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

She’s a star in my book

Before I get this ol’ girl back up and flying again with some fresh thoughts, I first must point everyone toward the pink star in the upper right sidebar. It’s for Judy, a dear online friend who often has made her presence known here in mamagigiville, and whose own blog I haunt.

Her adoptive mom status was our initial common denominator, but it’s her that keeps me coming back. She’s sassy, supportive (personal e-mails exchanged with her some time ago are just one of a gazillion indicators of that), wise, thoughtful, snarky as all get out, and she doesn’t match her socks. She’s wife to Frank and mom to six-year-old Nate, whose smile is as juicy and full of light as they come. 

Last month she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She’s navigating a new path now and trying to decipher each bit of medical information as it comes. Although there’s been a hiatus here for a while, I check in with her at Just Enjoy Him each day, like so many others, for an update or to show my support. If you’re so inclined, please take a moment to head there and offer her a simple sentence or two of support. The power of your kind words will last infinitely longer than the time it takes to send her a message.

In addition, the pink star planted in the sidebar leads you to a page for Judy, hosted by Dawn of This Woman’s Work, that lists some simple wishes from Judy herself, and some good ideas from Dawn. The star is a perfect symbol of our support and love for someone who is, herself, a star.

Several years ago, I participated in Avon’s three-day, 60-mile New York walk for the cure. Although fierce rain and eventual flooding actually cut everyone’s adventure there short (Ack! Took me three days just to dry out!), I raised several thousand dollars in my personal journey honoring several family members and friends affected by breast cancer. While those efforts certainly are just a tiny, rippleless drop in the vast ocean of efforts to find-a-cure efforts, each of us can continue to effect change — even one drop at a time.

In addition, of course, to making a direct donation to fund research in finding a cure, here’s a list of the current corporate partners of the Susan G. Komen For The Cure. Click individually to learn about their contributions to breast cancer research each time you patronize their companies.

Also, 100 percent of the proceeds from the sale of The Power of Now tee through the retail store LF goes directly to The Breast Cancer Research Foundation. Yes, that’s right. 100 percent.

Until, as Judy says, she “Evicts the B*tch,” this pink star remains at the top of my blog, as she remains at the forefront of my thoughts each day. Fight the fight, sistah!

Book Review: Daring Book for Girls

This review is part of my participation in MotherTalk.
This, and all future reviews, will be archived on the Reviews tab above.

When I was in college, I managed a small independent children’s bookstore. From storytime under the big in-store elm tree to choosing from the myriad books, puzzles and realistic animal and bug puppets, children entering our shop were encouraged to discover the wonder and adventure in reading.

One afternoon, like most, a mother and young child sat in a cozy corner reading from a small stack of books. As I went about my work, I took delight in the ebb and flow of their voices and his determined page-turning. That is, until it came to a screeching halt when the little boy — about three years old — began to shriek in protest: “No mommy! That’s a girl book! I’m not reading that!”

It was then I realized just how young children are when they learn the unfortunate pinks and blues, dolls and trucks mindset in “traditional” gender roles. I promised myself any daughter of mine would also have a truck and handle a fishing pole, and any son would have a doll and help bake a cookie or two in the kitchen. (Ya know, alongside daddy’s apron strings. Me not being a fan of the kitchen and all.)

I also was careful in future dealings with customers not to become mired in that narrow gender-role mindset; I’d show all children all different kinds of books, sharing all sorts of adventures with all sorts of readers.

Given this, one can imagine I’m not wont to pull from the shelves a book seemingly written for one gender or another. No thank you. I don’t need a bookcover or author telling me I’m an acceptable reader simply because I’ve got breasts.

Ah. But there’s now an exception to this rule of mine.

When the recently released The Daring Book for Girls by Andrea J. Buchanan and Miriam Peskowitz landed on my doorstep, thanks to MotherTalk and publisher Harper Collins, I found myself in the uncomfortable position of being simultaneously intrigued and cautious.

But wait. Mamagigi’s getting ahead of herself. First, another personal story. (Yes, it relates. I promise. Yeesh.)

One spring, as a child, my parents bought a large, playground-grade swingset from my elementary school for our own backyard. Seems the school was planning an upgrade and held an auction to make room for new play equipment.

