Why bother???
There have been hard times in the past.
There will be hard times again.
And invariably, when it's hard, someone says, "Well, why bother? You don't have to."
My answer is almost always a long, drawn out rant about adoptee rights, birth family rights and, generally, doing the right thing. I don't have to do that anymore. After ten long years, I have the only reason I need, and it takes twenty seconds to tell someone about it.
Last Saturday, at Bugs' first football game of the season, we got the reason why it's worth it.
Open adoption is worth it, because HE is worth it. We are worth it. She is worth it.
Our family is worth it.
C and I sat together on a sleeping bag, talking (well, I was explaining football to her), laughing, taking pictures and watching Monster run about (my hip is still a bit stiff, so it wasn't up to me to chase her around this week).
C's mother and Brat were playing and talking.
C's father and D were chatting about sports, Italy and just about anything else that came up.
And we sat together, as a family, and watched our son play his first real game.
And he lost. Well, they're 12, and they kinda suck (he doesn't read this, so he'll never know I said it), so we fully expected them to lose.
And we more than half expected him to be sour that they lost (he thinks they're really good). We expected him to be pissy and- more than likely- rude about it to Brat.
He wasn't. He came off the field- after the handshakes- all smiles, laughter and warmth. He was so excited that we were all there for him. He came running up, gave us hugs, and said, "Hi mom. Hi mom." To each of us. And smiled so wide I could literally see his molars.
He played with his sisters, took the baby out on the field (she's been wanting to get out there for so long now).
Then, we packed up our stuff, and gave him hugs and kisses, and they left to go have some more time with just C and her family until next week.
All the times I've defended our decision to remain inclusive; to keep our adoption open; to remain a solid family for him to fall back on, all those times when someone said, "Well, that's stupid. How's he supposed to know who his real family is if he's always over there too?" Here:
I say, next week, when my momma flies in, we'll have an even bigger group of family there to congratulate him on his shitty game.
We are all his family- that's why we bother.
Showing posts with label gratitude. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gratitude. Show all posts
Monday, August 13, 2012
Thursday, June 14, 2012
What I Want To Say To You on Fathers Day.
Time for another OAR prompt: Someone else in the adoption constellation- what do you want to say to them on Fathers Day? Open Adoption Bloggers
Today it's for Fathers Day.
Well, I want to write to my dad. He's not a part of the 'open adoption' community per se, but he's mine.
Dad,
You were not there when I was a child- mom didn't know you then, so that doesn't surprise me.
You were there when I was a preteen- and lacked all common sense.
You were there when I was a teenager- in other words a total shithead.
You were there the day I left for University.
You were there when I called from school whining because I was cold.
You were there the day I called home and said I wasn't going back to University.
And all of that surprised me then. It doesn't surprise me any more. I have learned to expect that you will be there.
You were there the day I told you I was moving to Winnipeg. You sat and listened while I cried and explained that I needed to go spend time with my biological father- needed to understand him. You didn't say anything. You didn't say I couldn't (or shouldn't) go. You didn't chastise me for being 'stupid' or leaving school a month before the school year ended.
You were there the day I called home and said I'd met 'the one'. The day I brought him and my son home.
You were there the day I got married.
You were there the night I called home to tell you and mom about my pregnancy with Brat, and then again with Monster.
You were there through it all.
You are the kind of father I needed. The kind of father I married in D. The kind of father I hope I am raising my son to be.
I love you very much, and all the times I was a shit as a teenager and pulled the "You're not my REAL dad- you can't tell me what to do!" bullshit still haunt me. But you don't want my apologies for those times- you say, "I wasn't a perfect father either sweetheart." But you were. Because you were there.
You love me, with all my faults, through all those trials you loved me anyways. And you were there. Thank you for always being there.
Today it's for Fathers Day.
Well, I want to write to my dad. He's not a part of the 'open adoption' community per se, but he's mine.
Dad,
You were not there when I was a child- mom didn't know you then, so that doesn't surprise me.
You were there when I was a preteen- and lacked all common sense.
You were there when I was a teenager- in other words a total shithead.
You were there the day I left for University.
You were there when I called from school whining because I was cold.
You were there the day I called home and said I wasn't going back to University.
And all of that surprised me then. It doesn't surprise me any more. I have learned to expect that you will be there.
You were there the day I told you I was moving to Winnipeg. You sat and listened while I cried and explained that I needed to go spend time with my biological father- needed to understand him. You didn't say anything. You didn't say I couldn't (or shouldn't) go. You didn't chastise me for being 'stupid' or leaving school a month before the school year ended.
You were there the day I called home and said I'd met 'the one'. The day I brought him and my son home.
You were there the day I got married.
You were there the night I called home to tell you and mom about my pregnancy with Brat, and then again with Monster.
You were there through it all.
You are the kind of father I needed. The kind of father I married in D. The kind of father I hope I am raising my son to be.
I love you very much, and all the times I was a shit as a teenager and pulled the "You're not my REAL dad- you can't tell me what to do!" bullshit still haunt me. But you don't want my apologies for those times- you say, "I wasn't a perfect father either sweetheart." But you were. Because you were there.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
There I am.
