Graduation 2012

Oh, you adoptive parents in healthy open adoptions, you just wait. You thought birthdays and Mother’s Days were emotional. Just wait until high school graduation.

The celebration started last Sunday when the church youth group was responsible for the 11 o’clock worship service. Youth Sunday always features the graduating seniors who are asked to speak briefly about their memories, experiences, and thoughts related to their time in the church youth group. Emily was very hesitant to participate because public speaking makes her quite nervous. But I knew this group had been tremendously important to her, so I insisted she participate. Apart from school and swimming, Emily had spent most of her time involved in the activities of the youth group.

As I was sitting in church one day, a month or so before the big event, my mind wandered to the other graduating seniors. Many are very accomplished academically, artistically, musically, and so forth. What was it about Emily that made her special in the group? I knew she was integrally related to everyone and everything… And then it hit me: She showed up.

Emily and I discussed and wrote what she would say. And when it was her time to speak, she pulled it off beautifully, despite her nervousness. Here is part of what she said to the congregation:

“I did not start out as a Glenn Youth group member. When I was in 6th and 7th grade, the Falcos were members of St. Mark UMC in Midtown. We were members there from the time I was three until I was thirteen. My parents thought it was important for us to be part of a church where there were lots of non-traditional families like ours. Of course, those are my parents’ words. I was just a kid. Families were families to me. I didn’t notice that some had two mothers or two fathers or that there were lots of children who were adopted.

“We were a small youth group at St. Mark. So, we ALL participated in the mission trips to the Hinton Rural Life Center. We ALL helped with Vacation Bible School. We ALL led worship with the congregation.

“When my family transferred its membership to Glenn Memorial when I was in 8th grade, my parents said it was because we needed a bigger youth group…

“It was great to join a youth group that included other teenagers who went to my school and who lived in my neighborhood. But not everyone came every Sunday night or volunteered for the different service events. However, because of my experiences at St. Mark, I came to Glenn believing that it made a difference whether or not I showed up.

“So, I showed up for choir practices and performances… [naming the events]

“I showed up for Sunday school and worship … [naming the teachers]

“I showed up for Sunday night youth group meetings… [naming the youth ministers, counselors, and activities]… I made some of the best friends I’ve ever had playing games, eating supper, joining in serious discussions and just being together…

“I signed up for retreats…[naming retreats]

“I signed up for mission trips… [naming mission trips and projects]

“When I leave Glenn this Fall to begin college, I will take all these memories and more. But most of all, I will take the knowledge that showing up can make a difference. And wherever I go in the future, I will take the confidence given to me by my church family that I CAN make a difference by sharing my time, my gifts, and my talents.”

That afternoon, the high school graduation candidates participated in a pre-commencement service. In the evening, we gathered our family to attend the Senior Banquet – a special honoring of the seniors in the church youth group that includes a special or secret guest who has been instrumental in the youth’s development, a slideshow of the senior, and some remarks by the parents about their child.

I was very excited about the secret guest we had arranged to surprise Emily. She was a special education teacher who had worked with Emily from 3rd to 5th grade, and had given her the skills to organize and stay on top of her assignments and projects. When I found Ms. Maynard at the elementary school and asked her to play this role, she was thrilled! She was planning to retire after 40 years of teaching and said she could not think of a better way to end her teaching career.

This year, there were 10-12 seniors being honored. The slideshows (with music) and remarks were as varied and entertaining as the seniors and parents themselves. They ranged from serious advice about the future to comedy routines to tearful reminders of special memories shared.

I had prepared a lengthier-than-usual slideshow, chronicling the history of Emily – with a sprinkling of birth family pictures over the years scattered throughout – set to music as my “speech.” The slideshow began with Emily’s birthmother holding her new baby.

