tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23426821280828134712024-03-18T20:56:12.206-07:00Two Mothers McGillThe incredibly true tale of two women in love and expanding their family.A Mother McGillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446386034365046275noreply@blogger.comBlogger142125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-90170127072389749432023-08-12T10:40:00.000-07:002023-08-12T10:40:06.590-07:00J turns 4! <p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">Dear J,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You were sitting at the kitchen island this morning when I
came out, wearing just your undies and eating blueberry waffles with cinnamon
sugar on top. You grinned at me as I leaned down to wrap my arms around you,
smiling into your warm skin. I kissed you and whispered, “Happy Birthday, my
boy!” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You smelled of sunshine and sweat, sticky cinnamon wafting
into my nose, your muscles shifting beneath your skin as you turned to wrap
your arms around me. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Happy Birthday TO ME! Happy MY BIRTHDAY to you, Mama!” you
exclaimed, eyes twinkling. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our jubilant JJ. You are fierce, you are bold. Getting
to be part of your life, watching you grow into this incredible, intelligent,
exacting kid – it’s one of the biggest joys and privileges of my life. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Your personality is one of a kind. It can make you a
challenging pre-schooler sometimes. A lot of the time. But I can see inside you; I
can imagine the person you will become. These traits that are difficult in a
young child are going to serve you so well one day, and you’re going to grow
into an amazing adult. May you always believe in yourself as much as you do
today. As much as Mom and I believe in you. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We wish for your highest happiness and contentment in this
life. But if you have big ambitions, I can see you choosing to change the world.
We are with you, sweet boy, no matter what path you take. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Happy Birthday, dear heart. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Love always, </p><p class="MsoNormal">Mama</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkfki02JqsB6oqpOT7dslIGYQmSI3rWBDWDyFRoF3bTcwQ81vNURF8K3D9jnHwZJ6I5DNvZyEAThSOEy8b2L9u9gSpo34Zn8T8UvjfTha0Wb7Dc8dustHOwZ8Bg-5Ae4czNRbGS9qAvyFvgDr0MfUxOtDmeV9qj24pOfdHGgb7RbRw53IGK0tgZQ7dWnkP/s6016/TAM_0324.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6016" data-original-width="4016" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkfki02JqsB6oqpOT7dslIGYQmSI3rWBDWDyFRoF3bTcwQ81vNURF8K3D9jnHwZJ6I5DNvZyEAThSOEy8b2L9u9gSpo34Zn8T8UvjfTha0Wb7Dc8dustHOwZ8Bg-5Ae4czNRbGS9qAvyFvgDr0MfUxOtDmeV9qj24pOfdHGgb7RbRw53IGK0tgZQ7dWnkP/w268-h400/TAM_0324.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfQe8Ft_L-RM7oyNV14TJ_4DOYL2DJUlzbXZ6Ov9BoyNSaOGbQoOKYnepgdYsJBPhMdOUe8i1F0wzap7eHBxOweSCsFNVdD4p6u6uNuNzRJLp1uOtluX4nt2-EP-bHToh7bsjmF3VaEZRui9Qpv8WrEro9HtLT4AQ1rbVFFOSC4ozgE1bHIiUHRmwHsaxc/s6016/TAM_0252.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6016" data-original-width="4016" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfQe8Ft_L-RM7oyNV14TJ_4DOYL2DJUlzbXZ6Ov9BoyNSaOGbQoOKYnepgdYsJBPhMdOUe8i1F0wzap7eHBxOweSCsFNVdD4p6u6uNuNzRJLp1uOtluX4nt2-EP-bHToh7bsjmF3VaEZRui9Qpv8WrEro9HtLT4AQ1rbVFFOSC4ozgE1bHIiUHRmwHsaxc/w268-h400/TAM_0252.JPG" width="268" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM_PyVHMYkVabLk6QTnPFG43Oj2bJvymKqjBHSgd1CtcJniHwR40JL3U9k3S930RYGYFJdtPGVYLIbF7WKUDBoHaNhPRa1d29LFp0I6vvRkwXw_bELg6hQrefcnxznORL-tywqhPx8qM5mCoUqe5jLd9ywC-hylvMYKURIaiadp9vhNAoEM_5RQn6HQpvR/s6016/TAM_0022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6016" data-original-width="4016" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM_PyVHMYkVabLk6QTnPFG43Oj2bJvymKqjBHSgd1CtcJniHwR40JL3U9k3S930RYGYFJdtPGVYLIbF7WKUDBoHaNhPRa1d29LFp0I6vvRkwXw_bELg6hQrefcnxznORL-tywqhPx8qM5mCoUqe5jLd9ywC-hylvMYKURIaiadp9vhNAoEM_5RQn6HQpvR/w268-h400/TAM_0022.JPG" width="268" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvCf420Dg1RfmlloxxX5dl0kwOxGIzb7lD3L_uU7WbLaypAMc3y_egofqm7aGnDTCsqGYqupDEKxZ3BKTJg5C9vDMAt5IqfLcyQaSNehGFlszapnesh3149ybTGhs1ZUG1iQfEkxI_a2RlAldXhKCXJJCnfU0-Tf6gDe652fs8JmCLCfmMvslp8iGVQsjo/s6016/TAM_9684.