This song pulled my heart out and wrung it completely dry. What would I do without them here to keep me awake? Every single line in the song resonated so deeply for me.
Where Am I- by Tara MacLean
My favourite lines are:
"Birthday parties. Bedtime stories. And I haven't slept through the night. Where am I?
Between the breakfast and the bandaids, bathtime and the braids- it's up to me to keep you alive. Where am I?"
One of the best songs about being a mother that I've ever heard. Love it.
There is no standing ovation for being a mother, and it is constant. And I almost always have at least one minute every day where I look around and say, "Where am I? What was I doing?"
And yes, when I look into their eyes, there I am. That's what I was doing. And what I'm doing I'm doing well.
And again yes, I liked the song so very much that I went and bought it.
Where Am I- by Tara MacLean
My favourite lines are:
"Birthday parties. Bedtime stories. And I haven't slept through the night. Where am I?
Between the breakfast and the bandaids, bathtime and the braids- it's up to me to keep you alive. Where am I?"
One of the best songs about being a mother that I've ever heard. Love it.
There is no standing ovation for being a mother, and it is constant. And I almost always have at least one minute every day where I look around and say, "Where am I? What was I doing?"
And yes, when I look into their eyes, there I am. That's what I was doing. And what I'm doing I'm doing well.
And again yes, I liked the song so very much that I went and bought it.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Things My Momma Taught Me.
I found an old email- and I modified it to better reflect my own experience. This is a list of why I have the All Time Best Momma ever.
1. My mother taught me to appreciate a job well done: "If you're going to kill each other, do it outside. I just finished vacuuming."
2. My mother taught me Religion: "You better pray that will come out of the carpet."
3. My mother taught me about time travel: "If you don't straighten up and fly right, I'm going to knock you into the middle of next week!"
4. My mother taught me logic: "Because I said so, that's why."
5. My mother taught me more logic: "If you fall out of that swing and break your neck, you're not going to the store with me."
6. My mother taught me irony: "Keep crying, and I'll give you something to cry about."
7. My mother taught me about the science of osmosis: "Shut your mouth and eat your supper."
8. My mother taught me about stamina: "You might be able to run fast; but I can run for a long time..."
9. My mother taught me about weather: "This room of yours looks as if a tornado went through it."
10. My mother taught me about hypocrisy "If I've told you once, I've told you a million times. Don't exaggerate!"
11. My mother taught me the circle of life: "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out."
12. My mother taught me about anticipation: "Just wait until we get home."
13. My mother taught me ESP: "Don't think I don't know you're making a face right now."
14. My mother taught me humour: "When that lawn mower cuts off your toes, don't come running to me."
15. My mother taught me wisdom: "When you get to be my age, you'll understand."
16. My mother taught me about justice: "One day you'll have kids, and I hope they turn out just like you!"
And my all time favourite which taught me everything I need to know about parenting: "Keep it up. And I will rip off your arm at the elbow and beat you with the wet end."
1. My mother taught me to appreciate a job well done: "If you're going to kill each other, do it outside. I just finished vacuuming."
2. My mother taught me Religion: "You better pray that will come out of the carpet."
3. My mother taught me about time travel: "If you don't straighten up and fly right, I'm going to knock you into the middle of next week!"
4. My mother taught me logic: "Because I said so, that's why."
5. My mother taught me more logic: "If you fall out of that swing and break your neck, you're not going to the store with me."
6. My mother taught me irony: "Keep crying, and I'll give you something to cry about."
7. My mother taught me about the science of osmosis: "Shut your mouth and eat your supper."
8. My mother taught me about stamina: "You might be able to run fast; but I can run for a long time..."
9. My mother taught me about weather: "This room of yours looks as if a tornado went through it."
10. My mother taught me about hypocrisy "If I've told you once, I've told you a million times. Don't exaggerate!"
11. My mother taught me the circle of life: "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out."
12. My mother taught me about anticipation: "Just wait until we get home."
13. My mother taught me ESP: "Don't think I don't know you're making a face right now."
14. My mother taught me humour: "When that lawn mower cuts off your toes, don't come running to me."
15. My mother taught me wisdom: "When you get to be my age, you'll understand."
16. My mother taught me about justice: "One day you'll have kids, and I hope they turn out just like you!"
And my all time favourite which taught me everything I need to know about parenting: "Keep it up. And I will rip off your arm at the elbow and beat you with the wet end."
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
A Mitt Full of Gratitude.
Can I be grateful for something that isn't my own?
Can I have gratitude for something without feeling indebted for it?
I don't know if I 'can'; but, I am and I do.
I am grateful every day for my mother. My mother had a hard row to hoe, but she did it. She didn't complain. She didn't blame other people (at least never in my hearing). I never heard her say a bad word against my biological father. Not once. I never heard her use excuses, or try to reason her mistakes out of existence. So, I am grateful for my mother. I am grateful for her strength of character, for her will to live a better life. Her choices were not made by me (or for me); but, I can be thankful, grateful and appreciative of them.
