Fostering Friendship

Five summers ago, my husband and I shared a picnic blanket with a couple we’d only recently met. Perched in a parking lot alongside the Navesink River in Red Bank, N.J., we awaited the sun to set and the night sky to fill with an extravaganza of colored lights. “The best around,” they’d promised.

Fireworks weren’t all we were waiting for. That first Fourth of July we spent together was also our last as couples without children. We met during Adoption From The Heart’s education classes and, after talking long after the session ended, we exchanged email addresses in a first act of “oh-my-gosh-they-have-the-same-anxiety-and-excitement-and-questions-and-fears-as-us” friendship.

After the next class and later the video shoot, we moved our chats to a nearby restaurant where we shared stories, fielded questions and got to know each other with a fervor – for hours at a clip. Emails seeking advice or sharing thoughts flooded one another’s in-boxes. We even talked about the inevitable situation when one couple would become parents before the other. Good thing, because just weeks after that shared Independence Day, the first call from our social worker came. The second followed within the month.

Weeks later we were together again, meeting newborn baby daughters, coddling them in colossal proportions and propping them next to each other for parent-paparazzi photo shoots. We opened gifts, compared feeding and sleeping schedules, and talked about home visits from social workers. Plans were made for our next gathering and, much like proud parents of a newly arranged marriage, we imagined their future together.

We’ve since celebrated birthdays, shared their first aquarium visit (the girls eating fish-shaped crackers from their stroller trays was an irony we noted more than once), left presents under each other’s Christmas tree, picnicked at the park, visited the zoo, talked of sharing a vacation someday, had family sleepovers capping hours of boardwalk rides or beach time, and spent cool evenings by a fire with tired kids on our laps, stars twinkling and crickets serenading yet another terrific time together.

Over the years we’ve shared meltdowns, milestones and diaper drama, asked “what do you do?” when a new stage or behavior has us stumped, and shared countless new-parent anecdotes. We’ve delighted in confusing strangers who assumed, thanks to the girls’ similar curls and complexion, they were twins. “Well,” we’d respond with devious smiles, “they’re three weeks apart.” When one of us welcomed another daughter, we all shared in that joy. We chuckle nervously about the tween and teen years to come, noting our “what do you do?” conversations will be so very different then.

Last year a move took one family out of state, changing the regularity of visits. Yet we still welcomed 2010 together, sitting before a fire in a new home, surrounded by the chaos that is three girls in dress-up, singing into microphones, opening holiday gifts and blowing party horns until their little bodies could take no more.

This summer we spent yet another steamy July evening crowded onto a picnic blanket along the Navesink River. Despite geography and another imminent family move, the foursome-turned-sevensome carried on as usual, continuing a tradition that began five years ago: sharing stories and making memories, and deepening a friendship that started when making long-haul friends was the last thing on our minds.

A framed photo of the two girls – the once “arranged friends” – sits by my daughter’s bedside. Despite current preschool friends and new friends to make at kindergarten this fall, nothing can change the comforting story of her first friend. Recently, one of the girls actually reflected on their friendship: “Mom, she’s more than a friend, isn’t she? She’s more like … a sister.” Not bad for a four-year-old!

I’d like to think that when the girls really begin to process their adoptions – each with their own very different story – they can trust the foundation we’ve created for them and, much like their folks have done, lean on the friend they have in one another.

My latest Musings of An Adoptive Mama column, published Summer 2010 – http://www.adoptionsfromtheheart.org

Roots and Wings

Aside from the pitter patter of pet paws and my own keyboard clicks, the house is strangely silent. As a mom of an almost five year old, this hush doesn’t happen often.

Maeve is two houses away, playing inside with two long-time neighbor girls a few years her elder – and they all are delighted. Yesterday the new threesome played in our home, reading books, dressing up, chasing cats and even plopping down at the kitchen table to ask for a snack.

This is all so new to me. Now, we’ve shared playdates with preschool friends or meet-ups at the park – but as I’ve learned today, that’s so very different than letting her “be” without me or her dad. It’s just not about her being sans parent sidekicks, but we’ve orchestrated most every decision since we changed her first diaper. (Apologies to the future tweeny Maeve reading this. Yes, I mentioned your diapers to the world. Cue eye-roll … now!)

