on your mind. You squelch the urge to scream that they have no idea what it’s like to have something so personal as becoming a mother depend on so many circumstances you are not part of. You want to tell them they take for granted these gifts that have come easier to them.

I also understand that you wish these people could simply acknowledge your heartache and sit silently with you for a moment. That this would be so much more helpful than following their “I know” with “but” and some sort of look-on-the-bright-side language.

I know, gigi, I know.

I know that in the dark and lonely moments when there is nothing to do but hear the silence of all the telephones around you, you will question whether your profile is open enough, whether your letter — to a brave, still unnamed woman who will choose you to share in her child — is good enough, caring enough, real enough, strong enough, soft enough.

I also know that when you reach out to your social worker to ask whether your profile has been shown and to talk about the wait that seems so unbearably long and sometimes even disorienting, you will not like the answer you receive. You will not like being told to be patient because the right baby will find you. I know that these sentiments are hollow to you and instead seem more appropriate for a bad bumper sticker or stale fortune cookie.

Yet somewhere, deep in your mind, you know there is some truth in her counsel: The wait is the wait is the wait. You cannot change it. I understand that this powerlessness is the hardest part for you. I know you don’t want to admit there actually is nothing else you can do, that your own motherhood really is out of your hands. Yet part of your brain keeps trying to remind you of these things. (Yes, this is a corner of your brain you are not especially fond of these days.)

I know how thrilled you are at becoming a mother through adoption. After all, your husband was adopted and choosing this avenue for parenthood has always been in your master plan. I also know that when you were writing that master plan on the cocktail napkin in your mind, you just didn’t count on the waiting and powerlessness of it all. It’s not like you to want to wait, after all.

It’s like when you were a kid, and you begged and pleaded to cut your long hair into that little chopped pixie of a do, and your mother warned you about rushing such things. Rather than listen, you hurried into your neighbor-beautician’s chair. Or that time when you used some of your Christmas shopping money to buy paper dolls for yourself. That didn’t go over well with mom, did it? Well, those were supposed to be lessons where you learned about instant gratification.

So, gigi of 2005, try to remember those lessons because they are important. I know, I know. The waiting is not easy. But this is not hair and paper dolls we’re talking about.

I know you have had to make a hard, numbed-over place inside yourself to hide behind when someone seems ready to say something ignorant, weird, thoughtless or hurtful.

It’s like when people apologize to you as you excitedly share the news you are adopting a baby. I know that you just wanted these people to smile a heartfelt smile and say, “Congratulations.” Not because they feel it’s the right thing to do but because in learning of your news of impending parenthood, they sincerely want to offer their best wishes. Because, after all, you are on your way to being a mother! I know you ache at not being considered a parent-to-be.

I know you don’t understand when people express concern or even disgust about how your child won’t look like you, as if this is what parenthood and familyhood is all about. I’m sorry to tell you that isn’t resolved in 2007: You still won’t understand why people say such things to other people. Frankly, you still won’t understand how folks can feel that way in the first place, but to each his or her own. Just know that matchy-matchy still doesn’t matter to you. Never has, never will.

I know all of these things gigi, because I am you. I am sorry you hurt right now and feel like there is no end to the pain. I know you question whether your phone will ever ring and your heart will ever feel full from all the boo-boo kissing you are so desperate to do.

But I am two years wiser than you — and there are things I can tell you, things you should know, things that might ease your wait, your pain. The most important part of my message can be summed up in six words:

Your wait will be worth it.

Gigi, you will become mamagigi and there is nothing else like it. Nothing. Your heart will fill in ways you never knew it could. Your smile will be wider, deeper, brighter. Your laughs will be heartier, louder, snortier. Your love will be boundless.

And that stale fortune cookie about things always working out and the right baby finding the right family? Well, let me put it this way: As long as you have waited (which, by the way, isn’t so long in the scheme of things), the 2007 You would double it, triple it and more — without a second thought — if it means the child that makes you a mother is this little girl Maeve.

She is so wonderful, so perfect in all her babyness and sassiness and smartness and silliness and tenderness and juiciness and outgoingness — yes, you are making up words in the future — that you will wait however long it is you must wait — for her.

I promise you, gigi, your phone really does ring and this little one really does exist. She really does arrive. She really does make your life so much deeper, full of meaning in ways you didn’t realize were lacking.