I am grateful for my step dad, who loved me. He didn't have to, he still doesn't have to. But he does. And I am grateful for that. For him, stepping in and stepping up. For the time he drove two hours (each way) to bring me a hat, mittens and a scarf because I was complaining about being cold at university (I don't know that I really was cold; but I do know that I was looking for an excuse to leave school and come home). He could have simply refused to let me come home, and hung up the phone on me. He could have told me, "Suck it up buttercup." Actually, those were his exact words. But he drove four hours round trip to hug me and say it to my face. I can be grateful I had a father willing to do that for no reason other than he loves me.
I can have gratitude. I do have gratitude. I am able to receive gifts without feeling the need to "repay" the favour. I give gifts because I choose to, not because I have to. I don't 'repay' a gift given to me, because that would be ungrateful (to me it would take away the charm of receiving a gift for no reason other than love) and it would diminish the reason the giver chose to give it. Exchanging gifts is different than 'repayment in kind'.
I've had a chance to read recently a blog written by an adult adoptee. An angry, unhappy person by their own account. This blogger refuses to express 'gratitude' for being adopted. She says that she owes her parents no gratitude at all. In fact, the writer completely rejects them. Berates them even.
The writer of the blog also rejects the notion that being loved and cared for is something to be grateful for. I don't understand that. Maybe that's because I never, ever (not even once) felt like I 'owed' my parents my gratitude. They didn't ask for my gratitude. They earned it. Maybe that is the difference.
Sometimes I think people misunderstand gratitude, and misunderstanding, they dismiss gratitude as something pathetic, or undesirable. I might not have had a perfect start to my life; but, I will forever be grateful to my momma for everything she did to make her life, and my own, better. I will forever be grateful that although I was a shit of a teenager, my father loved me and stuck with us.
Less than three you guys. Always.
"Character- the willingness to accept responsibility for one's own life- is the source from which all self respect springs." Joan Didion.
Can I have gratitude for something without feeling indebted for it?
I don't know if I 'can'; but, I am and I do.
I am grateful every day for my mother. My mother had a hard row to hoe, but she did it. She didn't complain. She didn't blame other people (at least never in my hearing). I never heard her say a bad word against my biological father. Not once. I never heard her use excuses, or try to reason her mistakes out of existence. So, I am grateful for my mother. I am grateful for her strength of character, for her will to live a better life. Her choices were not made by me (or for me); but, I can be thankful, grateful and appreciative of them.
I am grateful for my step dad, who loved me. He didn't have to, he still doesn't have to. But he does. And I am grateful for that. For him, stepping in and stepping up. For the time he drove two hours (each way) to bring me a hat, mittens and a scarf because I was complaining about being cold at university (I don't know that I really was cold; but I do know that I was looking for an excuse to leave school and come home). He could have simply refused to let me come home, and hung up the phone on me. He could have told me, "Suck it up buttercup." Actually, those were his exact words. But he drove four hours round trip to hug me and say it to my face. I can be grateful I had a father willing to do that for no reason other than he loves me.
I can have gratitude. I do have gratitude. I am able to receive gifts without feeling the need to "repay" the favour. I give gifts because I choose to, not because I have to. I don't 'repay' a gift given to me, because that would be ungrateful (to me it would take away the charm of receiving a gift for no reason other than love) and it would diminish the reason the giver chose to give it. Exchanging gifts is different than 'repayment in kind'.
I've had a chance to read recently a blog written by an adult adoptee. An angry, unhappy person by their own account. This blogger refuses to express 'gratitude' for being adopted. She says that she owes her parents no gratitude at all. In fact, the writer completely rejects them. Berates them even.
The writer of the blog also rejects the notion that being loved and cared for is something to be grateful for. I don't understand that. Maybe that's because I never, ever (not even once) felt like I 'owed' my parents my gratitude. They didn't ask for my gratitude. They earned it. Maybe that is the difference.
Sometimes I think people misunderstand gratitude, and misunderstanding, they dismiss gratitude as something pathetic, or undesirable. I might not have had a perfect start to my life; but, I will forever be grateful to my momma for everything she did to make her life, and my own, better. I will forever be grateful that although I was a shit of a teenager, my father loved me and stuck with us.
Less than three you guys. Always.
"Character- the willingness to accept responsibility for one's own life- is the source from which all self respect springs." Joan Didion.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Puke and Monopoly are what make a family a "family".
It's Christmas!
Santa has come and gone, the presents were opened, played with and left behind in a hail storm of ripped gift wrap, scraps of cardboard and shards of plastic (also, what's with the impenetrable packaging on kids' toys these days, it's like saying, "Here's your present, but damn me if you'll enjoy it").
Brat had already thrown up on the couch by the time I woke up, so my darling husband wiped it halfheartedly and covered it with a blanket. Wonderful. That will smell awesome come dinnertime tonight I'm sure.
So we handed out the stockings (I got a Bitchin' Kitchen cookbook in my stocking- and I didn't even buy it for myself). Brat continued to throw up, but wouldn't go to the bathroom and "miss" anything, so I have a picture of her sitting on the couch, holding her puke bucket and trying to open her stocking at the same time.