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4016" data-original-width="6016" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvCf420Dg1RfmlloxxX5dl0kwOxGIzb7lD3L_uU7WbLaypAMc3y_egofqm7aGnDTCsqGYqupDEKxZ3BKTJg5C9vDMAt5IqfLcyQaSNehGFlszapnesh3149ybTGhs1ZUG1iQfEkxI_a2RlAldXhKCXJJCnfU0-Tf6gDe652fs8JmCLCfmMvslp8iGVQsjo/w400-h268/TAM_9684.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>A Mother McGillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446386034365046275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-91211719499830709642022-03-01T22:28:00.000-07:002022-05-14T22:28:32.196-07:00Severance<p> Today, little one, there was a hearing for your case. I honestly hate writing all those words. I hate that you have a case file, a case plan, a case manager, an attorney, a judge. Don't get me wrong, since you were born substance-exposed to a mother who can't care for you, I'm glad you are safe. I just hate that you weren't born safe and celebrated. </p><p>Your mother hasn't been achieving any of her goals in order to reunify with you. She refuses contact with her DCS case manager, with her attorney. She willfully misses attending court hearings. She was not present today when the judge announced that she was granting the motion to change your case plan from reunification to severance and adoption. </p><p>The judge, the attorneys, the case workers present: this is their job. It's a noble thing, to protect children and help families and I'm grateful they are all doing it. But it was hard to listen to everyone speak and for the mood in the metaphorical room (it was a telephonic hearing, so we didn't see any of them) to be relatively mundane and ho-hum. For them, it was just another day. But not for us. And certainly not for you. </p><p>I am excited to get to be your forever Mama. I love you so much. I feel humbled and honored to be able to know you and love you and guide you and celebrate you for the rest of my life. My heart though, sees another mother losing her son. My heart feels this loss of yours, this separation from her. I cannot celebrate that. I cannot dance joyfully and hold you to my cheek and have pure happiness; that feels wrong. There is no joy without the pain, and there is no pain without the joy, and so we are all wrapped up together with this ribbon of duality. </p><p>We still have a ways to go, sweet one. In a month, there will be an initial severance hearing. No knowing what comes next until we find out whether your mom attends that hearing. If she doesn't, the judge will sever her parental rights right then and there, and your case will move over to the Adoptions unit, and we can pursue your adoption date. We don't know who your biological father is, so the court is posting a 90 day John Doe paternity ad. His rights cannot be severed until that 3 months has elapsed. </p><p>What I do know is that tomorrow and the next day and all the days after that, you'll be here. You always have a home with us; you are one of us already and nothing will ever change that. I know you'll be loved and cared for and safe. That's enough for me, until you can legally become a McGill. </p>A Mother McGillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446386034365046275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-27865316816050922482021-11-25T18:35:00.000-07:002022-03-01T18:37:10.766-07:00Here We Go Again<p> In April, when we finalized J's adoption, our licensing worker asked what we wanted to do about our foster care licenses. I think our mouths hung open in mirrored surprise, as we hadn't even begun to consider *that* yet. We asked the worker to list us as Respite Only for the time being. </p><p>A few months passed. Into the summer we headed, and again our worker checked in. At that point, all three kids were home for much of summer break, and it felt too overwhelming to voluntarily add in another child. We asked to stay on the Respite Only list. </p><p>In August, we did end up providing a few days of respite care for our own worker's 8 week old foster baby. It was very fun to have a baby around, but also felt overwhelming, with J only having just turned 2 and being a bit of a loose cannon. We agreed, we weren't ready for foster babies. But I was also unwilling to simply close our license - my concern was that J was going to end up with a new little sibling coming into the system, and I wanted to make sure to provide a safe place for that baby. </p><p>We celebrated E's 9th birthday at the beginning of September with a family dinner. We didn't know that someone new was on his way. </p><p>A week later, T came home from work and sighed heavily as she asked, "Have