It ended with these pictures…

John, for his part, said this:

“I remember leaving the hospital with our beautiful Emily. We went “home” to a motel room in Columbus, Nebraska. Rebecca can attest to the fact that I didn’t sleep much that night. I woke up every 10 minutes or so to make sure she was breathing, to make sure that our precious new baby was okay. It was amazing to me each time I would wake up and find her still breathing. And for nearly 18 years, Emily has continued to amaze me. I/we have been so blessed to have the privilege of raising this wonderful gift of a human being. Those of you who know Emily well are aware that she is one of the most giving, unselfish, friendly, likeable, helpful, bright, insightful, and truly beautiful young women to be found anywhere. She is so fun and easy to be with. And I can honestly say it has been a joy to be her dad. As hard as it is going to be to say goodbye when she goes off to college this coming Fall, the thing that will make it bearable for me is this: knowing that this incredible person is going to have the opportunity to shine her light on others. You see, Emily is such a special person that it would be unfair to keep her all to ourselves. I believe Emily will do great things, so I/we really don’t have the right to deprive the world of her. We have to let her spread her wings and share her gifts. But don’t worry. I plan to always be checking (regularly, maybe not every 10 minutes) to make sure she’s okay, still breathing, and to be amazed by her.”

What a proud Daddy! But even as I reread these words and hear John’s voice in my head, I also hear the humility and gratitude written between the lines: “But for Emily’s birthmother we would not have had this privilege.”

On Wednesday, we hosted another celebration of Emily at our home. Family members and friends joined us. One of Emily’s closest friends from the church youth group came. She also left a letter for her. Emily let me read the letter because it brought tears to her eyes. I just have to share a portion of that letter with you:

“…I know that whatever you set out to do, you will be wonderful at it. Your story needs to be heard by everyone out there. It’s a story of how love joins families together and how love overcomes all differences. You’re an inspiring young lady who has such a huge heart to serve others. I am so honored to know you. Even though we won’t be together in the same place, we will be together in heart and spirit.”

(It’s an understatement to say that Emily’s friend, Kate, is a wonderful person in her own right.) Until I read this, I really did not recognize the degree to which my daughter – of her own volition and by her presence – was spreading the good news about what open adoption can be. When I am not around, when I am not in control, the message is nevertheless spread because Emily carries it with her.

Now, if all of this isn’t powerful enough, I have to tell you what happened on graduation day itself. I was running errands, including mailing a package to Emily’s birthmother – a book form of the slideshow from the Senior Banquet. I texted her that I had mailed it and she responded:

“You are such an amazing and loving person! Thank you for loving and giving our baby girl everything I could never have done. She is such an amazing young lady thanks to you and John! I will always be grateful I found you!”

That did it. I lost it. I had to pull the car over to the side of the road.

Where would I be and who would I be without open adoption? I can’t really imagine. But right now, in this moment, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Straining at Love

Skye just HAD to take Xavior and Katie, our 3-year-old and 9-month-old dogs, to her horseback riding lesson today. She wanted Katie to see the big animals. At first, I said “no,” but she assured me the dogs could be tied up outside or stay in the van during her lesson, so I agreed.

I was once again the fool. Skye did not bring a lead for the dogs and the van was way too hot to sit in. I spent the next hour walking the dogs around the property. Well, not really “walking.” I was pulled and jerked around the property. Skye did bring the splitter, so at least I was able to put both dogs on one leash. The job was not made any easier by the number of squirrels and rabbits that inhabit the farm. At points, the dogs leaped over fences, leaving me stranded, clutching at the leash, on the other side.

As Xavior, Katie, and I circled the fields, it occurred to me that this predicament I was in had a lot of similarities to my relationship with Skye. The dogs pulled and strained in the direction of their impulses and desires – just like Skye. I, on the other hand, pulled and strained to hold back, knowing that if I let go, the dogs might startle a horse and injure a rider. At the very least, I would be chided for not respecting the rules of the stable. I pull and strain against Skye’s grander schemes as well. On the other hand, I was the one who allowed this tug-of-war to occur. I allowed the dogs to roam just as I allowed Skye to roam, trusting in some mysterious way that nothing bad could really happen.

John and Sherry would never have brought the dogs. They would have seen clearly the potential for things to go wrong. They are that way with Skye too. “No” is easier for them – or so it seems to me. I do some kind of crazy dance, back and forth, between John and Sherry on the one side and Skye on the other. I’ve always been a sucker for Skye’s passion (and manipulation). No matter how big, impossible, potentially dangerous, or expensive her dreams, I “humor” them. I don’t want to say no – not yet. Tell me more, I think. “And if you had this horse, this farm, this house, this exotic bird, this job, etc., what would that be like for you, Skye?” John and Sherry know better. They are practical and realistic. They do more of the cleaning up her messes. The messes don’t bother me as much.