I love everything damned thing about this holiday.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
The Bringer of DSi's
Today I want to write about Christmas. The way Christmas makes me feel, the traditions I grew up with, the ones we've started with our kids and the ones I wish would go straight in the garbage bin.
The way I feel about Christmas? I love it. I love every single thing about Christmas. Family, food, presents, laughter, days and days of celebrating. Stockings (that's the best part).
There is something so calming about Christmas for me. Church pageants, collecting toys for the toy drive, spending time with people you love. The lights, the sounds, the smells. Everything. I love every damned thing about Christmastime.
Christmas in my memory always comes back to the year I was 6 or 7 years old. This was the best Christmas ever- and most of them were pretty close to this.
This particular year, every person in my family got together at my gramma's house. All gramma's kids, all their spouses, all the children. And back then there weren't many of us grandkids, so the 3 of us were spoiled completely by all the different adults. Our stockings were so big that they were put into green garbage bags to hold all of it. Awesome.
There was food, delicious food. There were boxes of chocolates on the countertops, cakes, tarts, pies, turkey, gravy, bread, potatoes- well, you probably have all those things too. But when you're 6, and there is such an array of food, you just get absolutely blasted by it.
So, that was us. Crackers got cracked, and all of us have to wear our paper hats, tell the joke to everyone else. Then the stories start. Things my mom and her siblings did as children- told by some of the absolute funniest people on Earth. All of it told at a volume that could deafen an apple. It's incredible.
My family- both sides- have done this year after year. The stories are just as funny today as they were 30 years ago. The food is just as good. The stockings have (unfortunately) gotten less impressive, and they are less of a surprise every year (I now have to buy my own stocking stuffers). But the feeling is the same. Sheer love and joy. Being with people I love, who love me- who always will.
The traditions we've kept with our kids are much the same. My in laws come over, my father and stepmother come over, we invite friends- Christmas Eve is a happy time here.
The new traditions are computer/ tv related. The kids track Santa on the www.noradsanta.org Norad Santa Tracker website. We turn the "Holiday Firelog" on the tv and listen to Christmas music. My children go to bed, and I make the stocking- laughing with the other adults while I do.
There are so many things to be grateful for, to be thankful for. Family is top. Friends, God, gifts (of any size, price point or usefulness), food, love. But here is one thing I don't think we should keep up. I don't think we should keep up the consumerism.
There are so many things I want my kids to have. That's true. I want them to have the best I can give them of everything. But I don't want them to believe that something has to be expensive/ paid for in order to be worthwhile. And I think overall the kids know that- we make gifts every year for the people we love.
But then, the top TV commercials for the last month started me thinking. My daughter keeps asking for a DSi. She can't have one. It's not the money. It's the fact that she's 5 years old. What the bloody buggering hell could she possibly need a DSi for? She doesn't know how to play video games. But, she overheard one of the other moms telling a classmate that "Santa will probably bring you a DS".
I wish Santa brought only a stocking. Apparently, Santa gifts are expensive. I wonder how long I have before Brat points out to me that Santa brings her a 'crappier/ cheaper' gift than he brings her friends. Ohh, poopballs. What age do kids figure out that the real Santa is the spirit of sharing- NOT the bringer of DSi's???
The way I feel about Christmas? I love it. I love every single thing about Christmas. Family, food, presents, laughter, days and days of celebrating. Stockings (that's the best part).
There is something so calming about Christmas for me. Church pageants, collecting toys for the toy drive, spending time with people you love. The lights, the sounds, the smells. Everything. I love every damned thing about Christmastime.
Christmas in my memory always comes back to the year I was 6 or 7 years old. This was the best Christmas ever- and most of them were pretty close to this.
This particular year, every person in my family got together at my gramma's house. All gramma's kids, all their spouses, all the children. And back then there weren't many of us grandkids, so the 3 of us were spoiled completely by all the different adults. Our stockings were so big that they were put into green garbage bags to hold all of it. Awesome.
There was food, delicious food. There were boxes of chocolates on the countertops, cakes, tarts, pies, turkey, gravy, bread, potatoes- well, you probably have all those things too. But when you're 6, and there is such an array of food, you just get absolutely blasted by it.
So, that was us. Crackers got cracked, and all of us have to wear our paper hats, tell the joke to everyone else. Then the stories start. Things my mom and her siblings did as children- told by some of the absolute funniest people on Earth. All of it told at a volume that could deafen an apple. It's incredible.
My family- both sides- have done this year after year. The stories are just as funny today as they were 30 years ago. The food is just as good. The stockings have (unfortunately) gotten less impressive, and they are less of a surprise every year (I now have to buy my own stocking stuffers). But the feeling is the same. Sheer love and joy. Being with people I love, who love me- who always will.
The traditions we've kept with our kids are much the same. My in laws come over, my father and stepmother come over, we invite friends- Christmas Eve is a happy time here.
The new traditions are computer/ tv related. The kids track Santa on the www.noradsanta.org Norad Santa Tracker website. We turn the "Holiday Firelog" on the tv and listen to Christmas music. My children go to bed, and I make the stocking- laughing with the other adults while I do.