you seen the post on the agency group tonight?" My stomach dropped. </p><p>"No..." I responded slowly, as I whipped out my phone to check the post. </p><p>Two newborn babies needed placements. Two newborn babies were headed from the hospital to the DCS offices that night. </p><p>I swallowed hard as I felt cold fingers grip my throat, encircle my lungs. </p><p>"We can't." I croaked. T looked at me with sympathy. </p><p>"It would be too much. We're not there yet." she responded quietly. </p><p>We put the kids to bed, and stretched out together on the couch to watch something. I kept glancing at the post. Watching the 'Viewed By' number grow higher and higher, with no responses on the post. </p><p>I kept thinking about those tiny, vulnerable, innocent newborn babies. Sleeping in cribs in an office, with some poor DCS worker who would rather be home with their own family. I thought about how instantly cherished our two newborns had been, and how these babies didn't have that. All babies should be cherished. </p><p>I touched T's arm. "But... what if we *could* do it?" </p><p>"Hmm?" she paused the show. </p><p>"A baby. I mean, it will be hard, but... isn't it more important that a baby have a safe, loving place to be than the fact that it will be hard for us? When we're placed so perfectly to be able to do it?" </p><p>Her eyes were telling me that she wanted to help the babies, too, but we were both intimidated. We continued to talk ourselves into doing it and then out of doing it again, over and over. It was becoming late. T sighed. She began telling me about reading something that really struck home with her in Glennon Doyle's book, <i>Untamed</i>. She read me the quote. </p><p>"Heartbreak delivers your purpose. If you are brave enough to accept that delivery and seek out the people doing that particular world-changing work, you find your people. There is no bond like the bond that is forged among people who are united in the same world-healing work. <br />Despair says, 'The heartbreak is too overwhelming. I am too sad and too small, and the world is too big. I cannot do it all, so I will do nothing.'<br />Courage says, 'I will not let the fact that I cannot do everything keep me from doing what I can.' <br />We all want purpose and connection. <br />Tell me what breaks your heart, and I'll point you toward both."</p><p>That was it. Glennon Doyle helped us see that our hearts and hands could do this work.<br /></p><p>Ten pm. We dialed the number for the person doing placements for our agency. She answered, of course. We explained that we were ready to accept placement of one of the newborns. </p><p>Then something unfathomable happened. </p><p>She asked us to PICK A BABY. </p><p>"What? How do we pick a baby? They're both newborns. Just send one our way." we said. </p><p>But she insisted. She called the DCS unit for any more information they had. Privacy laws and respect prohibit me from sharing any details of their cases, but both babies were removed at birth for the same, all too common reason. None of the information she called back with was particularly noteworthy. We ended up choosing the younger infant, because we figured that maybe his symptoms were less severe. The DCS Placements Unit called us to confirm some of our license information and then said they were bringing the baby to us. </p><p>He arrived at 11pm, in all his beautifully perfect soft newborn glory. </p><p>Every time we've received a new foster child, the moment they are handed off into our care is surreal. Sign one document, here you go. Here's a trash bag of their stuff. Bye. It's especially poignant with a newborn coming home from the hospital. </p><p>I had vivid flashbacks to bringing home our two fresh newborns. The amount of anticipation and excitement and fanfare. Grandparents all around, everyone draped over couches and armchairs just to get a glimpse of these tiny new people. It was a drastic contrast to the way baby C came to us in the darkness of night, buckled into a cheap car seat with "DCS" hastily stenciled on its side, and a clear plastic hospital bag of items for him. The man dropping him off carefully unbuckled him from the seat and promptly handed him over to T. He needed to take the car seat back, of course. I signed the Notice to Provider, making him officially our foster placement, and the man gave a wave as he headed back out into the quiet dark, back to the office where yet another baby still waited. <br /></p><p>We looked at each other. We've shared this look many times over the years. The "what have we done" but also "this is exciting and joyful" and also "I feel a bit panic-stricken". Words weren't required in the moment. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-0fl_HiopJKlsbeYllKH-qPdmVWFhg_H0Uht2UgRL3sxXCeOY7Suj2LFfBKUvIGIyWWMrNwulrubFawaRGUG8mEL9lYSFssXKLffJZc0DtIVbcYRXzTo7Mp27k3uPZKVbh_4DLq5HIm5Z/s2048/TAM_1459.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-0fl_HiopJKlsbeYllKH-qPdmVWFhg_H0Uht2UgRL3sxXCeOY7Suj2LFfBKUvIGIyWWMrNwulrubFawaRGUG8mEL9lYSFssXKLffJZc0DtIVbcYRXzTo7Mp27k3uPZKVbh_4DLq5HIm5Z/w400-h268/TAM_1459.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Now, this child is nearly 12 weeks old. A lovely, charming baby whom we all adore. Our days are full. Our hands are full. But our hearts are full, too. </p><p>Social worker visits. Appointments. Specialists. Meetings. Hearings. Parental visitation. Fighting the state's reimbursement system every month. Searching for cans of formula that are affected by a national shortage, unable to utilize our formula benefits. Even among all these things that require our time and efforts, I see and acknowledge our privilege. I now work from home. We make more than enough money and don't have to worry about the financial aspect of losing formula benefits or whether the state is going to reimburse us in a timely fashion. <br /></p><p>Every day, I look at your charming, earnest little face and tell you how loved you are. I wish I had answers for you, sweet one. But until there are answers, I swear you'll have our love, and you'll be safe and cherished. </p>A Mother McGillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446386034365046275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-46244237835452967552021-07-23T19:11:00.029-07:002021-07-24T13:28:29.754-07:00July 23rd<p> <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjazNdZH424X9S5rVmtQbKsJh6q24LRNhe5eRYehpIK8J1UrfyURg0vJE-jo96yZ-aqPKd1kBC5Pb-rJ2pWtdyVP3zLY2rZIyXAK6aBiG6AHnSRJX2NF3fjR2uCCitq9peglLQUd49sKf/s2048/TAM_7086.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjazNdZH424X9S5rVmtQbKsJh6q24LRNhe5eRYehpIK8J1UrfyURg0vJE-jo96yZ-aqPKd1kBC5Pb-rJ2pWtdyVP3zLY2rZIyXAK6aBiG6AHnSRJX2NF3fjR2uCCitq9peglLQUd49sKf/w400-h268/TAM_7086.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5O9AHS7XX0h4ygQ-FS-1j365zeqOmSlSzWsgo8-BQkuKKLwPJZqaPVEPnwwBJAS8b42sXKg2_jB_XdYjkbhSXitKoLztjp8QiH6c1ju5_xBCT9W8-WE8gtb2h88f9u_oXP9sG3Ri9BP2e/s2048/TAM_7042.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5O9AHS7XX0h4ygQ-FS-1j365zeqOmSlSzWsgo8-BQkuKKLwPJZqaPVEPnwwBJAS8b42sXKg2_jB_XdYjkbhSXitKoLztjp8QiH6c1ju5_xBCT9W8-WE8gtb2h88f9u_oXP9sG3Ri9BP2e/w400-h268/TAM_7042.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>One year ago, we waited. The midsummer’s heat hung heavily
in the air, its blanket of humidity a promise of rain to come. The sun was
sinking below the tips of the mountains as we stood together in our small front
yard, holding hands and watching the street.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One year ago, a white Nissan SUV pulled up in front of our
house for the first time and parked on the curb. Two handsome young men
gathered a bag of carefully packaged ice creams in containers and lifted a bucket-style
carseat out of the vehicle. Our eyes met as they walked up the flat stones that
lead to our front porch, where we had a small table for the kids to sit and eat
ice cream and chairs for the adults. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBHWtZk2qOi2IOxR4tGOv7q6A_VqA9AOJ00gqh0R2O96uIXEowBvEoT68EaMD1pWhjIxp6By-kQrx0ExV1dTXc4OmQ6aD5sfCpyvsHfvsMiq70nlpsGNDN15qjepCOuAWmt7CYp_WIN1wl/s2048/TAM_7109.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBHWtZk2qOi2IOxR4tGOv7q6A_VqA9AOJ00gqh0R2O96uIXEowBvEoT68EaMD1pWhjIxp6By-kQrx0ExV1dTXc4OmQ6aD5sfCpyvsHfvsMiq70nlpsGNDN15qjepCOuAWmt7CYp_WIN1wl/w400-h268/TAM_7109.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">One year ago, we saw your face for the first time. With
questioning brown eyes and apple cheeks, you watched us crowd around you. There
were many introductions made that July evening, as we were all strangers to one
another. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Amidst a global pandemic, carrying both the grief and joy
that can come from joining families via adoption, our hearts grew. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Last summer, while we got to know you and your uncles, I
sometimes wondered if it was going to work. I wondered if I could do it; if I
could be your Mama when you had these men already who cherished you so deeply.