Is my dance into Skye’s world worth it? All I seem to do is create pain for Skye and me when the answer of “no” finally comes. She hates me for the “no.” She hates that I’ve let her go on believing, planning, creating, and scheming when the reward does not come that day, according to her timetable.

I was a planner and schemer. But I was not as daring; and I never believed there was an endless supply of money or other resources somewhere to make my dreams come true. For me, there was always the realization that the dreams required my hard work, my sacrifice, to become real. Do I see myself in her? Is that why I carry on this way?

I was a late bloomer in the dating arena. While I was in high school, I was an observer rather than a participant. Through my friends, I learned about “first times” and pregnancy scares, about broken hearts and pressured intimacy. In college, my friends taught me about STDs and abortions. When it was finally my time to have a serious, grown-up relationship with a man, I was ready. I really was. I had learned so much about what I wanted and what I wanted to avoid through my friends.

What does this story have to do with my relationship with Skye? Is it possible that exploring, researching and planning for a dream – no matter how unrealistic at a particular point in time – can be a learning experience that aids in the fulfillment of a later dream at the right time? Can a premature “no” cut short the learning process? For example, is it possible that when Skye wanted a horse – an expensive horse – and learned all about the desired horse and its needs, she was preparing for a time when she might be ready for the responsibility and privilege of owning such a horse? Is it possible that I enabled that dream to last long enough for something good to happen? Or am I just kidding myself?

We, parents, all know that kids need boundaries. And we all know parents that do not provide sufficient ones. We also know parents whose boundaries damage kids. But is there a “one size fits all” set of boundaries? I don’t think so. I know I don’t have it all figured out. But I do believe that you can provide more slack in the leash with some kids than with others. And for some kids, the slack is necessary or else they strangle. (I just wish kids came with a label indicating how much slack you could afford to give them…)

Being There

My book, Everything In Its Own Time, came out in the Fall of 2010. It won a few awards over the next year and I was able to sell some books at various appearances and readings. Now, almost two years later, the momentum has died down. I made a “last call” marketing effort a few months ago, sending letters to several hundred United Methodist churches in my conference, offering myself as a speaker and hoping for the opportunity to sell some books to raise money for the Baobab Home. The letters generated some responses, and I’ve been to several churches to do presentations. I even got to preach a sermon!

This morning, I made an hour and a half driving trip to a small church east of Atlanta to speak at a United Methodist Men’s Breakfast. Sweet Journey agreed to get up at 6:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning to drive with me – as a Mother’s Day gift. In every talk I give, I try to educate people about fully open adoption and the many different types of families. But, because it was Mother’s Day, I had decided to focus my talk on mothers – biological and adoptive.

On this rainy morning, Journey and I set up my display and sat down with the small group that had assembled to eat eggs, biscuits, and sausage before I was introduced to speak. The presentation went smoothly and there were follow-up questions. In addition to selling a few books, the church made a donation to the Baobab Home, so I was pleased. As usual, there were people who wanted to speak to me privately afterward about their particular situations and issues related to adoption. I try to be sensitive and offer a listening ear or advice, depending on what they need.

After most of the audience had moved on to their next activity, I began to pack up my books and other materials. Just then, an elderly woman approached me and began to speak. I continued packing while murmuring “uh huh.” At first, I wasn’t clear why she was talking to me. She said she was 87 years old. She was one of eight children. She was the mother to seven children. She mentioned grandchildren as well. She said she was “Maw Maw” to the whole congregation who treated her as their mother and advisor.

I stopped packing books and looked at her. Her lip was quivering and her eyes glistened with un-spilled tears as she pulled out a chair to sit down. Something in me said, “Sit down with her. This is important. Listen.” The woman began to tell me about her younger sister by twenty years. Forty-two years ago, her sister had placed a baby for adoption. Her sister didn’t know where the child – now an adult – was. The sister had married, but never had other children. Her sister tried not to think about the adoption and had never told her husband about the baby. The 87-year-old woman said, “It’s hardest for her…” I completed the sentence, “…on the child’s birthday.” “Yes,” she said.

During my talk, I had spoken about The Girls Who Went Away – the young women who, between the end of World War II and Supreme Court’s decision in Roe v. Wade, had placed babies in closed adoptions under what we would now label coercive circumstances. The woman I was sitting with now was describing one of those adoptions.