There are so many things to be grateful for, to be thankful for. Family is top. Friends, God, gifts (of any size, price point or usefulness), food, love. But here is one thing I don't think we should keep up. I don't think we should keep up the consumerism.
There are so many things I want my kids to have. That's true. I want them to have the best I can give them of everything. But I don't want them to believe that something has to be expensive/ paid for in order to be worthwhile. And I think overall the kids know that- we make gifts every year for the people we love.
But then, the top TV commercials for the last month started me thinking. My daughter keeps asking for a DSi. She can't have one. It's not the money. It's the fact that she's 5 years old. What the bloody buggering hell could she possibly need a DSi for? She doesn't know how to play video games. But, she overheard one of the other moms telling a classmate that "Santa will probably bring you a DS".
I wish Santa brought only a stocking. Apparently, Santa gifts are expensive. I wonder how long I have before Brat points out to me that Santa brings her a 'crappier/ cheaper' gift than he brings her friends. Ohh, poopballs. What age do kids figure out that the real Santa is the spirit of sharing- NOT the bringer of DSi's???
Thursday, December 8, 2011
But for the Grace of God go I.
I had a really hard, hard time coping with something yesterday.
Nothing to do with my family, or my friends, thankfully.
But it affected me, and that effected the rest of my evening (and yes, that is the correct usage for both affect and effect).
I was so unhappy, because of an email I received from the director at the daycare my daughter used to attend (I'm the chair for the board of directors, so I am kept in the loop with most things).
This year, a family is without. No money, no food and no winter clothing for the adults, but even worse, nothing for the children, an 11 year old boy, and a 3 month old infant either.
I cried so hard. I just kept remembering what it's like to feel 'broke'- and when I say 'broke' I mean, no money. There were lean years for my husband and I when we first started dating, and our son was little. Sometimes there was no money for anything except rent- and food was dependent on how much I brought home in tips (it's a damn good thing I was a phenomenal waitress).
But hearing about this family brought those days back to me. Even when Brat was a baby, and I was on maternity leave, there were some leaner months- and my parents helped us. But what would we have done without help? Well, I suppose we'd have done what this family did, and swallowed our pride and asked for charity.
And it can't have been easy for this mother to tell the daycare that she didn't have a snowsuit for her 11 year old, or any other winter wear. That she didn't have warm clothing for the baby. That neither she nor her husband had a coat, or mitts, hats, scarves, or boots. It must have crushed her right to her soul to tell another person that if someone didn't help them, there was a good chance that this year, there wouldn't be a day when they didn't suffer.
And I cried. I am crying now. I know how hard it is to worry about your children, and to know that somehow, even if you have to swallow your pride, you need to provide for your kids. I am supremely lucky that my husband has a good job. That I have a good job to go back to. That we have a family that would never let us or our children do without the basics of life.
But the way that it effected my evening is that I posted on my facebook wall (well, plead actually) for used winter clothing donations, food donations and anything that could be spared from my friends and my family. And they responded. Tomorrow morning I'll be dropping off winter jackets for both children (the older boy gets a brand new coat, which he may never have had before) and the mother, along with formula (Thanks again to my lovely friends), clothing for the baby, some food donations for the hamper, and winter gear.
I am blessed to have such wonderful people in my life. People that I can turn to for help, for myself, or for others.
I'm thankful for the help that has been forthcoming, and I know the daycare is thankful as well.
I am glad we live in Canada, I love my country dearly. But it shows that even in this awesome country, with social assistance and government programs in place, there are people, children, all over falling through the cracks and landing below the poverty line.
"But for the Grace of God go I". I try to remember that, because it's so very, very true.
Nothing to do with my family, or my friends, thankfully.
But it affected me, and that effected the rest of my evening (and yes, that is the correct usage for both affect and effect).
I was so unhappy, because of an email I received from the director at the daycare my daughter used to attend (I'm the chair for the board of directors, so I am kept in the loop with most things).
This year, a family is without. No money, no food and no winter clothing for the adults, but even worse, nothing for the children, an 11 year old boy, and a 3 month old infant either.
I cried so hard. I just kept remembering what it's like to feel 'broke'- and when I say 'broke' I mean, no money. There were lean years for my husband and I when we first started dating, and our son was little. Sometimes there was no money for anything except rent- and food was dependent on how much I brought home in tips (it's a damn good thing I was a phenomenal waitress).
But hearing about this family brought those days back to me. Even when Brat was a baby, and I was on maternity leave, there were some leaner months- and my parents helped us. But what would we have done without help? Well, I suppose we'd have done what this family did, and swallowed our pride and asked for charity.
And it can't have been easy for this mother to tell the daycare that she didn't have a snowsuit for her 11 year old, or any other winter wear. That she didn't have warm clothing for the baby. That neither she nor her husband had a coat, or mitts, hats, scarves, or boots. It must have crushed her right to her soul to tell another person that if someone didn't help them, there was a good chance that this year, there wouldn't be a day when they didn't suffer.