And when she reaches over and gently pats your arm tonight, then your chest, then your shoulder, and with each tender toddler touch she coos, “Mo-mmy” … “Mo-mmy” … “Mo-mmy,” as if she is just confirming who you are, you will smile in your soul and answer “Yes” … “Yes” … “Yes” every time.

I promise you, mamagigi-to-be, she is worth a million more forms and fingerprints, hundreds of home visits, countless more seconds, minutes, hours, days and months spent waiting, and all the tears your eyes can silently shed in the dark of night. I promise.

Knowing Maeve, loving Maeve, mothering Maeve — these are rewards worth waiting for.

So hang on, gigi, and dig deep. Believe in yourself and know you are good enough. Know your letter is heartfelt and real enough that a courageous woman will choose you. And you will meet her and thank her and love her, and need her to be part of your life forever.

And the daughter she will share with you?

Well, she is simply beyond all of your wildest daydreams and nightdreams.

I promise.

Love,
2007 You

Adoption’s Doors

 

 The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round,
round and round, all … day … long.

The doors on the bus go open and shut, open and shut,
open and shut, all … day … long.

Since Maeve was about a year old, her love of music and her animated participation in singing this, or any song for that matter, has made for delightful moments. Since music is a constant in our home, she’s becoming accustomed to its myriad forms, including children’s sing-a-longs, classical, rock, folk, blues, jazz and reggae.

Wheels on the Bus is on the set list for our morning carride cabaret. And whether it’s the bus driver’s order to “move on back” or horns going “beep, beep, beep,” her chunky little hands and sweet segmented baby arms are in full musical orchestration from her carseat podium in the backseat.

Recently, her favorite stanza details the bus doors that “open and shut, open and shut,” while her arms stretch to their widest limits, then quickly, and with as much force as she can muster, her hands slap together — clap — with precision.

Open and shut. Open and shut. Open and shut.

On this morning, though, those words rattled in my mind long after the song’s end. Not just as juvenile lyrics about mass transportation, but as concepts, as realities.

Both are realities in adoption; both are realities in my world:

After all, I am mother to an 18-month-old girl in an open adoption.

I am wife to a man whose adoption remains tightly shut by the laws in his Ohio birthstate.

A stark contrast between the two, to be sure:

***

I have never set eyes on the woman who brought my husband into the world.

Not only have I met the woman that brought my daughter into the world,
I have hugged her — long and hard.

*** 

I have never heard my husband’s birth mother speak.
I know not whether his voice and its intonations echo hers.

Not only have I heard the voice of my daughter’s birth mother, we’ve spoken —
sharing conversations, sentiments, moments.

*** 

When I gaze into my husband’s distinct eyes
or admire the dark, loose curls upon his head,
I have no point of reference from which to travel, branch-to-branch,
along a family tree of physical attributes.

Yet I can trace the rosy hue and heart-shaped curves of my daughter’s lips,
even the contour of her jaw and chin, directly to her birth mother’s siblings.
Because we met them and I saw the similarities for myself.
And on that warm summer day, we sat, on a blanket in a park
and played with the baby that connects us all.

***

In a moment of medical crisis, there would be no family history on which
my husband could rely. No way to shed light in a time of darkness. 

Yet, for our daughter, there are forms completed by her birth mother
that reference three generations of medical matters. More than that,
if our daughter’s health were in peril, her birth mother could be reached.

***

Based on decades-old recollection from my husband’s adoptive family,
two possible names for his birth mother and one for the hospital
are scrawled on a sheet of looseleaf paper.
Although agency records cite such specifics, they are black-lined to him.

I don’t rely on recollection for fundamental facts about my daughter’s story.
Her birth mother’s name is Known. Written. Spoken.
Photographs of her birth mother are in our home, within our daughter’s grasp.
The hospital where our daughter took her first breath? We were called to it.

***

For my husband, there are questions that remain unanswered.

For my daughter, there are stories to share, memories to make,
friendships to forge, milestones to mark.

***

Open and shut. Open and shut. Open and shut.

Berry-good, cherry-good

The bad news?

My day began bright and early, in a dentist chair, white knuckles gripping plastic-clad armrests, while sounds of drilling reverberating relentlessly inside my head. An hour and a half later, I left the dental office with a small envelope of gargantuan pills to ease the arrival of forecasted pain and discomfort.