Now, this swingset was special. It was like no other in my little slice of suburbia. It was red. Cherry red. And big. Very big. It seemed to be crafted soley for the purpose of swinging higher than all the other shamed denizens of Swingset-land. This awe-inspiring swingset sat ready, its long A-frame legs and strong chains tempting us — and all the neighborhood kids — to hop on and give it a spin. You know, if you dared.

To put it simply, my sister and I were thrilled.

But alas. It wasn’t meant to be.

Just days after its arrival into our very own backyard, a tornado blew through my Midwestern town and twisted the beloved new plaything into a big, depressing, cherry-red pretzel.

We moped for days, wallowing in our misery and the unbelievable unfairness of it all. Suddenly, the once-promising summer shined less bright, and each day lingered longer than the one before it. This is what happens, don’tchyaknow, when one’s innocent childhood daydreams are squashed and all that remains is disappointment, frustration and — gasp! — boredom.

This continued at a painful pace until, well, until the day our mother had heard enough.

Without explanation or invitation, she simply marched into the backyard and began to climb a big old tree that had been uprooted during the tornado and landed in our backyard. A tree that for us, had only been further reminder of the Tornado That Ruined Our Life.

While our parents’ gift of super-sized, ready-made swingset fun was just a short-lived reality, that afternoon mom presented us with a much greater gift: a jumpstart of our imaginations. She was daring us to embrace an unexpected opportunity that had landed — quite literally — in our own backyard.

The Daring Book for Girls reminds me of that day. It beckons young girls to extract the iPod earbuds from their ears, close their cell phones and embrace creativity and the important role it deserves in one’s childhood.

From its unique Tiffany blue hue and silvery glitter stylings to its heftiness as a hardcover chock-full of information, stories and tips meant to empower today’s young girls, Daring offers so much more than tired and shallow tips about blotting lipstick, walking gracefully in heels and batting eyelashes at bad boys. And this non-traditional take on activities for girls is a treat, indeed.

Its vintage feel doesn’t hurt either, with marbleized inside covers and old-fashioned fonts, parents of potential young readers can’t help but feel transported to the simpler time of their own childhood. Or the childhood they wish they’d had.

Although one could argue this packaging forces the fond feelings of yesteryear, the fact is if the book’s contents didn’t live up to its packaging, moms like me would simply place it right back onto the shelf and walk away.

But that’s not a problem for Daring — it delivers.

Readers can flip to any page and learn something they didn’t know. Or, just as delightful, relish in recollections of past adventures. There’s no need to carve out hours for reading this book, either. Each page or two offers a new activity, a new tidbit of cultural information or just-for-the-fun-of-it facts. From sports (something I admit the tweeny me would have skipped right over had this book existed then) and history (our daughters should learn about all sorts of daring women that came before them, yes?) to crafts (like making your very own sit-upon — oh, how I wish I still had mine, with its now-dated greenish-brown and ivory gingham checks and long ivory plastic waiststrings) to clever tricks and tips meant to entertain, there’s little room here for boredom.

Gather your daughter. Tell her to gather her friends. Heck, gather your friends. There are good times to be had and memories to be made.

This book will have a place in my daughter’s collection. And although she’s too young now to take full advantage, I’m not. It’s also a useful tool for me, in my role as her mom, to help keep her days full of learning, adventure and creative play — the simple charms of childhood.

So for me, its purpose is two-fold: In addition to being a guidepost for my own mother-daughter adventures to come, it’s a sweet reminder of my own years as a child when the most important thing I had to worry about was what crayons to use on the sign for my lemonade stand.

That day following the tornado, when I dusted off my imagination — thanks to a not-so-subtle dare by my own creative mother — is one of several memories I hold dear. Like dancing with her in warm summer rain showers.

Or later, sitting with friends, knotting shoelaces onto sticks and dangling them above murky rain puddles. Just us girls, fishing poles in hand, chatting it up and waiting for rainfish to bite.

This book is a must-have — for us and our daring daughters.

Monday Morning Maeve

My friend’s end-of-summer party:
Food, friends, pony rides, magic, bounce house, face painting …
and an ice cream truck.  In the driveway.  Just for her guests.
And Maeve’s first kiddy tattoo.
(She keeps checking that her “fu-her-fly” is still there.)
Good times.

Decaf next time?