And I cried. I am crying now. I know how hard it is to worry about your children, and to know that somehow, even if you have to swallow your pride, you need to provide for your kids. I am supremely lucky that my husband has a good job. That I have a good job to go back to. That we have a family that would never let us or our children do without the basics of life.
But the way that it effected my evening is that I posted on my facebook wall (well, plead actually) for used winter clothing donations, food donations and anything that could be spared from my friends and my family. And they responded. Tomorrow morning I'll be dropping off winter jackets for both children (the older boy gets a brand new coat, which he may never have had before) and the mother, along with formula (Thanks again to my lovely friends), clothing for the baby, some food donations for the hamper, and winter gear.
I am blessed to have such wonderful people in my life. People that I can turn to for help, for myself, or for others.
I'm thankful for the help that has been forthcoming, and I know the daycare is thankful as well.
I am glad we live in Canada, I love my country dearly. But it shows that even in this awesome country, with social assistance and government programs in place, there are people, children, all over falling through the cracks and landing below the poverty line.
"But for the Grace of God go I". I try to remember that, because it's so very, very true.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
It's A Wonderful Life.
Well, hot damn, it's almost Christmas.
"So it's Christmas- and I want EVERYTHING." This song has been in my head for the last week, and I can't seem to shake it. 'Tis the season.
So, normally, because I am such a huge fan of everything Christmas, I start pushing at the beginning of November for my husband to drag out the 'tree'. I say "tree" simply because I am not quite sure that a $70.00 fake tree that is almost 10 years old still qualifies as a tree- in any sense. The bristles are starting to fall, it's a bit threadbare looking, and the box is being held together with several different types of tape. Fact is, the only thing keeping this tree up is hope- and a precarious plastic stick.
But it's already the end of the first week of December this year, and our family just got the tree up tonight.
It's full of lights, glittery stars, icicles, pictures, balls, faeries, a pair of paper skates, and love. Even though it's clearly been decorated by demented, gluebag elves (or kids hopped up on sugar cookies), I love it.
My husband hates everything about Christmas (and if I'd known that when I met him, I might not have gone on that first date), but more than that, he HATES this tree (it offends his sense of colour, order, balance- well probably everything). I think, given the option, he'd launch it off the roof, and pee down on it.
Next year, we are getting a real tree. I love real trees- the only down side is you can only have them up for a few weeks. I would lose out on at least three weeks of treedom. But I still love real trees, there is something so much more Christmas-y about a real tree.
My dad always went and got us a nice big tree. The only thing I remember about Christmas for about five years running is this: dad comes home, with the tree in the back of a borrowed truck. The next five hours are a horror show, complete with screaming, swearing, hacksaws, and threats. And eventually, mom taking me out of the house, so my dad could have a complete meltdown in peace.
The absolute best year though, was the year my dad cut his own tree down at the tree farm. It was a glorious tree. Perfectly cone-ish, full branches on every side, six feet tall, dark green with a wonderful smell.
Dad put the tree up in the living room, right in the centre, spotlighted by the huge picture window. He put the tree into the holder, the leaned back to check the levels. The tree toppled instantaneously. He cursed. Mom went over and helped set it right again. But no matter how dad moved base level, the tree WOULD NOT stay up. It was perpetually canted to an angle of about 30 degrees.
He had picked a tree with a crooked bole. It looked perfect- but if you tried to secure the base, the rest of the tree had an 'ell' shape in it. Eventually, after almost throwing the damned tree through the window, dad took a hacksaw to the tree, right above the bend.
It was still a perfect tree. Only four feet tall- and missing a chunk of branches on one side where dad grabbed it to throw it.
On second thought, next year we'll buy ourselves a new fake tree. It's probably safer all around.
"So it's Christmas- and I want EVERYTHING." This song has been in my head for the last week, and I can't seem to shake it. 'Tis the season.
So, normally, because I am such a huge fan of everything Christmas, I start pushing at the beginning of November for my husband to drag out the 'tree'. I say "tree" simply because I am not quite sure that a $70.00 fake tree that is almost 10 years old still qualifies as a tree- in any sense. The bristles are starting to fall, it's a bit threadbare looking, and the box is being held together with several different types of tape. Fact is, the only thing keeping this tree up is hope- and a precarious plastic stick.
But it's already the end of the first week of December this year, and our family just got the tree up tonight.
It's full of lights, glittery stars, icicles, pictures, balls, faeries, a pair of paper skates, and love. Even though it's clearly been decorated by demented, gluebag elves (or kids hopped up on sugar cookies), I love it.
My husband hates everything about Christmas (and if I'd known that when I met him, I might not have gone on that first date), but more than that, he HATES this tree (it offends his sense of colour, order, balance- well probably everything). I think, given the option, he'd launch it off the roof, and pee down on it.
Next year, we are getting a real tree. I love real trees- the only down side is you can only have them up for a few weeks. I would lose out on at least three weeks of treedom. But I still love real trees, there is something so much more Christmas-y about a real tree.