It was clear that this had been a deeply buried secret in her family for a very long time. When I broached the subject of reunification, the older sister quickly dismissed the idea that her younger sister would be interested. But, the longer we talked and the more I shared about what other mothers in her sister’s circumstances had done to find their children, the less defensive the older sister became. Perhaps, she thought, her sister might want to look. Perhaps. She took my card and contact information. I offered to be a sounding board, a listener, if her sister wanted to think through her options.

My new 87-year-old friend had talked about the blessing of children. She had been a competent mother to her many children and grandchildren, and to an entire congregation. But, clearly, she felt humbled and powerless in relationship with the hurting, child-less sister she loved so much. I thought I had come to church today to educate others about open adoption and diversity in families. But God had other plans for me – less public, less grand. The most important work I did today was private and quiet. My job was to create a space where old wounds could peek out into the light and begin to heal.

Safe Passage

Yesterday, Emily brought home a copy of the report from her recent testing by the psychologist at school. This is an item she will carry to college with her, providing documentation of her “specific learning disabilities” so that she can receive appropriate services as she embarks on her college career. As I was reading through the testing results, I was reminded of our early struggles with learning and our many IEP (Individualized Educational Program) meetings over the years. Emily is so organized now! Her teachers have done well by her, and she has taken ownership of her learning needs.

Being the family historian that I am, I went back and found an email I wrote almost 10 years ago that reflects a time BEFORE Emily had mastered organization and before any of the other children had been tested or given some of the help they need. I laughed at myself as I read it. It’s good to be reminded that you have survival skills!

To put this email in perspective – Emily is 8. K.J. is 6. Skye is 5. Our foster child, Isaac, is 3. Journey is 2…

November 18, 2002

Things started to go awry after lunch when Journey refused to take a nap. She is getting very skilled at manipulating me. First, she didn’t want to sleep in HER bed. She would sleep in mine. Then she needed a Barney video. I picked the wrong blanket. Then I put the blanket on the wrong way. You see, the bunny had to be facing her. Did she sleep? Two hours of Barney later, Journey was still wide-eyed, but grumpier now.

Once the kids came home from school, we were going to rake the yard. I even found five rakes, so there would not be arguments about who got to participate. [The Falcos are currently foster parents for 3-year-old, Isaac. Emily was still at school.] Two minutes into our labor, Skye was tired of raking. Three minutes later, Journey was done. Isaac and K.J. hung in for another 15-20 minutes before they abandoned me to climb a tree and jump in the piles. They are kids. I can’t blame them. Unfortunately, when I later left them alone outside to continue their play while I did another load of laundry and started dinner, K.J. came running in to report that Isaac was yelling at passers-by. He called one woman a “poopy head.” He told a man, “If you come back, I’ll kill you!” That was the end of outside play.

After starting dinner, I left our trusty babysitter with four kids, and drove to pick up Emily. On the way home, Emily told me, “Do you remember that I said I had a project on the Cherokee Indians to do? Well, it’s due on Wednesday.” We are talking 39 hours from now. “Okay, Emily, what is this project supposed to look like?”…

Now, I should tell you that K.J. recently did a project on the “mammal of his choosing.” I learned about this project on the day before it was due merely on the coincidence that John had just spoken with K.J.’s teacher. The project had been assigned two weeks before. When I called K.J. to account for this — this son of mine who, minutes before, told me that he did not have homework — K.J. responded, “I just don’t know what mammal to pick.” And this is supposed to get you out of doing the project!? Needless to say, we spent the rest of the afternoon and evening completing the assignment.

Back to Emily… Emily says she is not sure. She thinks she is supposed to write a paragraph about what the Cherokees eat. That’s it? Are you sure? Were there any instructions? That did not sound right to me. I called the mother of a child in her class. Sure enough, that mother and child had spent the prior weekend in the library. This was to be a two page, in your own words, essay, with maps and drawings. There was a handout describing the assignment, which I later learned from Emily that she was harboring in her desk at school. She could not explain why she did not tell me about this handout. The project requires her to answer numerous questions as well as depict housing and clothes. Yikes! We are going to library tonight! Because, of course, tomorrow we have swim practice and basketball practice in the afternoon and early evening, and John will be out of town, which means we won’t even get around to thinking about this project again until almost bedtime. Now I’ve got to quickly finish dinner preparations, feed the children, and beg John to come home so I can make the library trip with Emily.