And in these moments I wonder if she will remember all we’ve tried to instill. Who will she “be” when not reminded by omnipotent voices from a few feet away to say thank you. Pick up the toys when you’re done. Take turns. Share. Be helpful. Use your kind voice. Make a good choice.

In five months, I’ll watch her enter elementary school as a kindergartner. Will she bravely bound inside, eager for new adventures? Or will she look back at me for assurance one last time before the door closes behind her? (If it’s anything like her first day at daycare when I returned to work, perhaps I should arrange for someone to get me home afterwards – who can see through all those tears to safely navigate a car through the streets?)

My mind sends me a reminder notice that this is just the beginning of an independence I’m supposed to be cultivating. You know, roots and wings.

Yet my maudlin heart responds with equal urgency that the moments are fleeting, the cuddles are numbered and it won’t be long before we’re not holding hands in public anymore.

I can’t help but be reminded of an excerpt in the book Tuesdays with Morrie:

“Life is a series of pulls back and forth. You want to do one thing, but you are bound to do something else. Something hurts you, yet you know it shouldn’t. You take certain things for granted, even when you know you should never take anything for granted. … A tension of opposites, like a pull on a rubber band. And most of us live somewhere in the middle.”

That tug-of-war in my heart is as fierce as her concentration while pumping on the playground swings or pushing her little Chucks into the pavement – handlebar tassels blowing in her breeze – as she and her Radio Flyer scooter sail away. Away from me, from her dad. Away from needing us so completely. Away from the cocoon we’ve enveloped her in since the day she made us a family.

The stillness in the house suddenly cuts sharply, and my thoughts are rattled back to the here and now as I hear the laughter and chatter of three new pals heading toward me, and just a few minutes after the return time I’d assigned.

The door swings open and the gleam in her eye is blinding. The energy she radiates brings me back to the bliss of my own childhood when the only concern was what to play next and how much time before dark.

Maeve smiles at me, and in this moment of welcoming, I feel so strongly the connection we’ve carefully cultivated while in that little cocoon.

That passage from Tuesdays with Morrie ends with this: “Which side wins? Love wins. Love always wins.”

Indeed.

Miles of Mama Memories

This summer Maeve and I shared a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity as we piled into the car with my mother — three generations of girls — and hit the open road. Our ultimate destination? A visit with my sister in Arizona. We’d decided to make the journey as memorable as the destination and vowed to drive only two-lane roads or smaller, and take the route we wanted, no matter how indirect.

We left New Jersey on a ferry bound for Delaware, then began to drive the coast: Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina and Georgia; in Florida we’d hang a right and head through Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, Texas and New Mexico before reaching my sister in Arizona.

On the return trip we’d see the heartland, hopping onto Route 66 as well: New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Missouri, Illinois, Indiana and Kentucky; we’d veer south to take in the rolling hills of West Virginia before crossing into Pennsylvania and, with a click of our ruby red shoes and an EZPass swipe or two, we’d be home in New Jersey.

Making this trip with my four-year-old daughter and mother was something special — full of girl power, of course, and many laughs, fun discoveries and extraordinary moments — even some adoption-related.

It wasn’t lost on me that I was sharing an adventure with my daughter — one in which I would watch her grow and experience slices of small-town America — and her first mother B, wasn’t alongside her to take it all in as her everyday mom.

B missed watching Maeve’s eyes widen at the sight of wild ponies on Virginia’s Chincoteague Island. (From here on, all animals spotted from inside the car during the 6,000 miles we covered were immediately deemed “wild” – “Mama! Look, wild cows! Wild sheep!”)

She also missed being evacuated from a North Carolina aquarium when the fire alarms sounded and fire trucks rushed to the scene. After worrying about the fish, Maeve decided they were safe in the water because, after all, water puts out fire.

As we sat in a cart pulled by mules along the charming streets of Charleston, South Carolina, Maeve counted palm trees, delighted in spotting other carriage rides in the distance, and got personal with a mule excitedly licking Maeve’s shirt — seems it had remnants of maple syrup from breakfast! B couldn’t hold Maeve in her arms and giggle about that.

In Georgia, Maeve hit a milestone in the pool – jumping from the side into the water and my nearby arms — without holding a hand. It was me there to gush and shower her with pride.