 

Can hardly sit still and don’t really know why that is, thoughts moving through my mind faster than I can make them into words for you here, I’m trying to figure out why that is but as soon as I think I have the answer I forget what I was trying to think of, isn’t it silly how that happens, as Maeve would say, silly mommy, she would laugh and I would laugh and there would be lots of laughing and maybe even some tickling and falling to the floor but right now I can’t think of much else other than the fact that I can’t sit still and focus and I don’t know why that could be, by the way today Maeve received a cute tea set for her birthday from a friend in my local adoption group whose daughter turned two a couple weeks before Maeve did, they came by and the girls played outside and inside and even got pulled in the big red wagon and collected rocks from the driveway and had orange juice popsicles on a hot, sunny day, and then when daddy came home tonight he helped open the tea set and showed Maeve how to set it up, cute in itself dontchya think, a big strong daddy sitting down to tea and showing Maeve how to pour and stir and use a pink saucer, she watched every move he made and I watched both of them silly happy at how cute it was and before we knew it we were all having an impromptu tea party, our very first ever, and Maeve was pouring tea for both of us and sometimes into the little bowls and onto the saucers too and then she’d just turn the tea kettle over and rest it in her lap while she drank from the teacup but that’s ok because it was only her first tea party after all and a girl’s gotta learn, and hey, wait a minute, I think I just figured out why I can’t sit still, it must be the 183 cups of tea Maeve poured for me tonight, because by the end of the “teapahty!” we were all just smiling and sipping and smiling and sipping and maybe, just maybe …

I sipped too much.

My Birthday By My Betrothed

For my birthday this year, Thomas had taken to planning some family activities to celebrate. I had no idea and actually, for the first time in a long time was pretty mellow about my birthday, just happy to lay low and spend it at home. Ah, the irony.

Add in a red herring by my sister, and Thomas managed to pull off a celebratory day full of surprises.

I was told the day would begin with Maeve’s contribution. We’d be doing something “she picked” to do with mommy. As Thomas drove us to the mysterious destination, he even kept the mapped directions on his left side in the car, making me look out my window when he needed to reference them.

I was thrilled when we pulled up to the Imagine That! Museum. I couldn’t believe he’d planned something like this; it’s much more my style to find a new locale and get us all out for a new adventure.

It was a great afternoon. Among the “exhibits” in this hands-on museum area music room with myriad instruments all within kids’ reach; ballet room complete with tu-tus, mirror and bar; victorian house complete with picket fence, mailbox, pretend garden and gardening gloves; grocery store with kid-sized shopping carts, food containers and a real cash register; post office, NASA shuttle and in-flight video; vintage Volkswagen Beetle sans doors for easy access; fire truck with kid-sized gear and hats; an actual prop plane with a boarding staircase that Maeve must have climbed 34 times; giant sand room; big wooden pirate ship with a slide and hatch; and art studio with paper lining the walls, water, paint and brushes.

One of my favorites was the art studio, and Maeve donned a smock and painted several pieces in true keeping, of course, with her varied moods and talents: her blue period, her purple!purple!purple! period and her ask-her-what-color-something-is-and-it’s-definitely-without-doubt-yelloooooo-even-when-it’s-actually-green period. Thomas even painted a birthday sign for me while Maeve and I painted pictures together, surrounded by brushes, colors and craft supplies. There’s a little clothesline to hang your paintings to dry.

At one point during the afternoon, there was when an announcement made that the art studio was closing for the afternoon and anyone interested in keeping their paintings should retrieve them at that time and leave them near the exit. So Thomas went off to collect our masterpieces while Maeve and I continued checking out the exhibits.

When it was time to go, one of the women running the gift shop gave me a balloon — word had spread there was a birthday girl on the premises, thanks to Tom — I just don’t think they expected it to be the mama not the toddlah!

As we made our way to the car, I noticed a significant lack of artwork in the husband’s hand. Turns out, he only collected his happy birthday sign, and left all of Maeve’s creative efforts behind.

Hello? Am I missing something?

To put it nicely, I sorta flipped, and between my astonishment, annoyance and subdued laughter, I murmured semi-threateningly about making a blog post outta this one! The daddy who let the daughter’s paintings hit the trash while he saves his goofy birthday sign. I’d had thoughts of saving one or two of her paintings to commemorate the special day together.