My dad always went and got us a nice big tree. The only thing I remember about Christmas for about five years running is this: dad comes home, with the tree in the back of a borrowed truck. The next five hours are a horror show, complete with screaming, swearing, hacksaws, and threats. And eventually, mom taking me out of the house, so my dad could have a complete meltdown in peace.
The absolute best year though, was the year my dad cut his own tree down at the tree farm. It was a glorious tree. Perfectly cone-ish, full branches on every side, six feet tall, dark green with a wonderful smell.
Dad put the tree up in the living room, right in the centre, spotlighted by the huge picture window. He put the tree into the holder, the leaned back to check the levels. The tree toppled instantaneously. He cursed. Mom went over and helped set it right again. But no matter how dad moved base level, the tree WOULD NOT stay up. It was perpetually canted to an angle of about 30 degrees.
He had picked a tree with a crooked bole. It looked perfect- but if you tried to secure the base, the rest of the tree had an 'ell' shape in it. Eventually, after almost throwing the damned tree through the window, dad took a hacksaw to the tree, right above the bend.
It was still a perfect tree. Only four feet tall- and missing a chunk of branches on one side where dad grabbed it to throw it.
On second thought, next year we'll buy ourselves a new fake tree. It's probably safer all around.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Random Bragging and Math.
Report cards came in today. And it's official.
My kids are smarter/ cooler/ more awesome than other completely normal kids are.
My boy got almost straight "A"s, except in his legibility.
My daughter got some very nice comments (in Kindergarten they don't grade)- except she's a bit flighty and overly talkative.
That's all. Combined, they are a metric tonne of awesomeness squared. Or a year of time cubed.
You can so cube a year of time. And a year of time cubed is roughly equal to how awesome my children are.
Equation proving above claim is:
MxMxM= T+L where M= one year
See. Proof indisputable that my kids kick serious ass. If you need one, I can figure out the equation for your children and their awesomeness factor too.
My kids are smarter/ cooler/ more awesome than other completely normal kids are.
My boy got almost straight "A"s, except in his legibility.
My daughter got some very nice comments (in Kindergarten they don't grade)- except she's a bit flighty and overly talkative.
That's all. Combined, they are a metric tonne of awesomeness squared. Or a year of time cubed.
You can so cube a year of time. And a year of time cubed is roughly equal to how awesome my children are.
Equation proving above claim is:
MxMxM= T+L where M= one year
See. Proof indisputable that my kids kick serious ass. If you need one, I can figure out the equation for your children and their awesomeness factor too.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
A Special Friend (well, five special friends)
I have one friend (but not only one), who has been a huge part of my life. When I first moved out of the house at 18 years old, and went away to university, I was all alone (I felt) in another city. All my 'best friends forever" from high school were off in other cities, in other places. I was so scared.
Then I met Tom. And he was a weird one. He looked completely insane, with hair popping up off his head (at the time, I didn't know he used a blow dryer every morning, to make it look that stupid), skinny as a rail, wearing 2XL shirts and pants. I thought he was a lunatic.
Then I got to know him a bit better as we lived in the same dormatory. I was right, he IS a lunatic.
But he's also been one of the best friends I ever made. We got to know each other better over that year, him, Jesse and I. The three of us were virtually inseparable. Jess' girlfriend (now wife) lived in another city, Tommy's lived in another dormitory, and I was dating as many different people as I could, trying to find someone I liked.
That first year was a great deal of fun. The second year, the boys and I rented an apartment near campus and that was even better (except that they are DISGUSTING). Since that first day of university, there were ups and downs for each of us. But the three of us spent almost three full years living within arm's reach of each other, and spending all our free time together as well. They were the best part of those years for me. Sometimes years go by when I don't get to see them (we now live so far away). But I know they are there if I need to see them, or talk to them.
I still have contact with them- enough that when Tom found out that he and his wife were pregnant, I was the second call he made. To be important enough for your friend to call you- anytime, even in the middle of the night, whether the news is bad or good, that's a special thing.
And I am so very proud, and feel so blessed that I am important enough to Tom and Stef that they needed me to know about their joy too.
I don't have many friends that I can call day or night, any time, for any reason. I have several hundred acquaintances on my facebook. People who, I am sure, are wonderful, special people- to somebody out there. I have about a dozen people I see regularly, that I think are awesome- but that I probably wouldn't call in the middle of the night just because I need to.
There are only five people that I know will always be there. My husband is my best friend- that should go without saying.
Tom is my laughter.
Krista helps bring my "misspent youth" back to me.
Michelle is my sounding board (and a bit of a role model for me).
And my newest friend may turn out to be another one of those special people that change your life and never let you down. If she's not- well, that's okay too, because she's still an incredible person.
Then I met Tom. And he was a weird one. He looked completely insane, with hair popping up off his head (at the time, I didn't know he used a blow dryer every morning, to make it look that stupid), skinny as a rail, wearing 2XL shirts and pants. I thought he was a lunatic.
Then I got to know him a bit better as we lived in the same dormatory. I was right, he IS a lunatic.