Maeve ate her first clam and her first fried green tomato on this journey, which also found us on a swamp boat in Louisiana searching for alligators. The next morning’s breakfast featured a zydeco band, a raucous dance floor and such culinary adventures as beignets and boudin. Maeve studied every move being made on the dance floor. I knew how much she wanted to be out there — a day doesn’t pass for her without dancing — but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. I could so easily read her tortured thoughts — a result, of course, of being her everyday mom.

At Texas’ Cadillac Ranch, Maeve stood in awe at the row of cars, colorful with graffiti, planted hood down in the middle of farmland. While tourist folks in the know brought spray paint to leave their mark, this three-generation road trip team, savvy after weeks on the road, had to leave its tag after some improvising. Maeve has learned how to write her name — but I certainly hope that trying to do so in peach nail polish, on an old Cadillac, alongside her mom and grandma, remains one of her childhood memories.

Oklahoma proved surprisingly quirky — from its sort-of famous blue whale, a now-defunct swimming hole still beloved by the locals who fish from it and play inside its two-level belly — to the largest cement totem pole in the world.

There are many stories of adventure to share, and more than a thousand wonderful pictures — but there’s one snapshot I will forever keep with me, and it didn’t happen with a camera around my neck.

In between silly splashes and watching tiny lizards scurry by my sister’s pool, Maeve said matter-of-factly (with some words running together and lost): “Mama? When [B] had me from her belly … couldn’t take care of me … but Gretchen and Thomas … mama and daddy …”

I stared in disbelief. Then, with a swell of excitement, she sing-songed: “and that’s how I found you!”

Four years of sharing her adoption story, keeping B a topic of conversation in our home and photos in her bedroom of them together, and this was the first time Maeve raised the topic herself. It was bittersweet. Happy and relieved we’d been doing our job, ensuring her story is part of her. Sad as she now begins to process her loss.

The adoption wheels of her mind have begun to turn and while I’ll not always be able to read her mind like that morning at the zydeco café or provide every answer to every question, I’m grateful to have the information we do, the contact with B we’ve shared, and hope that holds some of the peace she will seek in the future.

For now, though, we’ll continue to take each adventure — and surprising moments of clarity from a four-year-old — as they come, embracing the quirky places, the surprising finds and the small but oh-so-cherished moments that make up our family’s journey.

Finally, some adoption nitty-gritty (revised)

It’s been a while since I got down and dirty here with the nitty-gritty of adoption issues. A long while.

One reason — and seemingly the simplest believe it or not, is the major life changes going on round here for me. From starting my own craft biz geared toward children and also experiencing a serious career-shocker regarding my day gig, it’s been all about new patterns, new priorities and new timeframes in which to manage them. I’m still learning on that one, and from what I can tell, the next month or so will add yet another new layer of  changes to what my life is, or who I am, becoming these days.

(Yes, that was the simple reason.)

The more difficult reason, if you will, for quiet time around here is because I’ve always liked to think (naively, I know, so don’t burst my bubble) that I’m only venturing in here and donning this specific writer’s cap when I have something I need to say, something that’s worthwhile in the moment.

I’ve never wanted this to be a space to talk about the deal I got on such and such at the shop downtown or what I had for lunch that day, and unless I could devote the time to musings:mamahood&more — even after the house is finally still and the thermostat plunges into its insanely low sleeping temperature so my tapping fingertips are numb and hard to move — and be able to say something of value (even if only for myself), well, I’d rather it let it stand on its own. Quiet, but standing tall nonetheless.

Sure, every writer who is a mother and an employee and a juggler of many things she loves has the same issues. So I suppose that’s not the truly difficult part, either.

Rather, it’s difficult because the ebb and flow of adoption as I know it sometimes hits so hard and so personally that I’ve not yet processed it in a way that is 1) ready for public consumption and 2) even something I’ll want to share here.  

Those of you who are regulars here, friends here and in real-life know I’m touched by adoption in two ways. Both my daughter and my husband were adopted. One is meant to be open, the other is terribly closed due to unrealistic laws that disrespect those they affect.

Tonight, while avoiding the To-Do list that sits before me as this weekend is packed with things I must attend/do/finish and prepare for, I popped in on one of my favorite bloggers. It was meant to be a quick read, a small diversion from what I must do tonight before my head hits the pillow.