I’d never parented in this slow, transitionary way and I worried that I would
not be able to be enough for you. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Today, we celebrate that we’ve known each other one year.
Today, I am a better human and a better mama than I’ve ever been before. Today,
you are legally our son and we have two more brothers and one more sister than
we did a year ago. We have joined all our lives in this inextricably magical
way, and the path forward is clear to me. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Together. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Always together.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcDYeCarq4F6CLv9HevRFcJfdg8BQkLEY_hh8WLTZgwVkLsk_gNBMYIPjG3FSYh7vN3lZsMuZHK__PTtrwapIWbXokLRQG3gLObreK6Mmmn9EFjhQUShwyiHqUjMpzBQD3IA8ThY0umHa8/s6016/TAM_9005.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4016" data-original-width="6016" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcDYeCarq4F6CLv9HevRFcJfdg8BQkLEY_hh8WLTZgwVkLsk_gNBMYIPjG3FSYh7vN3lZsMuZHK__PTtrwapIWbXokLRQG3gLObreK6Mmmn9EFjhQUShwyiHqUjMpzBQD3IA8ThY0umHa8/w400-h268/TAM_9005.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-XpSPHCKriuFhhpPk8LW7BT0rctu-5i1an8J3wnBQXuovv4Ht_xck7yE6FQEPo0Vk9Ajyt_NkEV5php-426k4mq5S5pldL0OTPabk3BbiM_afnUT3eW813fLg-UQmxHWUOHFduiVn-I_S/s6016/TAM_9013.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4016" data-original-width="6016" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-XpSPHCKriuFhhpPk8LW7BT0rctu-5i1an8J3wnBQXuovv4Ht_xck7yE6FQEPo0Vk9Ajyt_NkEV5php-426k4mq5S5pldL0OTPabk3BbiM_afnUT3eW813fLg-UQmxHWUOHFduiVn-I_S/w400-h268/TAM_9013.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr_HtrMjf34rXqozrsBt8pc9vXRQEzrLtTXf2oMwrMMy6nn5o9S_AiBDyKgoxPLX6qbJKUnvrpQmfjSb4vkA0mbHGiBf-F6QRybCGGcFmrzCccQMMaMNnxEVD_bKW19LCzF5qj9Rc5wsGa/s2048/TAM_8920.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr_HtrMjf34rXqozrsBt8pc9vXRQEzrLtTXf2oMwrMMy6nn5o9S_AiBDyKgoxPLX6qbJKUnvrpQmfjSb4vkA0mbHGiBf-F6QRybCGGcFmrzCccQMMaMNnxEVD_bKW19LCzF5qj9Rc5wsGa/w400-h268/TAM_8920.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>A Mother McGillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446386034365046275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-52112647434579599322021-05-09T21:10:00.001-07:002021-05-09T21:10:27.502-07:00About Mothers<p> There's a writer I follow on social media whose work consistently robs me of breath. A month ago, she posted that she was giving a writing workshop the day before Mothers Day, specifically to create a piece of writing about our own mothers. I registered right away. </p><p>Although I have been writing about my mother for years, I was excited about learning from someone whose writing I admire very much. I was also anxious about writing and reading my piece aloud for the group, but I wanted to try. </p><p>I pushed my sewing machine back into the center of my crafting table and made space for the laptop. I closed myself into our little craft studio and locked the door behind me, after warning my kids to please give me this time and space. (Don't worry, T was home, but they love interrupting anything they can!)</p><p>In the workshop, we listened to several different poems and pieces written about mothers. We participated in small writing sections, with prompts and purpose, and then we were given thirteen minutes to craft a letter to our mothers. There were some prompts that could be used if desired, but it was designed to be anything we wanted to write. </p><p>I found words pouring forth from my fingertips as they flew across the keyboard. My wife always asks me, "What are you typing so furiously over there?" I guess I got my dad's heavy fingers. </p><p>My mother isn't hard to write about. She's my center. She's my foundation. She's my best friend. But it was interesting to read over my piece after I wrote it, because I felt like I was not fully present during those thirteen minutes. The teacher instructed us to not stop writing. Do not go backwards to correct or review. Don't lift your pencil. Keep going. </p><p>And I did. </p><p>After the time was up, we broke into small groups to read our pieces and give each other feedback. My group, and indeed the majority of the workshop population, was older women than I. I spotted a single man, who did not end up in my group. As I listened to these women read what they'd written about their mothers, I wondered if my piece could possibly stand among these pillars of strength and imperfection. I couldn't even really remember very well what had come out of me, so I was sweating and emotionally on edge from all the pieces I'd been hearing. </p><p>Voice shaking, neck and ears flushed with anxiety, I read. </p><p>"<i>Dear Mom,</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>