Skye emerges from the downstairs playroom and sheds her second wet outfit for the day. I tell her to go back down and pick up the mess she’s made. Don’t leave it for the babysitter to do. Skye goes, but she is back in two minutes. I suggest that it wasn’t enough time to do the clean-up. She says, “Oh, Daddy always finishes for me.” After a few more minor threats from me, she goes back and does a better job.

Journey has been my whiny helper in the kitchen. She is so tired that she falls on her head, she scrapes her hand, and she cries any time someone looks at her the wrong way. Thank goodness she is a pro at working the microwave oven. It gives her a purpose and meaning in the kitchen! The babysitter and I round up the kids and they eat a hasty dinner. John has graciously agreed to leave his work at the office until after the children are in bed, and he arrives home in time for us to make a dash to the library. As I leave, I ask K.J., “Have you fed the dogs?” “No, but I will.”

When Emily and I return around bedtime with an armload of books, no one is asleep. John is busy dismantling Emily’s room. I had forgotten that the builders were coming through Emily’s bedroom wall in the morning. We had been cautioned to move everything out of her room and the linen closet. (We are adding two bedrooms, a bath and laundry room to our house over the existing carport and family room.) Imagine the chaos. John says Journey has been “cracking me up.” She came in and offered to help, tried to pick up the bed, and exclaimed, “I can’t do this by myself!”

We shift focus to getting kids to bed. I ask K.J., who has been unpacking the library shelves with his cohort, Isaac, “Have you fed the dogs yet?” K.J. replies, “No. It’s my bedtime.” Now I’m ready to shake him. Instead, I have him cool his heels on the porch for a minute, while he thinks about whether or not he would like me to get too busy to feed him. To his credit, he got the message.

As I sit here writing this email, I realize that I will be spending tomorrow pouring over books on the Cherokee Indians, trying to create a safe passage for my 3rd grader. Who knew it would be like this?

When Emily receives her high school diploma in twelve days, I will recall how far she has come from the girl who couldn’t remember her Cherokee Indian project and, no doubt, spill over with happy tears of pride.

Someone Else’s Payback

I am sitting in the van waiting impatiently for my middle child to get in so I can drive her to tutoring. We will be late again. No matter how early I wake her up, she complains that she is too tired, that I haven’t prepared the right food, that she doesn’t have enough time to get ready…

Fortunately, I have discovered audiobooks. For years, I yearned to have time to read until, one day, it occurred to me that I could LISTEN to books while I drove the many hours I spend in the car each week, often without a child in one direction. Not surprisingly, I am drawn to works of fiction about families and mothers, in particular.

As I wait for Skye, I hear again, in my current book, a description by a mother of one of her children who has the nose or expression or interest that is the same as her husband, herself, or some other relative. Although I cannot see the words on the page, they appear in my mind bold-faced. You know what I mean. The author is announcing these statements more loudly than the other text. I am aware that the author believes she/he is striking a cord of recognition with the reader: “Ah, yes, I know exactly what you mean about those inherited traits.” But that reader is not me. That reader is a biological parent, and I am a parent by adoption.

As a person who takes pride in being on time and my impatience with Skye grows, I think: “I am dealing with someone else’s payback!” You know the expression. Mothers (or fathers) tell their children something like this: “You will get your payback when you become a parent yourself. I hope your son/daughter throws tantrums just like you!”

Now, if John and I had produced biologically related children, they might be super-competitive. They might be Type A to the extreme. He or she might be fastidious about cleanliness. (That would be John’s gene pool.) She or he might be the out-going crowd-pleaser or everyone’s confidant. (John again.) He or she might be indignant about some cause or another, and intolerant of other opinions. (My genes.) Our child might wear an additional coat of shame and guilt for all the injustices in the world. (Me again.)

I imagine that if I had a daughter who was “just like me,” she would not be late to every appointment. She would not find it “unfair” that she didn’t have more of the material possessions that she wanted. She would not be so careless about doing well in school. She would not hope that some rich man would marry her so she didn’t have to work. She would not believe appearance was more important than character… And so I conclude, this is someone else’s payback!