The best part of it all was the look on his face when I asked where her pictures were — it clearly never dawned on him to collect anyone’s work other than his own. Rrrright.

But who can stay annoyed too long at the guy who plans the entire day, makes a stop for chocolate and peanut butter milkshakes (my favorite!) and is hurrying to get us home for Phase Two of Project Gretchen’s Birthday?

As we headed home, Thomas explained that my sister was babysitting Maeve that evening and we’d need a quick turnaround time at the house to head back out for more celebrating.

OK. So let me paint this picture for you (brushes and colors not necessary): It’s a wicked hot summer day, we’ve been running around a kids’ museum all afternoon, and the last thing I was worried about on the way home was how I looked. By now any makeup had long worn away, and the sweltering sun had taken its toll on my hair. I was happy to dig up one of Maeve’s hair barrettes in the car and I used it to sweep my bangs straight up off my forehead. And, I’m slurping my heavenly milkshake. Got the image? Good.

We park the car and round the bend into the backyard, where we are greeted by 40 or so of my friends and family.

“Suuurrrrpriiiise!”

So clearly I don’t have my finger on the pulse of everything going on in my house. Seems there have been rented tables and chairs in my garage for days, a caterer was hired and a menu chosen, a gazillion limes purchased for Karen’s Trinidadian Rum Punch, linens and balloons in place, and people invited.

And sweaty, pink-and-purple-barretted me?

I’m shocked. I’m not fond of being the center of attention (I try to wriggle my way out of the little work celebration of my birthday each year). I’m wondering if my house is clean enough for all these guests. And I’m trying to sneak away to put on some makeup and run a brush through my hair.

But most of all — after the panic and shock wears off — I’m not just impressed by my husband and all the planning and effort it took on his part, I’m loving him more than ever for caring so much.

(Oh — and the Rum Punch? Well, it never was made, he tells me, due to logistics and time. But lemme tell you, those limes are a chillin’ in my fridge’s crisper drawer, the liquor’s purchased and in the pantry, a 10 pound bag of sugar mocks me and her rhyming recipe is on the ready.)

Logo-rific

Some time ago, I wrote here that something exciting was happening in mamagigi-land. I quickly realized I may have set the excitement bar too high as I received a handful of comments and a plethora of personal e-mails in all sorts of e-mailboxes from friends, family and newer online friends wanting to know the scoop. (Even my mother delurked.) One friend thought we’d somehow been placed with another child and quasi-chastised me for not letting her know sooner and personally, if this was, in fact, the news.

In reality, I was eager to share I am now writing a column addressing adoption, open adoption and first-time motherhood for the newsletter of my adoption agency. I just wanted to wait until it hit the newsstands, if you will.

Anyway, my first column is out and I’ve now wedged the column’s logo into my sidebar.

Aside from that, six inches of water have been shop-vac’d and push-broomed out of our finished basement — that recent rainy Nor’Easter was a doozy — and we dealt with a Cold Turned Touch of Croup in Maeve that had me thankful for her birth mother’s medical history.

Turns out I never needed any history as the Battle of the Wicked Cough and Lips Turning Blue-ish were a cold turned something akin to croup, but in those first moments when one’s imagination runs wild after witnessing her child sick with something she’s not seen before, there is relief in knowing there are medical records and ways to reach out if needed. That’s open adoption, for ya.

The Hunt (for the slide)

Enjoyed an Easter Egg Hunt in the park this morning with friends. This was Maeve’s first — and guess how many my little bunny found? Drum roll please … wait for it … here it comes … One!

In her defense, there were three gazillion children and some parents were picking up eggs and tossing them in their children’s direction so they could fill their baskets first. Hello? Not us, we just sent her off on her way, sure she would make us proud. Oh — and see that pink egg just a few baby steps ahead of her? Yeah, that’s not the one she found.

And, as soon as it was over — about 55.237 seconds after it began — she dropped her basket and bee-lined it for the swirly slide. This, even after we popped open her plastic egg and found three little chocolates inside. Chocolates, I tell you. The girl needs to get her priorities in order.

All in all, I’d say we’re sliding into the chilly weekend quite nicely. Hope you are too.