I arrived at my office soon after only to have to dig my desk out from a blizzard of 80 or so proof pages (in 8.5-point font reduced 30 percent) requiring a careful read and deliberate eye, numerous rounds of corrections, and an extra hour-plus at the office this evening in order to push the project closer to completion before tomorrow’s 3 p.m. printer deadline. (It was middle of the afternoon today before I realized I’d not yet left my desk for the ladies’ room.)

The good news?

I am one seriously lucky woman.

This evening, feeling completely beaten by the day’s events, I arrived home to the sight of Maeve nestled in her daddy’s lap, fed, freshly bathed and smelling sweet, the regimen of her curly locks complete, listening to him singsong her book-of-the-moment, Jamberry by Bruce Degen. I watched her big, brown eyes travel from each turned page of adventure in Berryland to her father’s lips, where she watched intently as he recited, just for her, rhyming waterfalls of words like, “Raspberry, Jazzberry, Razzmatazberry, Berryband, Merryband, Jamming in Berryland.”

Also awaiting me was a dinnerplate of easily chewable foods, my favorite beverage well-stocked in the pantry and fridge, and, as a special sorry-your-day-stunk surprise, all the fixins for a tooth-friendly ice cream sundae. Maraschino cherries, too. (The one exception to my no-fruit-with-caloric-pleasure rule.) All of this handiwork, by the way, from the husband who called amid the paper frenzy at work to offer post-dental support. I am, after all, known for having needed intravenous anesthesia in order to make it through a previous (and tortuous) dental visit some time ago.

Gosh, I love this man.

Taking off my coat, I knelt beside Maeve and Tom while they finished the Jamberry fest already in session.

And a funny thing happened. I forgot about the drilling, the rinsing and spitting, the numbness and pain. I forgot about dropped copy, missing charts and 3 p.m. deadlines. I was no longer consumed by these events that had marred my day. Also gone was the looming pressure of night and household routines awaiting execution.

After all, before me in all her juicy glory was a baby girl who — ok, at 18 months she is every day less Baby and more Spunky Little Girl — is simply so lovely to love. When she had registered the sound of my jingling car keys as I entered the house, I’d heard her little voice whisper to daddy excitedly, “Mommy! Mommy!”

She and I soon hunkered down to read, to play, to giggle and wiggle. Me, still in my work clothes and shoes, her, set securely into the curves of my lap like there was nowhere else in the world she expected to be. And that’s just fine with me, because there’s nowhere else I’d rather have her.

Gosh, I love this little girl.

There’s nothing better than walking smack into the love in your own home to remind you how little drilling and deadlines matter.

Later, after Maeve was tucked into bed with visions of “Quickberry, Quackberry, Pick me a Blackberry” and “Trainberry, Trackberry, Clickety-clackberry” swirling in her head, Tom and I sat down for an ice cream sundae together.

Feeling corny and especially lucky with the little threesome that is my family, I dropped some extra cherries on top. Three in all. And it was perfect.

A good day, I’d say.  A berry-good, cherry-good day.

Safety nest

In addition to maniacal cleaning that included a run-in with wood floor polish just moments before our adoption social worker rang the doorbell to begin the home visit portion of our home study, Tom and I ensured we would meet our agency requirements with such practical things as fire extinguishers and smoke detectors. At the time, these were just boxes on a checklist, something to get us one step closer to beginning our family.

I’d actually been toting from apartment to apartment and eventually to our first home together a fire extingusher my father had given me when I’d first left my parents’ nest. Good thing the adoption agency required one because it forced us to actually look at the darn thing – who knew they expired? – and saw ours was good for little more than a splash of red in the decor.

Guess it’s that mindset of being young and indestructable. Up-to-code fire extinguishers aren’t exactly on your mind when you’re cramming for college exams, working to cover your rent, socializing with friends, following a band up and down the East Coast during summer stints from work and school and, well, just being carefree.

Funny how having a child changes that. How, when it comes time to care for our own young, safety ratings on carseats, coupon deals on diapers and expiration dates on extinguishers suddenly take on proportions warranting discussion, research, data.

Carefree becomes careful.

We actually wound up in a checkout line with four brand-spanking-new fire extinguishers – three more than we were required to have – and later that day, after careful conversation and consideration about location, we placed one on each floor of our home, as well as the attic and basement.