But he's also been one of the best friends I ever made. We got to know each other better over that year, him, Jesse and I. The three of us were virtually inseparable. Jess' girlfriend (now wife) lived in another city, Tommy's lived in another dormitory, and I was dating as many different people as I could, trying to find someone I liked. That first year was a great deal of fun. The second year, the boys and I rented an apartment near campus and that was even better (except that they are DISGUSTING). Since that first day of university, there were ups and downs for each of us. But the three of us spent almost three full years living within arm's reach of each other, and spending all our free time together as well. They were the best part of those years for me. Sometimes years go by when I don't get to see them (we now live so far away). But I know they are there if I need to see them, or talk to them.
I still have contact with them- enough that when Tom found out that he and his wife were pregnant, I was the second call he made. To be important enough for your friend to call you- anytime, even in the middle of the night, whether the news is bad or good, that's a special thing.
And I am so very proud, and feel so blessed that I am important enough to Tom and Stef that they needed me to know about their joy too.
I don't have many friends that I can call day or night, any time, for any reason. I have several hundred acquaintances on my facebook. People who, I am sure, are wonderful, special people- to somebody out there. I have about a dozen people I see regularly, that I think are awesome- but that I probably wouldn't call in the middle of the night just because I need to.
Tom is my laughter.
Krista helps bring my "misspent youth" back to me.
Michelle is my sounding board (and a bit of a role model for me).
And my newest friend may turn out to be another one of those special people that change your life and never let you down. If she's not- well, that's okay too, because she's still an incredible person.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Please, don't ask that. It's rude, and you sound stupid.
My 11 yo looks more like me than he looks like his biological mother's family- and that’s a blessing and a curse in one. A blessing because I never get asked ridiculous questions the way an interracial family does- in fact, most people don't know he's adopted.
But a curse just the same, because when an acquaintance finds out (it’s not a secret
and I’m happy to talk about it if it comes up, but don’t generally say
anything unless we’re on the topic)- I always get the same stupid, “I
thought YOU were his mother. I’d have never known if you hadn’t said
anything. Are the girls adopted too?”Well. Here’s the problem- and it’s my own stubborn nature giving me the problem- I AM his mother. No, you wouldn’t have known, so why are you suddenly acting like it’s the twilight zone? He’s my son, I don’t love him less or more than I did five minutes ago, or less or more than my daughters. No, my girls are not adopted. I love all my children. They are all different people, so no, I don’t love them ‘the same’- I love them differently, but in equal amounts.
I hate the fact that once someone discovers my son is adopted they
feel like they have the right to his birth story, our entire history
together, and to treat me like I’m suddenly LESS his mother now than I
was before- or even worse the people who act like I’m some kind of
“saint” for adopting. I’m no saint. I’ve made mistakes as a mother, as a
person, as a wife. But the expectation that I’ll suddenly open my life
to their scrutiny (and their judgements) drives me crazy.But I don’t discuss it in order to make someone think better of me, or worse of his bio mom. It’s no longer a painful situation, but it can make some people uncomfortable- and since they can’t understand, they try to use things they’ve seen on TV as a standard for how they think I "must" feel. For example, one lady who decided I must be sterile, and have battled infertility. Another who wondered (out loud, but thankfully not in front of my husband or son) if his birthmother had been beaten or raped by his birth father. Total inappropriate bullshit.
I also don’t bring it up with casual acquaintances on first meeting them, and somehow, this makes them feel ‘tricked’ later.
As if I should introduce myself with, “Hi, my name is Sarah. I have three children. One of whom is adopted, and two ‘regular’ children. I will take questions for ten minutes now.”
I have a highschool acquaintance, who judged me very harshly the first time he heard I (at 31) had an 11 year old. I got the standard, "Oh, you were really young when you had him then eh? You should have been more careful. Did you finish university? It's too bad you didn't."
All those small sentences are a huge judgement of my character. As if he somehow always suspected that I was a "slut" (that would be his opinion NOT mine) who would drop out and have kids instead of finishing university.
And I wanted to jump to defend myself. But I didn't. If someone has that low an opinion of you, nothing you say can change it.
I could play the "adoption card" and try to make him feel bad for his judgements; to make myself seem self sacrificing and martyr-ish, except that I'm not either of those things. I do my best every day for my kids, and that's all I can do.
My choices are my own. My life is my own. My children are THEIR own- and I am so proud of them. Our lives are what we make of them. I owe nobody an apology for the life I've made. Parenting my children is the best thing I've ever been able to do, and the most important job I could ever have is to raise them properly (and by properly, I mean so that they love themselves and are happy).
I don't care how smart my kids are (well, I do, but not in a scary, obsessive way).
I love to use the fact that my son won National Honours in Maths last year in as many conversations as I can. My 5 year old can sound words out (when she feels like it) on her own. My 8 month old won’t crawl, but she loves showers.
I think every child has their own unique and beautiful talents, and given the right encouragement will grow to be happy and healthy adults.
THAT’s all I truly care about. My children might not be the best at everything, or maybe they won’t be good at anything. But they’ll be loved just the same. And I think that might be more important than feeling great about an accomplishment.
There will always be someone ‘better’ at something.
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