I find you always in water. The boiling of a pot, the rushing water in a sink
of my children’s dishes. The burble of the coffeemaker and the whistle of my
tea kettle. The sound of hot liquid flowing into a ceramic mug. You have always
been the ocean, you are it and it is you. Rushing, strong, crashing waves but
then receding, lapping at my shores. Constant and unending. The salt of your
tears always pulls at my insides, our spirits intertwine and it is impossible
to not cry when you cry. Summers in the swimming pool, days of laughter and
sunscreen and bowls of fruit. And then you rinse your hair out in the yard,
always under the hose. <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Water, like you, can change the shape of everything over
time. Sometimes the water diverts, and sometimes the water carves its place in
the rock. Yielding but also insistent. <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Over my adulthood, I’ve watched you continue to grow. I don’t
know if I really knew you when I was a child. I knew your bottomless love and selflessness,
but I didn’t know you. I made observations about how I knew I wanted to parent
my own children, admiring your presence and your commitment to us and noticing
even then how you put us first. <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Now that I’m a mother myself, we’ve discussed that your selflessness
is a problem for you. Prioritizing yourself sometimes seems impossible. I’ve
watched you find truths that took you to your knees, but you got back up and kept
looking, even though you were hurt. I’ve witnessed you stand taller, refuse to
be talked over, become more steadfast in your convictions, and make your voice
louder. You are surer of your voice now than I’ve ever known you to be. <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>You no longer have children in your home to shepherd.
Your rescue puppies are gone, and I know you feel sometimes rudderless. This
time is yours. Time you never wanted anyway, but here it is and here you are
and I have to say, I am incredibly and repeatedly stunned by my pride in you.
To see the work and efforts you’ve gone through to plumb the depths of despair
and still hook your fingers around a small pocket of purpose is something I
didn’t know I’d get to witness you do.</i>"</span></span><div><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My group was incredibly supportive and sweet of my piece. A couple of women even commented that they thought it ought to be published, which I found to be such a high compliment I barely knew how to express my gratitude. They all told me they hoped I would share it with my mom. One writer commented that if she'd received a letter like that from her daughter, she'd probably do something silly like have it tattooed on her in its entirety. I gave them all my word that my mom would get it. </span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This morning, I sent it to her. She's my mom, she's no stranger to my writing or to my love. She loved it, because she loves everything I do. It makes my heart sing to have this relationship with her. </span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I felt the gentle presences of those other six women from my group, when I sent my mom the letter. Those other six daughters, all whose mothers have passed on. I was the only one who got to send a letter today. I carry those women, those incredible writers and loving, angry, unresolved, yearning, confused, joyful daughters with me on my shoulders. I hope they felt that they were with me today. </span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mothers and daughters. This is something that transcends us all. Everyone has a mother, at least in the way that every child was brought forth from a womb. That mother may have died, or been forced to give you up, or loved you the rest of her life. But once we become mothers... we are connected to this timeless network. This universal and yet painfully unique experience of mothering. As vast as the sky and as detailed as the shape of our fingernails, we are all one and we are all completely our own. </span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">To mothers. That deepest and most complex relationship. </span></span></div>A Mother McGillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446386034365046275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-88607408354751705472021-05-03T21:30:00.003-07:002021-05-03T21:47:33.905-07:00Broken Horses<p>Not only did we end up with 4 copies of <i>Broken Horses </i>by Brandi Carlile so we could attend a
handful of the virtual book tour events, but I also downloaded the
audiobook because she recorded 30 songs to include in it. We listened to