All part of us creating our own nest, I suppose. After all, my husband had proudly declared during the months leading up to our placement with Maeve that we were officially in full-on nesting mode.

Well, here’s a product for all you nesters and those of us pining for the wholly uninterrupted sleep of pre-parental days as those decreases in winks have resulted in a well-honed ability to sleep through a sounding alarm clock, deep in denial that morning has arrived, ready or not. (Yet I’m wide-eyed awake as soon as I hear Maeve through the baby intercom as she coughs or even changes her breathing pattern. Splain that.)

Seems there are smoke alarms that are voice-recorded. Like expiring extinguishers, I had no idea. And according to a study published in a recent issue of Pediatrics journal, children responded better to these alarms than traditional tone alarms.

A study by Center for Injury Research and Policy at Columbus Children’s Hospital found that 23 of 24 children – ages 6 to 12 – woke from a deep sleep when a smoke detector recorded with their mother’s voice called out: “[First name! First name!] Wake up! Get out of bed! Leave the room!”

Using the traditional tone alarm, just 58 percent of the children woke up. One child didn’t respond to either alarm.

(Of course, this very idea gets my wicked mind racing with possibilities. If only I knew of these alarms when newborn Maeve first arrived, I would have had the perfect use for a remote-controlled version: You know, for those heavy-sleeper husbands who can’t seem to hear the baby cry and need a major nudge before they budge. Yes. I am certain there’s a perfect message in there just waiting to be recorded by a bleary-eyed mom. Although I will give Tom credit where it’s due: Once he was “nudged” awake and in Maeve’s nursery, he was fabulous.)

Seriously, though, something with life-saving potential is always worth looking into. Among the companies offering them are SignalOne and KidSmart. Here’s the study, crack open the consumer guides and nest away, folks, nest away.

Valentine wishes

Happy Valentine’s Day!
2007

For your sake, I won’t go into all the grueling details about how long it took to get this photo or how I’d hoped this photo would actually turn out. Suffice it to say, as much as I’ve learned as a parent thus far, I have more to learn. And I must admit, some of these lessons need to be taught more than once for them to sink in.

I had grand plans for this photo shoot. Maeve would be caught, mid-giggle, as she playfully held the sign up for all to see. I would snap The Perfect Photo and it would become part of some cleverly crafted Valentines she’d share with playmates and loved ones.

A lesson I still must master in this Parenthood Journey? Letting go. Losing expectations of perfection.

That doesn’t come easy for me.

On the day we went to court to finalize Maeve’s adoption, my nervous hands and clumsy fingers ripped a huge whole in her little tights as I negotiated them onto her chunky legs. I freaked. I’d had a beautiful dress for the occasion and the tights had been carefully selected to complete the look for this important day which would be recorded by photo, by video, by memory. I wanted to capture as much of this event as possible so she could look back years from now and feel the energy of the day.

Did I have another pair of tights on standby — another pair in the exact shade I’d selected? Of course not. (There’s a lesson, too.) Did I have to choose another pair from her dresser? Yes. Did her second-choice tights affect the outcome in court that day? Of course not.

During the wardrobe malfunction that morning, my sister (my polar opposite when it comes to rolling with the punches — I more easily roll up in a ball somewhere and worry) said something very memorable. As I clung to the useless tights, panic setting in, disappointment creeping up, she chuckled and said: “Welcome to parenthood, where you can’t control every little thing. Going with the flow is just part of the deal.”

I’ve never been good at going and flowing. In fact, I don’t think that river is even on my map.

But I heard her. And that day, when I would become a parent in the eyes of the court, the state, the law, I did find some humor in my initiation of sorts. She’s right, I can’t control every little thing because there’s someone else in the picture now. And that picture, with Maeve in it, is brighter and better than it had ever been.

So, in the interest of learning the lesson of letting go and relishing results that aren’t in The Plan, I post my less-than-perfect picture of Valentine wishes. And ya know, it’s not so bad. She’s clearly a very happy little girl — and that’s all that really matters.

So, we’re off to school to deliver our little photo valentines and share with her nursery school playmates a big heart-shaped oatmeal and chocolate chip cookie I baked — a cookie I’d better get out of the oven before it gets too brown or loses its shape. (Hey, Less-Than-Perfection is a lesson I’m learning — present tense.)

Happy Valentines Day — may you all find love today in the least perfect of places.