Okay, I know what some of my friends are thinking: “Oh, Rebecca. You are making a mountain out of a mole hill. My children are nothing like me either.” To that I would respond: “Think about it. Over the years, I have heard you talk repeatedly about how this quirky expression, or that artistic flare, that obsessive quality, that mind for numbers, and so forth – ‘runs in the family.’ I have heard you say: ‘He/she is just like I (or my spouse/partner) was at that age.’”

Where does that leave me? I will probably always see the kinship references in boldface on the page. But I’m just as doggedly protective of my non-bio child as any parent, I think. He or she may have characteristics and beliefs that do not resonate with me, but I was the one who changed his diapers a million times. I was the one who rocked her to sleep every night and mixed monster potion to rid the room of scary things. I’ve shared the vacations. I’ve been to every doctor appointment. I’ve worked on the school projects and arranged for the extracurriculars. I’ve been there to congratulate her athletic and academic successes. I’ve gathered him into my arms when he hurt. I’ve been there. I’m invested.

And, to tell the truth, I saw this coming. Each child was much the same as a toddler as she or he is today. That toe-headed, curly-haired two-year-old who hid behind my legs in the company of others is the same boy who now resists and struggles to stand before his class to present a paper. That little girl who could get so mad she would hold her breath and pass out is now the teenage girl who says “no” to all my requests. That child who could not stay in timeout without me holding her there because it offended her so, is now the pre-adolescent who is disturbed by every raised voice or conflict between friends and family members alike…

I return to the audiobook and hear these words: “…most of our fears are petty and small, and … only love is monumental.” Every Last One, by Anna Quindlen. And, in my mind, these words are bold-faced as well.

“I have six mothers!”

Emily, K.J., Becton and I have just returned from a trip to Nebraska to visit birth family. To the question: “Where are you going for Spring Break?” most of our Georgia neighbors responded, “To the beach. To Florida!” But the Falcos headed inland, to the middle of our great country, instead.

There is so much to report that it is hard to know where to begin. If you don’t know our story, a little background is in order. When John and I were living in California, we signed-up with an adoption agency that did only fully open adoptions. We were chosen by a young mother of three girls, pregnant with her fourth girl by a different man. Baby Emily was born almost 18 years ago and our families – biological and adoptive – have remained in contact ever since.

Two years after Emily’s birth, baby K.J. came on the scene, born in the same hospital in Nebraska. His parents were teenagers who later married and had three more boys. They have since divorced and K.J.’s birth father has two daughters with his second wife. Emily’s first mother also had another child, a son, with her second husband. This brief description doesn’t begin to tell the story of loves and losses, relationships made and broken, births and deaths. As a family in open adoptions, we have been privy to many of these life-changing events.

While we were in Nebraska for five days, we spent time with K.J.’s first mother and three brothers, his birth father and current wife, two sisters, two grandmothers, a grandfather, and K.J.’s aunt and three cousins. We spent time with Emily’s three sisters and their two children, her brother, her first mother, two aunts and three cousins, an uncle, two grandmothers, and two of Emily’s ten siblings on her birth father’s side. I’m sure I’m forgetting someone!

K.J.:  “I win!”

For K.J., this was the perfect vacation. He got to be the 10-year-old boy, the Peter Pan, that he longs to be, but in the body of a 15-year-old who can win all contests.

He wrestled continuously with his brothers, and threw the football around. He watched “WrestleMania” and played videogames. He never touched a vegetable. He didn’t have to think about schoolwork or chores. He didn’t have to plan ahead. Children and adults alike adored him!

On more than one occasion, he proudly declared how “awesome” he was. K.J. was the indomitable belching champion. And he announced triumphantly, on many occasions, “I win!” We laughed that we would need to purchase another suitcase for the trip home to carry K.J.’s large ego.

But it was interesting to me that after one night spent in the apartment with his first mother and siblings, 12-year-old twins and a 9-year old younger brother, K.J. wanted his own bed in the hotel and some “alone time.” They wore him out. He loved being a superstar in his brothers’ eyes, but he’d grown accustomed to having his own room, private TV watching, and texting with his teenage peers. When we left Nebraska, he seemed to revert to his pre-trip ways without experiencing any emotional letdown.