Instead, the floodgates opened and salty tears came a’flowin. (Yep, I’m lookin’ mighty fine right about now.)

The words she shared today, on the eve her daughter’s birthday, had me awash in tears not only for her and her daughter (whom she placed for adoption five years ago but remains active in an open-adoption arrangement), but ultimately, I suppose, for my own daughter as well.

A few simple sentences and I was a goner. She’s done this to me before, and since I’ve been reading her since Maeve was just a wee one, it’s happened plenty. I dunno, maybe this time though it also has to do with the season. After all, just around the corner from where I sit right now, my family’s Christmas tree sits in all its splendor, centered before two front windows, glistening in its white lights, sentimental ornaments and cranberry garland. My large and stately fireplace is softened by garland Tom has wrapped it in, white lights and berries and all. Our knit stockings dangle with anticipation and the staircase leading upstairs is wrapped in garland and lights and love.

And running about among all this light and love in my life is my beautiful three-year-old daughter. She wakes up each morning to find “her” tree “stayed there” all night and delights in that fact (whatever that means, goodness knows what she’s worried about!). She’s enjoying the events of the season this year as she’s now old enough to participate more actively, chatting with St. Nick today on his lap (“What would you like for Christmas, Maeve?” he asked. “A present,” she says simply, before thanking him for letting us take a photo of them together.)

I am so lucky to have her in my life. Even at 4 am when her cool little hand touches my warm leg as she hoists herself high into our big bed, having just pitter-patted across the hall into our bedroom. And as she works to tuck her legs under the tangle of all the blankets, nestles in alongside me and rests her arm on my hip, she groggily begins a full-blown conversation, pulling me from my sleep:

Can I go ride my tricycle outside now? (Despite it being dark and cold.)

Is the sun still in its nest or has it left to find the sky so the morning can come?

Is the moon tired from all night? Will it sleep all day in its nest, mommy?

Do girls have mustaches? Can I have a pink one? Right …. here? Look, mommy, open your eyes. (She taps me from the oblivion I’m trying to rediscover and points to her upper lip.) Can I have a pink one … right … here?

Despite this burst of inquisitive imagination, within moments of my answers, the rhythm of her breathing falls into a pattern I have come to know as if it were my own.

I cannot help but smile in these simple moments. It’s a reflex gushing with thankfulness for this light in my life. So sweet, so genuine and somehow, because they happen under the cover of night, these moments are even more special, more sacred, more … gourmet. As if I was the lucky recipient of a little bit of heaven. Moments one might not notice so easily had they happened once the dawn, with all its duties and responsibilities, has broken.

It is not at all uncommon, though, that in these joyous moments, her breathing lulling me back to a blissful sleep, my happiness turns to a bittersweet reality. A cloud has rolled in and I am pulled awake again.

After all, no matter how much I love her, no matter how deeply or how perfectly (in goal only, of course) I love her,  I will never, ever be her first mother.

Don’t get me wrong, or jump to an incorrect conclusion: I’m not pondering my own short-falling.  This isn’t at all about me.

It’s not something I can change, no matter how hard I try, who I know, how much money I have or how many magical powers I can muster from a genie’s lamp. I Will Never Be The Woman Who Made Her Who She is.

And therein, my friends, lies Incredible Loss. Loss for Maeve. Loss for B., her first mom.

Loss that I cannot sweep under a carpet or pour into a box to perch on a dusty old shelf to be long forgotten. I cannot do that, because B. is with me every single day. She is entwined in my heart so completely there is no parting us. She’s there because Maeve is there. B is there because of everything she and I have known together, because of how she has forever changed the course of my life, the story I am living.

Bittersweet is an overused and shallow word for what I’m trying to describe. So I will try to say it as succinctly as possible (for verbose me): The depth of my joy in being a mother seems matched only by a constant and acute awareness of a sadness equally as deep.

Anyone reading this who is a mother but who is not touched by adoption, try to gather the myriad feelings, emotions, thoughts and experiences that are permanently wrapped in to your motherhood. A scope and depth of love so serious and raw and real that it’s hard to adequately find the words.

Now take that powerful mix, relish in the joy you feel in being the mother to your children, and add to that wholehearted devotion the strength of your instincts to protect and nurture.

