Saturday, May 7, 2011

Anything is Possible

Is a mother something one becomes only when something is born of their womb?

Is it possible that a mother is something one becomes when metaphoric strings attach a child to their heart? Is it possible that a mother is something one becomes even though a child might not know she is out there, waiting patiently? Is it possible that a mother is something one becomes when they care for something so deeply-- because it relies on them infinitely? Is it possible that a mother is something one becomes who is make-believe and seen in the likeness of someone who took her place while she was absent? Is it possible that a mother is something one becomes when they vow into marriage? Is it possible that a mother is something one becomes by accident or by miracle? Is it possible that a mother is something one becomes because they imagine it is possible?

I never imagined the things I could not be...only the things I would become.

Thank you to my mother, who had me (and my womb-mate) many years ago, so that I may begin to know the joy of what becoming a mother is.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Gotta Go Back...Back...Back to School Again

I feel like I am four years old again, mixing together my favorite Garanimals top with my favorite, non-matchy, Garanimals bottoms-- to prepare for my first day at Kindergarten. Butterflies swirling as I mentally imagine how my day will unfold. Looking my teacher in the eyes, doing my best not to lisp when I speak, paying attention and not drifting off into oblivion at the first thought of recess; these are the things I wonder, if in a strange environment, I might be able to do.  Other than following a group of children home to their house, instead of walking to my house, the way I had been shown, my first year at school was relatively tolerable. 

Fast forward 36 years later and I am once again entering into an unfamiliar educational environment: pre-adoption parenting classes. This is a requirement of the foster-care/adoption system, and the butterflies are coming out of hiding as I mentally prepare for this adventure. Though my lisp is long gone, insecurities stack up like a house of cards.

The questions  begin to collect like fireflies in a jar: 
Will I be a suitable parent?
Will the other parents judge me for being a single parent?
As the classes progress and we discuss personal things on a group-level, will they disconnect when they learn I am gay?
Do they think my creative appearance will hinder my ability to provide structure?
Will they want me on their team of support systems?

I begin to feel like I am back in the sandlot of my childhood, and I am torn between digging a hole to hide in- because I don't want to be put in a categorical box-- or building a castle to queen, so I can prove that I am brave and competent.

So I put on my most comfortable jeans and my oldest t-shirt,  tie up my braids, and head out to class. I set the butterflies free.

I decide that just for tonight, it is okay to take a deep breath and remember that I have worked in the education field for the last 20 years, and though this particular experience is new to me, I have been a metaphorical parent for years-- nurturing, protecting, loving, and teaching-- and translating opportunities into experience.

Monday, April 25, 2011

The Night the Lights Went Out in My Heart-Momentarily.

One Saturday night, I logged into the adoption website. I entered Hanna's code and waited patiently for the search engine to locate her, like a diamond in the rough. Search empty. WHAT????? My stomach turned. I must have put in the wrong numbers. I tried again, and again...nothing found. My heart was pulsating in my throat. I closed my eyes and talked to God for a brief moment...

"God...please put a white light around my heart, because I think it might break into a million tiny pieces."

I took a deep breath in and collapsed into a heap on my couch. Hanna had been adopted. Tears, warm and uninvited, flooded my cheeks. I cried for hours-- for the little girl who snuck into my heart and took up residence. I felt like I had been the front-runner in the Olympic marathon and then an expert runner joined the race last minute and swooped the gold medal from underneath me. I was devastated.

When I was able to collect myself and my thoughts, I remembered that this journey had started so a little girl could have a home...a place in this world to be loved unconditionally, and now she did.  I had to remember that from loss there is gain, and I would embrace the lesson in this experience.

Hanna will always have a special place in my heart; she is the flame that ignited my spirit and I shall never forget her.

Monday, April 11, 2011

A Room for Hanna

Like a grunion hunter waiting for the tides to recede, I anticipated the moment when I would commence the foster-care process. I meditated on this notion and in January, as the full moon transitioned out of its cycle-- I oriented myself to the beginning of the beginning.

I learned that I would have to have a room for Hanna, a room all her own.

I searched neighborhoods and online ads for the increase in square footage that would allow my dreams to take shape.

On an educator's salary, my options were limited; but I found a suitable place-- near a good school, and it didn't break the bank. In March, I packed my life into boxes and left my solitude behind.

Inside my newly rented four walls, a fresh coat of paint enhances the room where beautiful Hanna will sleep. On the pink iron bed, shaped with curves and hearts, I place Oliver, a bear that my grandmother passed on to me before she died. This bear had been my grandmother's companion since she was three years old, and my confidant since I was seven days old; he is an excellent guardian and secret keeper. 