 

Passing adoption’s pop quiz

Em over at Letters to a Birthmother found herself in a quandary recently as her nephew, while looking at photos of her son’s first mother, expressed confusion at the notion of two mothers for a child.

She froze up, and began worrying that if she didn’t know how to answer her nephew’s questions, how would she ever adequately discuss it all with her son, the one who would need these answers most of all?

I so understand.

I think every adoptive parent committed to openness and sharing understands. She asked for advice, and I happened to stumble onto her post before anyone else had chimed in. Funny thing is, in reaching out to her, I quite possibly may have authored the longest comment ever (any bloggerville awards for that?). Obnoxiously long, actually. I simply was on a roll and wanted her to feel better in knowing we’re all human, we’re all doing the best we can and we’re all in a similar boat. In fact, while I was writing my novella, furiously typing because she struck such a chord with me, the always insighful Jenna managed to get in a perfectly sensible, well-written and far more appropriately sized comment essentially expressing my sentiments before I could even hit send. That’s how long I was type, type, typing away. Yeesh.

Anyway, as I expressed at the end of my discourse over there, it seems good fodder for mamagigi-land and I want to take up here the matter of handling unexpected yet pointed questions on open adoption and all its workings. It can be hard enough to explain to an adult — but throw in an innocent question from a child and, well, all sorts of tizziness can set in, especially when you realize your own child will be asking soon enough.

It is hard, isn’t it? When we have the luxury of time to consider future questions and conversations, these things play out quite differently in our imagination. Like a well-scripted movie or television program, the right, poignant, memorable words and thoughtful facial expressions fall into place.

But what about when we’re about to order pancakes and hash browns or we’re strolling the aisles of Target? And if the pop quiz on open adoption comes from loved ones we so dearly want to just “get” it, well, it’s darn easy to panic a bit.

I’ve been trying to consider each of these why-are-they-looking-at-me-like-I-have-two-heads moments as a test run, as a good thing. Case in point:

My six-year-old nephew, whose mom (my sister) has explained adoption to him numerous times since Maeve came into our lives, has seemed on each occasion to understand both the general idea of adoption and ours specifically. But every once in a while, he asks a new question.

A month or so ago I was in the store with him when out of the blue he asked me if Maeve would ever leave us to go live with her real mom. I froze. After all, I’d never imagined these conversations with him or Maeve taking place in an aisle at Target. In my mind, these delicate topics and intricate stories were lovingly detailed while nestled on my couch, fire crackling before us, my arms wrapped around the inquisitive child.

Instead, over a red plastic and metal shopping cart, I explained a couple points as slowly and gently (more for my good than his) as I could. First, I am Maeve’s mom and she will live with me, Aunt Gigi, and Uncle Tom until she is all grown up. I explained that he didn’t have to worry that she would leave us. Then I explained that he was right — that Maeve has another mom. While I’m the mom who loves her in person all the time, her other mom also loves her all the time but doesn’t live close enough to see her every day. I explained that when she carried Maeve in her tummy and went to the hospital to have her, she had thought long and hard about taking care of baby Maeve until she grew up and decided she just couldn’t take care of her the way she wanted her to be taken care of. And so, I explained to him, even though it was very sad for her, she looked for people who would love Maeve as much as she did. And, I asked, weren’t we so lucky she found us?

I let that sit a moment or two and then said, as if I were letting him in on a secret, “Actually, if you think about it, it’s pretty cool Maeve has so many people who love her, don’t you think?” He listened, he nodded. I could tell he was absorbing, processing.

A few moments later, when I had his attention again, I told him we have photos of Maeve’s other mom at home. He looked puzzled. “Where?” he asked, as if it was impossible he hadn’t already noticed them. I explained that Maeve has a little photo album just the right size for hands that has lots of pictures of her other mom, and some of her other mom’s family, and photos of Maeve with them while we visited in a park one day. I told him the book was with all her other favorite books she keeps in a basket in the living room. When I asked if he wanted to see them, I wasn’t surprised he said yes.

By the time we arrived at my home that afternoon, his six-year-old energetic self wasn’t thinking about it anymore. And I could have let it go. Instead, I asked if he still wanted to see photos of Maeve’s other mom. He did, and so we nestled and looked, page by page. When we finished, I told him that anytime he wants to know more, he should just ask me.