Being a mother means doing everything in our power to ensure our children are whole, healthy, happy and kind. We work to ensure they are comforted in the strength of our fierce love for them and the power it ultimately gives them to thrive.

As Maeve’s mom — but not her first mom — it’s something I struggle with. How can I make her whole? I believe her happiness comes from that wholeness. Yet my very presence in her life is because something else, someone else, is missing.

And not for nothing, but if I feel this strongly, how will Maeve feel as the flesh and blood of a mother not nurturing her on a daily basis?  

This Spring, contact was the best it had been. Leaps and bounds in connections, in conversations, in sharing — whether small, idle chats or more serious discussions.

It was Exhilarating. Exciting. There was Relief.

And then, like a thief during the dark of night, while we weren’t paying attention, while Maeve was busy coming to our bedside and nestling in close, a part of us, a part of her, integral parts to the puzzle assembled ever so slowly since she was born, simply vanished with the arrival … of silence.

I cannot help but grieve the loss for them both, all over again.

Is it an ebb and flow (its own issue to make peace with and make the most of) or was it just too much?

I’ve spent far too long, in those rare quiet moments alone the last few months, wondering. We continue to let B. know we’re here. Our arms are open, our hearts are committed. Tender now from the pain, but our hearts are always, and will always be, ever-so committed.

After all, she is part of us. She is part of Maeve. Maeve is part of her.

The simple sentiments in the aforementioned blog post that released all of this from me tonight were thoughts reminiscent of where the blogger was five years ago tonight.

Five years ago the baby inside her tossed and turned and made her presence known as if she were having “a party” in her belly. Now she recalls that evening and writes:

“I did not know, however, that it was her going away party.”

Today, in describing that night, as she tried to get comfortable amid contractions signaling the end of one part of her journey, she writes:

“It was the last day that I was ever her only mother. It was the last day that she was truly mine.”

My heart hurts for her, for B., for Maeve. As I told this blogger in an embarrassingly long comment, despite feeling sadness for her tonight, I also cannot help but revel in the blessing her daughter has — because no matter how difficult it has been for these five years since placement, she has, without a doubt, stuck it out. Been there. Worked on her pain and healing and kept in contact. Visits. Letters. Phone calls. Emails.

Reaching out to the little girl that is still inside her, although in a different way now.

No matter the road before her these last five years, she has chosen to travel the journey. She has not walked away.

It seems to me it will never be easy. How can such things be? But the path she’s chosen to take, despite the personal struggle it might be at times, is one that brings her the highest esteem from me.

I am in awe of how she continues, for the good of her daughter, her family, and the story she weaves of her life by living it each day.

Jenna, may this weekend’s bitterness and sweetness somehow mesh for you in a way that is bearable.

Happy birthday to your daughter. Relish in wishing the stunningly beautiful girl whose own eyes mirror yours all the very best.

Oh, and Jenna?  Thank you.

Firsts: Hers, Mine and Ours

A child’s firsts are dear to a parent’s heart. Whether it’s that first taste of baby cereal, an unsure, wobbly first step or the fleeting sound of the first mama or dada, such moments are treasured.

Of course, firsts continue beyond babyhood. There’s the first pedaling of a tricycle or the morning they finally wrangle their shirt over their head unassisted. As parents, we catch our breath at the hint of such a moment, and watch, recording it all to memory.

My household is now firmly planted in The Threes and unlike Maeve’s baby months, the firsts are less predictable. She recently came home from preschool with more than an art project. There were worksheets. Her father and I stared in disbelief. Somehow we’re parents to a child not only old enough to draw a line from a number six to a set of six apples, but a teacher comments on it!

Wasn’t it just yesterday we met the seven-pound her in the hospital nursery?

We’re now making a picture dictionary. We look through magazines and cut pictures beginning with the letter of the week, and she pastes them onto the appropriate page of her notebook. While searching for C items, we stopped at a boy with curly hair. She pointed, “Curly like me!”

Curly, indeed. The soft corkscrew ringlets that adorn her head bounce and shine, much like the girl herself. For someone like me with straight hair, caring for the curls of my bi-racial daughter certainly has been an education.

Lately when our morning de-tangling ritual had become a bigger struggle than usual I knew it was time for a haircut, something I’d put off in an effort to grow those sweet curls.