Love Thursday

Love is your birth mother playing with you in the park.
 June 2006

Happy Love Thursday, everyone!
May your day include all sorts of playful and unexpected love.

For more posts of love on this Love Thursday,
visit Love Is All Around and Love Thursday: Love is All Around Us.

One Super Bowl (of irony), please

Maeve on Super Bowl Sunday.
When her dad bent down to take her photo, she bent down too,
like they were going to swap stories and share secrets.

I’m not into sports — at all. Just ask anyone who knows me. I don’t know a time-out from overtime, an inning from a quarter, a match from a game, a foul from a fumble, an umpire from a referee, even a play off from a tee off from a kick off. You get the idea.

Because of that, it’s amazing (and simultaneously very embarassing) that I was a cheerleader for one season in junior high. In fact, I am convinced I only made the team/squad/gaggle of girls or whatever it’s called, because the judges transposed the tryout numbers pinned to my shirt.

Not only was I awful, but the fundamentals of cheerleading just weren’t — aren’t — me. I don’t like to yell. In fact, people often ask me to speak up in general conversation. And I particularly don’t like addressing crowds, forget rallying some sort of team spirit from them. I don’t know why I tried out at all.

When my name was included in the posted list of those who’d made it, I think I blacked out. Although everyone around me was quite congratulatory, I’m sure they were actually shaking their head in disbelief when I wasn’t looking.

So, there I was, donning a short skirt and itchy sweater and lamely cheering on the boys’ basketball troupe squad team. I had pre-game stomachaches that had nothing to do with nervous hopes of winning. It was the cheering … and the leading. One particular cheer required each girl to yell her name, letter by letter, and rhyme it with some sort of peppy, spirit-inducing chant. The others in the Short Skirt and Itchy Sweater Club chastised me for being too quiet. And who could blame them? Cheerleaders should like to cheer, after all. (And here’s another tip for all you cheerleader-wannabes: Be able to quickly deduce whether it’s your team that scored — before you cheer. Learned that one straight from the trenches. I’m just sayin’.)

Since you will rarely read anything sports-related in this little space o’ mine, I will burden you with my only other sports story. Let’s get them out of the way all at once, so I shant ever have to think of them again.

My father coached girls’ little league just about every year I played. When Spring rolled around, the sign-up sheets would appear and dad and I jumped into the fray.

Not only did I hate softball, I was terrible at it. I would plead with the softball gods to send balls in any direction other than mine. And, if the darn thing ever miraculously made it into my glove, I never knew where to throw it: first base, second base, the pitcher? Who knew, it all happened so fast. And with everyone yelling, pointing and screaming at me, I couldn’t tell. My solution? Just throw every ball to the pitcher. (I used to promise my allowance and lunch money to my fellow outfielders if they would run over and catch the ball when it came my way.)

Eventually I was made catcher. Given my still-limited understanding of sports, I don’t know what this means about me as a player. It seems like an important position should a play need to be made, but at the same time, they had me weighted down in gear and tucked safely into a nice little corner of the field. I’d just kneel, well-disguised, behind the batter and pray for the inning’s end. Top of the inning, bottom of the inning, side or front of the inning — the lingo never made much sense to me. Just make it the sixth (and final) one already!

The first time I ever went to bat, I put the helmet on upside and backwards. Or maybe it was inside out (is that even possible?). Whichever way, my family has the photos so that embarassing record is preserved.

The best part of this angst-ridden ridiculousness is this: Decades later, The Softball Years came up in conversation with my parents. Seems I wasn’t the only one with angst. When I casually mentioned how crazy it was that I ever played at all, considering the best part for me was getting a T-shirt with the team name ironed on and free ice cream cones dipped in sprinkles when we won, my folks just looked at each other. You know that look — that private, conversational look a couple makes that speaks silent volumes.

They asked why, then, I would continue to sign up each Spring. My answer: “Because, dad, I knew how much you liked to coach.”

A moment of silence.

Moments of laughter.

Another moment of (now-awkward) silence.

What? I asked. Seems my dad only signed up to coach each year because he “knew how much I liked to play and he wanted to show his support.” And considering my total lack of ability, that’s a dad’s love for ya. Volunteering to coach a team whose most atrocious player was his own kin.

So, how do my Old (mental) Sports Injuries relate to my beautiful little girl above?