I don’t think that means K.J. doesn’t care. I think it means he is happy being who he is in both places. He appears to have a deep acceptance that he straddles these two worlds. It works for him. And it’s all he’s ever known.

Emily:  “College-Bound”

Emily’s acceptance of her place in the family is also deep, but different than K.J.’s. She clearly loves her mother and siblings.

She wants to spend as much time as possible with them; and the smile on her face is as genuine as it comes.

But Emily’s role includes the status of “the first one who will go to college after high school.” Her summer job is not the beginning of a lifetime of work to pay bills. It is a true “summer job” for college expenses, clothes, and leisure activities. She is choosing not to marry young or become a teenage mother. Emily is not judgmental about the people she loves who call her one of their own. She simply chooses a different path and feels proud of that fact.

Becton:  “I am an uncle!”

Becton came on this trip while Journey and Skye remained at home for school. (Five different schools and vacation schedules…) Becton’s situation is different from Emily’s and K.J.’s because his adoption is closed. This has never seemed to bother him much. I have done the worrying for him. But, by day two of our trip, Becton said to me, “I feel left out. You are not my real mother.”

“Real” is a loaded word. But I knew what Becton meant. Contextually, Becton had been having fun with K.J. and his biological brothers. K.J. did a great job of keeping Becton included in the roughhousing.  Becton had fallen in love with Emily’s 18-month-old niece, and her mother had been gracious about allowing Becton to play freely with her daughter. The extended family had never once suggested, in any way, that Becton didn’t belong.

In fact, I think it was precisely because the entire family included Becton as one of their own that I knew what to say to allay some of Becton’s newly discovered sadness.

“In this family, we have six mothers,” I said.

“What?” Becton responded.

“I am your mother, but so are Tina and Rachelle. And then there is your birth mother, Journey’s birth mother, and Skye’s birth mother. And if they are your mothers too, then Emily’s sister is YOUR sister, and her daughter is YOUR niece.”

“Cerenittee is my niece!? I’m an uncle!?” A broad smile covered Becton’s face.

For the remainder of the trip, I pointed out to Becton all the cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, brothers and sisters that were his relatives too. We had a great time remarking about the breadth of our marvelous family.

It’s an amazing, mind-boggling thing – these visits. The kids I share with these two other mothers fold into their birth families like they have never left. There is a level of comfort that can only be explained by biology and a willingness on all sides of the adoption triad that has been present from the beginning, to allow these connections to exist and flourish.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s hard and beautiful at the same time. I witness the love and almost lose my breath. I feel sad and guilty about robbing these families of their children. I feel the weight of the sacrifice. To be honest, I also feel the weight of my own infertility. “I wouldn’t be a parent without you. I am forever indebted. I would not be who I am – a mother – without you.” And that, too, is a heavy burden to bear.

But I also feel affirmed. I have never once felt judged as a “bad parent.” I have never experienced from these two mothers the sentiment: “I made a mistake. I should not have given him/her to you.”

This may sound strange, but when I embrace my children’s other mothers, I am made whole. There is a part of me that is missing until I am with them. And all you have to do is look at K.J. and Emily to know that we belong together, that we complete a picture of “family” that is true for us all.

Planning

Is the “ability to plan” an inherited trait? I know. I know. Teenagers are not good planners. It goes back to that brain development stuff. They may know, factually, all about sex and drugs. But that doesn’t mean they will have condoms available when needed or that they will refuse a beer or smoke when offered by a peer.

But the planning I’m talking about is the ability to set a goal and take steps to achieve it. This type of planning includes elements of self-sacrifice and personal investment – “skin in the game,” if you will…

Friday morning, as I was driving kids to school, I asked my son what he wanted to do this weekend. Here is our conversation:

Son: “Nothing.“

Mom: “Are you sure there isn’t anything you want to do?”

Son: “Well, I want to buy Beats [earphones].”

Mom: “How much are they?”

Son: “The kind I want are $300.”

Mom: “But you don’t have $300. You have a little less than $200 in your account.”

Son: “I do with clothing allowance.”

Mom: “Clothing allowance isn’t for earphones.”

Son: “But I don’t need any more clothing.”

Mom: “Great. Then the money can go back in the general family fund to be used for other things the family needs.”

Son: “That’s not fair. It’s my money.”

Mom: “It’s not your money. It’s the part of the family’s budget that his been designated to spend on clothes.”