The task reminded me of pre-adoption classes at our local Adoptions From The Heart office. We had discussed inevitable situations like another parent at the park asking if my husband is black, or Maeve’s friends asking why her mom doesn’t share her cocoa skin.

Sure, bringing a child for a haircut might seem relatively mundane, but the fact I’m an adoptive mother changed how I approached the process. I knew bringing Maeve to my salon wouldn’t do her justice so I chose a local shop that caters to her ethnicity.

With a camera in one hand and Maeve’s little paw in the other, I battled the butterflies in my belly as we entered the salon, jingle bells clanging against the door. I tried to ignore the curious glances of folks trying to make sense of the situation.

Maeve took the hairdresser’s hand and walked to the wash sink. She dutifully followed every direction and a few booster-cushions later, Maeve was perched at the hairdresser’s station, donning a dog-and-cat cape, and watching herself – and others mid-beautification – in the mirror’s reflection. By then I was too busy snapping photographs for posterity to pay any sort of mind to pesky belly butterflies.

When she was done with the trim, Maeve walked me to the back of the salon where the older girls sat under bubble dryers. She chose a vacant chair and scrambled up, settling in underneath the giant plastic lid. Just another one of the girls.

Just as we prepared to leave, snips of curls clutched in my hand as a memento, I was thinking how smoothly everything had gone when Maeve’s hairdresser asked, in a not-so-quiet voice, “So, where is she from?”

As the butterflies summoned to attention, I was reminded that it’s just this sort of everyday experience those agency classes had prepared us for. I looked down at my daughter, who didn’t seem to notice the question, and readied my answer.

I’m certainly not shy about discussing adoption – both my husband and daughter were adopted, we actively work to have Maeve’s birth family in our lives, I write about adoption and help facilitate a support group for the triad. It’s just that as Maeve gets older, adoption becomes more her story to tell (or not) than ours.

Since these childhood firsts belong more to her rather than us as her parents, our focus has begun to shift from simply enjoying the pleasure of each milestone to protecting Maeve’s privacy, wary of questions that she can hear yet that were asked as if she couldn’t. My answers matter more than ever before.

Maeve’s first haircut presented a first for me as an adoptive parent – venturing into an unknown, following through publicly on the commitment we made to raise our daughter in a way that embraces her culture and background.

As a parent in general, I’ll continue to hone my reaction to all the firsts yet to come – adoption-related or not: going out alone with friends, turning the key in an ignition, primping for a date, writing a paper, coming home with a broken heart, completing a college application.

But first things first: Next week my little Maeve boards a bus with her preschool classmates to visit a pumpkin farm!

Spiked cider, anyone?

As published this month in AFTH’s Fall 2008 newsletter, which can be accessed through the Musings of an Adoptive Mama logo on the right.

Meeting Hollee McGinnis of Evan Donaldson Adoption Institute

Tonight my local adoption group hosted Hollee McGinnis of the Evan B. Donaldson Adoption Institute. A most-interesting presentation indeed — and I’m not just saying that because she drew my name as winner of the raffle for a signed copy of Adam Pertman’s Adoption Nation. Really.

I’ve got more to say on the evening, but I just want to read over my notes and properly digest it all. More to come.

(And as an aside, yes, NaBloPoMo kicked my tush. Sigh. But I keep on keeping on.)

Photo credit: Pam Hasegawa

On placecards and turkeys

 

 

Heading off this morning to make pies with Thomas’ mother. I’m not much of a fan of the kitchen, but I am all for helping out with the Thanksgiving preparations (despite never having actually made a pie before). Word is she and I have five to make so we need an early start.

Tom is thrilled because he loves his mom’s pies — and they are super delicious — so I told him not to worry, I’d pay super-close attention and be sure to remember all her tricks and secrets.

And then I’d come right home and teach him to make them himself.

One thing I enjoy a bit more than being in the kitchen is tinkering with creative projects — like this for my daughter’s day care (her first classroom was the Pink Elephants) — so when I was tabbed to make place cards for this year’s dinner with my husband’s family, I wanted to do something more than put pen to paper. Considering that recent years have numbered close to 40 people, this year’s smaller gathering of 22 made my task a bit easier.