On Super Bowl (of ice cream) Sunday, we went to some friends’ house to “watch” the game. Given my lackluster sports history, I define this as being social, eating unhealthy food and watching the commercials.

Since I knew Maeve might become bored to toddler tears, I did as any good mom would do and brought entertainment. Books, Mega-blocks, Aquadoodle, snacks — we were good to go. 

Before I tell you how she took to the Big Day of Football That I Just Don’t Understand, let me say that these friends have a television that is the size of my car. I’m not kidding. I think they parallel parked it in their den. Let me also explain that Maeve’s exposure to our average-sized television is limited to a 13-minute program — every other day — depicting animals at the San Diego Zoo.

So, given those factors, it quickly became apparent that entertaining her on this Super Bowl Sunday would be the least of my worries.

Seems she was perfectly content standing squarely in front of the gargantuan high-definition picture box, pointing and yelling, “Ball!” “Ball!” “Ball!”

Seemingly before I could dip even a single chip, she was toddler-chanting: “Go … go … go!” as players ran across the field doing whatever it is they do to score.

And when they did score, she let out a “Yaaaay!” alongside the adults and, without missing a beat, she’d take a drink from her sippy cup and eat goldfish crackers. This kid’s got the sports-routine down.

I ask you: Wouldn’t it be some sort of evil World Series of Kick-in-the-Pants Irony if she grows up to like sports and 20 years from now she’ll yell “Yaaaay!” from a sports bar, only to throw back a beer and grab a handful of shelled peanuts?

Or, gasp, if she grows up to play sports? Or, good goddess help me, to cheer for sports?

Silence, please, while I consider these possibilities.

Can I cry foul? Call a time out? Do a rain-delay dance?

(What? Go ahead, put me in the Parenting Penalty Box. See if I care.)

Oh, alright, fine. If Maeve likes sports in the coming years then maybe I will learn to “like” them too. For her, I would do that. Ya know, throw the sweaty towel in the ring, or whatever sports-lovin’-people say.

Who knows, maybe being the mom of Sportsy Sportsina of Sportsville could actually work in my favor.

I mean, there’d be free T-shirts and ice cream, right?

Paid adoption leave: Baby step forward

As I discussed in detail here, and then again here, New Jersey Senate bill S-2249 provides 12 weeks’ paid leave to care for newly adopted children. Well, folks, the bill has cleared a Senate committee and now heads to the Senate Appropriations Committee for consideration.

This is more than a decade in the making. Bills like this have come and gone (into oblivion), and have never made it this far before. Now is the time to again voice your support in providing all families — no matter how they are formed — the invaluable adjustment and bonding time they deserve. This is about embracing families and making their health and happiness a social priority.

Although New Jersey and federal laws already allow 12 weeks’ unpaid leave, many families cannot afford that option — especially after handling adoption costs. So adoptive parents have their children placed into their arms only to have to leave them so they can hurry back to work to pay the bills rather than risk further financial hardship. Bonding be damned. (Silly mamagigi, these tricks are only for people who give birth to their children.)

Perhaps the times, they are a changin’?

Under the bill, workers on leave would receive a weekly amount similar to what they’d get for a temporary disability — it would come from the state’s temporary disability fund workers already pay into. That’s the same fund that assists working parents who physically delivered their children into the world, allowing them paid time off. The bill would require all employees pay a tax up to $94 annually to support the program.

The bill’s future is uncertain — especially because the state’s powerful Business and Industry Association opposes the plan. So continue to contact your legislator (and the committee chairmen below) to voice support of the bill — and all families.

And those of you reading but not residing in the Garden State, your e-mailing Committee chairman Bernard Kenny and co-chairman Sharpe James to give your nod to the notion itself wouldn’t hurt either. Parents everywhere should be heard. The larger the group, the louder the voice, the blurrier the state lines, the more unified the message nationwide. (Then, send your legislators a note too!)

If passed, New Jersey would become the second state, after California, to offer paid family leave. Two down, 48 to go.

Love Thursday

‘Bee-assurance’
2006

Maeve looks to daddy for support as she walks, hand tucked safely inside his,
in her first Halloween parade. Pure trust. Pure love.

Happy Love Thursday, everyone!

 

For more posts of love on this Love Thursday,
visit Love Is All Around and Love Thursday: Love is All Around Us.