The conversation went on for a while with more explanation about discretionary spending and necessary items, etc. My son was not happy. I tried to give him hope by suggesting that he find ways to make some extra money that was his to spend as he chooses. Suggestions included cutting lawns or yard work, babysitting, a fast-food restaurant job, and more. He wanted no part of it. I talked to him about making money for bigger things like buying a car and gas. He sunk lower in his seat. When we arrived at the school, my son slammed the door as he departed.

Now, it’s not just this child who lacks the “ability to plan.” There have been some recent heated arguments with my daughter who wants a horse. She bargained to make superior grades in exchange for the animal. But when I suggested to her that she needed a “business plan” for how she was going to pay for housing, food, vet bills, and the like to sustain the horse, my daughter balked. “YOU need to pay for it,” she demanded.

I reminded her that we recently purchased a puppy for her younger sister from the Atlanta Humane Society for a modest price. Within a month, however, we had invested more than $2000 in the puppy in veterinary costs. Animals are not cheap. You have to be in it for the long haul. It infuriated my horse-loving daughter when I suggested she think of her parents as potential investors and that she provide us with some assurances that she was going to carry part of the financial load. She, get a job? “No way!” she exclaimed. The conversation continued to degenerate from there.

I know there are teenagers who plan. One mother of a teenage boy recently told me that her son is obsessed with monitoring his grades. He analyzes what each grade is worth in the mathematical calculation of homework, classwork, projects, and tests that feeds the final grade. He figures out the lowest score he can make on a particular test or piece of work and still maintain his A average. His mother lamented, “He should be focused on doing his best rather than calculating the least he could do.” Privately, I was impressed that her son was so invested in the grading process.

Another teenage boy I know got a job to pay for his gas and car insurance. A teenage girl worked long hours as a babysitter to save money for a car. Some teenagers do plan.

Can a person go through life without goals? I just don’t get it. Maybe I’m peculiar because I can’t remember not having goals. I wanted to be a singer like Julie Andrews when I was young. I sang in choirs, formed a singing group, put on plays with friends, and watched dozens of musicals, playing and practicing the songs. I’ve wanted to be a starting basketball player, a minister, a teacher, an attorney, etc. I’ve had more goals than I could possibly achieve, but they kept me moving in one direction or another. I don’t remember ever expecting that I would achieve my goals without some blood, sweat, and tears. I also remember how smug I felt each morning, as a young adult, when I went to class after having delivered 500 newspapers between 3 and 6 a.m. I had “paid my bills” for that day, while most of my classmates were still sleeping. My personal investment in the process of achieving my goals meant the world to me.

So, I ask the question again: Was I born with the “ability to plan” or did my parents or my particular circumstances “nurture” that quality in me? If it is the latter, then I have done something wrong as a parent. John and I have made life too easy for our children. We have nurtured the expectation that to ask for something is all that is required of them to receive it. It won’t be that way outside the family, for sure. What do other parents do?

—

After I wrote the foregoing, I picked up a book that my father gave me for my birthday, The Collected Sermons of Fred B. Craddock. Dad knew I had been asked to preach at a church this spring and had provided me with some inspiration. This reading could not have been better timed. In a sermon on 2 Kings 5:1, 14-27, Craddock discusses a man who steals from his enemy. There are ways to rationally justify the taking. The man is poor and underpaid, though he does good work. The enemy doesn’t deserve all the wealth he has and had previously offered to pay the man’s employer for services rendered. The problem, Craddock says, is that the man damages his relationships. To cover for his theft, he lies to his employer. Later, he will lie to his wife, to his kids, and to others to explain his newfound wealth.

Craddock suggests: Thank God for what you have. “I’ve never known a person who was grateful who was, at the same time, mean or small or bitter or hurtful. Not when you’re grateful.” (p. 31)

John and I were picking up pizza for dinner last night and discussing both our kids and Craddock. We realized that we have not verbally expressed gratitude for what we have as frequently or fervently as, perhaps, we ought to. If we speak boldly and repeatedly about our gratitude, will our children want less? Will our children begin to realize how privileged or “blessed” they already are? Will they begin to connect effort with reward? We can hope… For myself, expressing gratitude for “what is” has the added benefit of reminding me how lucky I am to have this set of problems and not others.