Oliver will be patient with Hanna, and will protect her from imaginary monsters while she is sleeping, as will I.

She will be safe here in her new home, in the room all her own, just as safe as she is in my heart.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Lily Pads

There are many places I envision living when I think about having a safe environment to raise a child. I imagine an island where there is not crime; I picture a small town where health-care and education is free-- where all the neighbors know one another and without obligation, keep their eyes on your child-- when your eyes are elsewhere.

I think of a space where playing outside is encouraged and all of the children run in the streets, going from home to home like frogs on lily pads.

As I sit on my make-believe hillside, the sun sets on my imaginary city.

Out of the shadows, as the moon rises to greet me, comes a dark and sinister world, the world which I live in, a world which my mother says...is not worthy of children. I hope she is wrong.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Home Sweet Home

After viewing Hanna's profile, I became intent on the idea that she and I were meant to be together. The smile that hid deep behind her eyes, was beckoning me to her.

Something larger than me had set the wheels in motion.

Each weekend, I found time to go online and look at Hanna's photolisting. I would re-read her profile and giggle a bit about our common love of condiments. I would speak to her through my laptop screen-- as if my voice could teleport to where she was; I told her that I was beginning the footwork to come and get her. I wondered what her voice sounded like. I always said goodnight to her before I went to sleep. I had an attachment to her that I could not explain.


I found myself, when out in the world, wondering if Hanna would like a particular thing: a toy, a hat, a sweater, a restaurant. I was thinking in the manner which I imagine parents do. It felt comfortable, natural.

I knew that one of the first steps to being able to foster and then hopefully adopt Hanna, was that I needed to move into a larger home, one where Hanna could have a room all her own.

And so I began my search for a home, a home fit for a family.

Friday, March 18, 2011

To Mom...or Not to Mom

I have not always wanted to be a mother. When I was small, I thought all women had to become mothers. I thought that when little girls grew up, they aged into motherhood-- like it was a natural progression. When I was about seven years old, I learned that not all women were mothers. I was a little confused by this, but more relieved. Children seemed like a lot of work. I never played house like other girls, but I did play school. I didn't know at the time that this would begin my journey into the most important teaching job ever.

As I entered my teenage years and witnessed the wear and tear my own mother experienced, by virtue of mothering my sister and I, I determined that motherhood was a headache and certainly not worthy of the tears and frustration my mother seemed to regularly exhibit.

My thinking evolved again when I was out in the world on my own and landed a job at a school. I was twenty years old and observing the effects of others surviving absentee parents or abusive homes. These adolescents would arrive at school each day-- seeking more than an education. They were trying to find a family away from home, a family who understood them, a family who would accept them for who they were. For nearly thirteen years I would become part of that fantasy family: a confidant, a sister figure, a mother figure, a firm but gentle disciplinarian, a sounding board. I didn't know then that it would impact my future choices.

Over those years I grew close to many of the students. When they were not at school, I worried. When they were at school, I wondered what they had experienced the night before to make them so edgy or happy-- the spectrum of emotions was endless. Though I knew that I could not control what happened to them on a daily basis, I always felt a bit calmer when I could see them-- knowing they were safe for at least the school day. I learned to let go and have faith that they would be protected when they were away from my watchful eyes. Some days, my faith was tested, as I learned that there were great lessons to be discovered when grieving for a child-- a child lost to suicide, drug addiction, or murder. Who knew my heart could feel such pain. I could not imagine being a parent and experiencing such loss, and again-- swore off motherhood. 

My job experience took me to San Diego, where I began working with a different population of adolescents. These children lived away from home and relied on the kindness of others to meet their needs. Though the staff members were not parents to these children, I watched them nurture and model and do everything possible to make these children feel supported and heard. 

This new program had a school-- which I was in charge of. We taught academics and life skills and marveled as the students learned to read, write, or even just the basic skills required of listening and following directions. Because of the students' combination of  intellectual disabilities and behavioral concerns, we masterfully learned how to create behavior plans in between being assaulted or just flat out ignored. Some interventions worked, and some failed-- but we always learned from doing. We quickly realized that there was no better way of experiencing something,  other than having something to experience. We became experimental wizards. Throughout the course of any given day, we instructed them, fed them, helped troubleshoot, played games, laughed, worked on hygiene, created, and conquered obstacles worthy of warriors. We were gentle tigers, leading our cubs to be independent; we were artists, creating sculptures.

For thirty-nine years, I have vacillated between wanting to be a mother, and not. A plethora of experience brought frustration, ambivalence, heartache, joy,  growth, fear, laughter, and tears-- all things human, all things parental. What I didn't realize-- along the way-- was that I had all the makings of a mother already, but was missing the most important ingredient... a child of my own.