Not sure what my mother-in-law had in mind when she asked me to make them, but as you can see, the final result involves lots of cinnamon sticks, ribbon, pinecones and lotus pods. And for the kids’ table? Pinecone turkeys, what else!(Thanks to my mom, who was determined to figure out how to transform a pinecone into something fun for the kiddos. And this isn’t even her gathering. Props to her!)

Now, I’m off to make a pie or two. Or five.

Date Night

Giggle, giggle.

Went on a date tonight, movie and dinner. (For me, the second movie in as many years. It’s about time, right?)

We saw adoption-themed Martian Child. (Still mulling that one over.)

During dinner, we had conversation. Conversation that didn’t include entertaining anyone else other than each other, or reaching for books and snacks from a nearby tote bag. And it was fabulous. (Thing is, for all its fabulousness, I missed my Maevey Gravy. And straw splatter, tucking napkins and cutting food. And her smile. Oh, her smile.)

Among the topics, The Husband even helped me brainstorm crafty ideas for placecards I’ve been asked to make for Thanksgiving dinner. (No, I can’t be normal and just use paper and pen. (I’m thinking … chocolate turkey molds or pinecones or mini-pumpkins or old black and white photos of the guests. And ribbon, definitely ribbon.)

He even suggested designing and painting wine glasses (I did that one year for holiday gifts, a set of four wine glasses, each one depicting a season) with names. Considering what any of my painting projects does to our home life — I tend to set ridiculous deadlines and let my perfectionist tendencies rage out of control — I say, that’s love, people.

It’s been 15 years. We get a Big Night Out and the man brainstorms an artsy-craftsy project with me for at least half of it. Yeah, love.

Then, we got to come home to the comforting snores of our Maevey Gravy, tucked snug as a bug in a rug by her Grandma Cookie.

And everything felt right with our world.

Love, indeed.

All in a Day

It’s been four months since I went part-time at the newspaper. Since then, I’ve had two days each week at home with Maeve. My mindset is improved, my house a bit better organized and, most of all, my heart is so much happier. After all, it’s two days a week where Maeve and I take on the world. Just us.

Sharing back-patting hugs.

Leaf and flower hunting.

Reading book after book after book.

Stringing Cheerios into necklaces.

Singing “Birdie Song!” one thousand, three hundred fifty-seven and a half times. (To the rest of the world, it’s Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds.”)

Snore-filled naps.

Lip-smacking kisses (also known as “sugah” round here).

Kitty-cat chasing.

Squeaky chalk as we try to write letters A, T, W and M. Then A again, her favorite.

“More milk, peeez Mah-mee!”

Wiping up spilled milk.

Swinging in the backyard.

Swinging babydoll (aptly named “Baby”) in the backyard.

Buckling Baby in.

Unbuckling Baby.

Adjusting Baby’s position in the swing.

Re-buckling Baby. Puuuuush! Wheeeeeeee!

Lunchtime break: Turkey hot dog with zesty honey mustard (with no bun), corn and banana ring peppers. (Yep, peppers. That’s my girl!)

“Sugah” for dessert.

Maeve Tickle Monster (Her little hands clenched, fingers dancing about, chases me around).

Patty-cake sloooooooow.

Patty-cake FAST!

Wagon ride up the hill (me pulling Maeve)

Wagon pull down the hill (“Maeve do, Maeve do! Mah-mee!”)

Squirrel counting: “One … Two … Three … Look! Anodder one, mahmee!”

Crayon-box diving for pink. Oh yeah, and … pink. And did I mention … pink? Oh, look, it’s pink. “Mah-mee, pink one!”

Assembly of giant fire-truck puzzle assembly followed by Fire Truck Song and Mommy and Maeve march (sometimes right onto giant puzzle).

Reassemble giant fire-truck puzzle.

Silly-Mommy Dance (This is done over Maeve, who’s on the floor, arms at her side, legs together. Note: Since this dance is not remotely attractive on my part, there’s no photographic evidence. So. Don’t. Ask.)

Silly-Maevey Dance (Done over me, which always ends with her collapsing onto my belly.)

“Westing” (She stops mid-play to rest her head on my shoulder. Just as I realize what she’s doing, she’s gone again, off to play.)

Reading more books. And then a few more again.

Mommy Tickle Monster emerges.

Silly Laughs.

Big Hugs.

Some more sugah sharing.

Maeve and Mommy Tickle Monsters Reunion!