And then he ran off to play with whatever treasure Target had bestowed on him. Just like that, in the blink of an eye, he was satisfied — for now — and ran off to play. My panic had been mostly for naught. He wasn’t expecting a perfectly worded presentation on the matter. Just a few answers to the questions that popped up in his mind.

Of course it’s tremendously important to me that my nephew and others in our life fully understand and respect our situation. But in the end, it’s the moments shared with an inquisitive Maeve that truly matter. It’s her questions I need to prepare for. So I try to be thankful for the little zingers from random folks or unexpected questions from loved ones and consider them lessons and learning curves for the critical conversations with Maeve.

I had a eureka moment early on, actually, in how to share my belief in adoption openness with the less-convinced around me. Initially — before we were even placed with Maevey Gravy — I found myself unsure how others would react to my wanting openness with our future child’s birth mother. So, as even some of my closest family members expressed doubts at such an arrangement I found I was only hinting at the idea of openness. Being wishy-washy. Separating myself from it, even slightly. Kind of sticking my toe in unknown and possibly very cold waters.

But very quickly that didn’t feel right. It was like I was cheating the lot of us — me and Thomas as adoptive parents, our future child and what I wanted for him or her, and that child’s first family. I wasn’t being fair to us — ultimately, the only ones who really mattered in our story.

A side effect of this hinting or doling out information in bits I thought those around me might be more able to accept, was that I was actually providing them “cracks” in my story. Cracks or “loopholes” in which they rested their worries and comforted themselves that perhaps these are just thoughts and ideas — trial balloons, really — and Gretchen would likely come to her senses soon enough.

That’s when I realized I was letting an irrational fear interfere with some of the most important relationships I would have in my life. So I let go, deciding my family and friends loved me enough and would love my future child enough that they would have to sort it out for themselves. That, like it or not, this is what Thomas and I believe — wholeheartedly — is best for our future family.

So from then on, when I discussed our impending adoption and the openness we sought, I embraced the truth of it all and told it as it was. I didn’t look to ruffle feathers or furrow brows and never discussed this approach for the sake of being “radical.” I took into consideration those I cared about, of course, but ultimately I had to consider our future child first.

And, funny thing — the sky didn’t fall. In fact, an incredible burden was lifted from my shoulders. When I told it as it was, an established fact in our lives, people listened. No one jumped from their seats, enlightened and moved beyond words. Of course not. In fact, I’m doubtful anyone ever was convinced in that very moment. Or is yet, for that matter. But they listened because I was really talking. There could be no doubt in my voice, its intonations, my body language, that I had made a choice and was committed to living it. And when folks asked skeptical questions I tried to answer clearly, honestly and completely — not editing myself for others’ sake. And with every conversation, it felt right. I took them as they came, explained why we believed an open adoption was a good thing and tried to fully respond to questions about a child confused by two mothers, or whether a birthmother would interfere when she disagreed with our parenting. I tried to answer these things to the best of my ability.

Sometimes it meant keeping it simple: ALL children who are adopted (assuming they know of the adoption, of course) WILL have questions. Period. So, I’d continue, why not have answers? Answers inevitably are better than questions, questions that forever linger.

The full story was now theirs to process.

(I’d also try to share with them — even if just a tidbit — a gentle moment or a few words from her birthmother, or even relay a heartwarming look on her birthmother’s face. It seems I needed to remind them that Maeve’s birth mom is a human being with a heart and soul and feelings and loss like anyone else. Absurd? Yes. But true nonetheless. I’m always wanting others to consider Maeve’s first mother, all first mothers, really. I’d like to think that people entertaining doubts about us connecting with her birthmother can look at their own love for Maeve and through that tangible example, see past their fear and simply want the best for Maeve’s other mother too.)

I also hope that as time passes and our family’s openness proves successful, today’s doubters may become tomorrow’s believers. At the very least, they must process their views and make sense of inequities.

Time for an admission: Sometimes, in my weakest moments, I try to take those anxiety-inducing voices of skepticism or confusion and (nicely) use them as motivation to remain committed for the long haul — in a sense, to prove them wrong. No, of course it’s not about them. It’s about Maeve. But I try to use the naysayers to our family’s advantage, rather than let it become a debilitating disadvantage, by reminding myself that working on openness will shed light for these folks, as well as reap rewards for Maeve.

Rewards she so richly deserves.

White wedding, white weather

Well, well, well. I survived the Two Days in Boston Sans Maeve.

I also got laryngitis, so, ironically, when Tom and I called to talk to Maeve, she had no idea who I was. (And, considering her usual way of saying hello to someone on the telephone is waving at the keypad, I’d already had very little chance at an actual conversation. Yet, when she gets her paws on a coveted remote control, she’ll stick it to her ear, say “Hello?” and chat up a storm. Explain that.)

We also seemed to bring with us the blizzard that assaulted the East Coast on Friday as snow, sleet and ice pelted us the entire trip. The four-hour drive to Boston actually turned out — thanks to driving between just 15 and 40 miles per hour, passing 18 accidents each with police cars, tow trucks and the occasional ambulance, pulling over to de-ice the windshield, reaching outside the moving car’s window to catch the wiper as it swept toward us and “flick” it down to dislodge chunks of ice, following tire tracks because lane markers were buried in snow, debating whether a particular highway was a three- or four-lane road, driving behind plows and salt trucks at a snail’s pace — to be more than eight hours long. Yes, more than eight hours.

And that lofty goal of using the travel time to finish conversations stalled since becoming parents? Well, here’s essentially a transcript of what transpired between wheel-gripping, ever-patient Tom, and handle-gripping, nervous-ninny me:

Me: Tom, slow down.
Him: Yes, dear.
Me: Tom, that’s a bumper I’m seeing!
Him: Yes, dear.
Me: Brake, Tom, brake.
Him: Got it, dear.
Me: Tom! Careful!
Me: Bumper! Tom…
Him: Gretchen…
Me: Tom, slooow down.
Me: Tom, be care-
Tom: I’m on it. Dear.
Now repeat. (Repeatedly.)

We did arrive, but not in time to see my friend’s ceremony in what was described as a most-beautiful cathedral. I missed her walk down the aisle. Although I’m told her floor-length veil was lovely as it draped down her back, resting atop her strapless Carolina Herrera gown, I’ll have to take my friends’ word for it. I didn’t hear her I Do as she commited herself to the man she loves, before friends and family. I missed her first kiss as a married woman. Disappointing, for sure.

There are, however, plenty o’ things I didn’t miss, including the fact I should be grateful we even arrived at all, safe and (reasonably) sound, as well as:

In the rush to check into the hotel, shake off the drama of the roadway and get dressed before the wedding guests returned from the church for the reception, I managed to keep from poking my hand through my stockings. (Always a victory for me, even in the calmest circumstances.)

The cocktail hour — a most-blessed sight after that commute — and a lovely reception.

Eating, drinking and being merry with longtime friends: Nice conversations, clinking glasses, sarcastic jabs, lots of laughs and plenty of poses for pictures.

People-watching.

My newlywed friend impressively belting out Janis Joplin’s Bobby McGee at the request of her guests, and the many accolades that followed.

Dancing. Lots of dancing.

Finding the hotel bed, down comforter, featherbed, half-dozen pillows and chenille throw to be a most welcoming place to finally rest very late that night.

Sleeping in and ignoring the knocks of hotel housekeeping as they made their way down the hall.

The Saturday brunch-turned-lunch with my friends and the waitress we’ll all remember — when all we wanted was caffeine and carbs.

Bagpipes and green Mardi Gras-style beads.

Knowing that some spring day in Boston, as the ice and snow begin to melt, a lone, homeless hubcap will make its way to the surface. And it will have been mine.* Let it now serve as a quiet reminder that, most important, I was there to share with my friend the start of a new chapter in her life.

Being in both Boston and Manhattan on the same festive St. Patrick’s Day night. How cool.

Discovering the perfect way to end an eventful and enjoyable weekend: Coming home** to Maeve and holding her tight.

* This is what happens when two people, frazzled by substantial delay, treacherous weather and a wedding ceremony already in progress, finally reach their destination. They are so completely spent that despite sliding into a curb and seeing their hubcap fly off the car and land in a median snowdrift some distance away, they Just. Don’t. Care.

** It will be discovered upon returning home from the two-day jaunt that, in fact, a second hubcap also had gone missing somewhere between leaving the Boston hotel and entering the driveway alongside the house.