As much as I enjoy my work at the newspaper, I gotta say, being with Maeve like this is by far The. Best. Job. Ever.

NaBloPoMo Stats: 5 down, 25 to go.

Marketing childhood happiness? No, thanks.

As Jenna noted, seems the Christmas Advertising Snow Job has begun. Today, I, too, found myself trying to shut out have-a-holly-jolly-Christmas jingles while perusing store aisles for very non-Christmas things.

Now, let me be clear. I’m not against Christmas jingles. Or Christmas shopping. And I certainly don’t mean to sound bah-humbug. It’s just that it all seems to have gotten, well … outta hand.

The holiday sale flyer for WalMart made its way through my mail slot earlier this week and, most unfortunately, didn’t make its way to the trash before Maeve noticed its enticing colors and images. Images and design geared for little ones just like her. (And those younger. And older.)

She wanted to flip through Every. Single. Darn. Page. Eyes wide with interest, she scanned up, down and across the ad, her little fingers struggling to keep the wide pages from spilling.

The look on her face got me thinking (and swearing I’d be more diligent in trashing the junk mail).

It’s seemingly quite a fierce marketing push to entice children these days. (Ouch. When someone says “these days,” they are about to make themselves sound very old. But I digress.)

Don’t get me wrong. I remember those early Saturday mornings, my sister and I still pajama-clad, balancing a bowl of cereal in our laps, seeking out the cartoon of the moment. And with that dose of Road Runner came commercials every 10 minutes.  Commercials stacked onto commercials, hocking toys, dolls, games and light-up-thingies that with a simple twist here and a tug there would become something else altogether.

And I loved it, coveting the Easy Bake Oven, a Lite-Brite and a Snoopy Sno-Cone Machine (oh, the quarters I knew I would make from selling the icy rainbow goodness in the neighborhood on hot, summer days) from right there on my parents’ couch.

So, I ask you: Is this an age-old issue and becoming a mama has simply heightened my sensitivity to it — or has wooing children through endless television commercials; “charactered” diapers, plates, cups, clothes and shoes (ever try to find a non-television character coloring book?); and toys with meals — actually gotten worse?

According to Campaign For a Commercial-Free Childhood, marketing to children “encourages eating disorders, precocious sexuality, youth violence, family stress, and contributes to children’s diminished capability to play creatively.”

A New York Times article in November 2004, according to CCFC, notes that “from 1992 to 1997, the amount spent marketing to children shot from $6.2 billion to $12 billion.” That’s double in five years. And that number? That’s 10 years ago.

It also notes that “almost every major media program for children has a line of licensed merchandise used to sell fast-food, breakfast cereals, snacks and candy.”

I started asking myself all sorts of questions, like why is none of this surprising to me? And, most important, what can I do to protect Maeve from it all? To keep from falling into the trap of it all?

But before panic sets in, I remember.

I remember jumping in puddles — in the rain — with my mom. And later attaching string to sticks and “fishing” in those very same puddles with my friends.

Or when a tornado twisted my new swingset into a pretzel and I thought the world as I knew it was over. The day after the storm, it was my mom who showed me how to use my imagination. After all, the tornado had uprooted a tree — and she couldn’ understand why I was sitting sad inside the house. I didn’t “get” the fun of finding the jungle gym nature had provided, until I saw my mom in the backyard climbing it herself, finding a perch and waving me over.

Or when my dad, a professional photographer, walked all around the neighborhood, teaching me about taking photos, him letting me use his grown-up cameras. And later he taught me how to develop our photos right in the bathtub.

Or the time two neighborhood boys decided I couldn’t play with them anymore — and my mom consoled me and told me to pick myself up and play on my own. She set up a little table outside, emptied a box of old fabric scraps and other “mom tricks,” and she and I had the Mother of All Craft/Play Sessions. Right there in our yard. Wasn’t too long before those boys were inching their way closer, wanting in on the fun.

Or getting up before the sun rose to go fishing with my dad at the lake, where we’d spend a few hours in the quiet of the just-waking morning.

Or the times my family would pile into the car and we’d head to the wildlife refuge near the university where my folks worked. We’d park and sit, and wait for a family of deer to make an appearance.

Funny. Ya know what?

I haven’t a clue if I ever got the Sno-Cone machine.

NaBloPoMo Stats: 4 down, 26 to go.