it during a quick getaway to Flagstaff this weekend. <br /></p><p><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHexjjRigBXwBHIh8kfOSm4zatfX2XvkdFiaWx5PWSv7fjXevCItO6TTMd_fcWb1EBUJVgfdkTDaFipocaB3BoMQwSEtHVn_xqWv__2IJBFW2NbYKZe3XN7vnCTQMrUuSOMBiXd1rxJxx4/s1200/Resized_Resized_Resized_20210501_162109.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHexjjRigBXwBHIh8kfOSm4zatfX2XvkdFiaWx5PWSv7fjXevCItO6TTMd_fcWb1EBUJVgfdkTDaFipocaB3BoMQwSEtHVn_xqWv__2IJBFW2NbYKZe3XN7vnCTQMrUuSOMBiXd1rxJxx4/s320/Resized_Resized_Resized_20210501_162109.jpeg" /></a></i><br /></p><p>I was struck, as I
often am, with how powerful it is to find myself in someone else's stories; to see myself reflected in someone else's song. It reminds me of the power of marginalization. The power of making people feel "other." The microaggressions that on the own are inconsequential, but build up to such a heavy weight over time. It happens so slowly that you don't notice until you reach the breaking point and become "that angry lesbian" making mountains out molehills. Or, like this weekend, you are caught unprepared by seeing yourself so clearly reflected back in someone else's experience, that you are able to set down the weight and know that you are not alone, you are part of a community. They weight is lifted, the isolation is broken, if only for a moment.</p><p>Brandi Carlile has provided me with moments like this for so long. I remember in 2008, as I was trying to get the courage to propose, I came across a video they recorded during their UK tour that included a cover of "I've Just Seen a Face." Hearing a woman sing those words changed the song forever. Sorry Paul, it is now a Brandi Carlile song. <br /><span></span></p><div class="ujudUb"><i><span>I've just seen a face</span><br /><span>I can't forget the time or place</span><br /><span>Where we just met</span></i></div><div class="ujudUb"><i><span> </span><br /><span>She's just the girl for me</span><br /><span>And I want all the world to see</span><br /><span>We've met, mm-mm-mm-m'mm-mm</span></i></div><div class="ujudUb"><i><span> </span></i></div><div class="ujudUb"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TgBpgOZr6-Q, start at 2:25)</span><i><span><br /> <br /></span></i></div><div class="ujudUb"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/TgBpgOZr6-Q" width="320" youtube-src-id="TgBpgOZr6-Q"></iframe></div></i></div><div class="ujudUb"><i></i></div><div class="ujudUb"><i></i></div><div class="ujudUb"><i><span></span></i></div><div class="ujudUb"><span></span> </div><div class="ujudUb">Moments like this have taught me how much representation matters. How much we look to the outside world for acceptance and value. I fight against this, I don't owe anyone conformity. So the excitement and comfort that come with each of these moments of community are tinged with guilt and self doubt. <br /></div><div class="ujudUb"><br /></div><div class="ujudUb">Being a parent is hard. A and I often appreciate that the lack of gender roles in our marriage takes away a layer of expectations, especially around parenting. However, being a queer parent can be incredibly isolating. To be reminded we weren't alone in our struggles to carve out our little
corner in such a herteronormative space was very impactful. </div><div class="ujudUb"> </div><div class="ujudUb">I am eternally grateful for the wonderful community we found in our birth center. I became a member of the community advisory board and we are now friends with the amazing nurses and midwives who helped E and C come into this world. However, we were always "other." It was challenging to set aside the protective, defensive shell and see the families and medical providers in the group as our new community when our experiences were so fundamentally different. </div><div class="ujudUb"> </div><div class="ujudUb">As we've connected with other LGBTQ families, it often feels like coming home. There is an ease, an unspoken understanding. This doesn't mean I don't value all of these other relationships, because of course I do. Rather, it reminds me of the value of things like our Rainbow Families group that met monthly before the pandemic. It makes me excited for the day we feel comfortable meeting in-person with the other queer families in our foster care agency. It makes me incredibly grateful for our new family that we adopted along with J.<br /></div><p></p><p> I have three children. One birth certificate lists me as "mother," another as "father," and the third should arrive in the coming weeks with me listed as "parent." A isn't even on E's. I often make a joke about this, but that is just to cover up the fact that it hurts. We were quoted $2000 from our lawyer to adopt E & C during J's adoption so we would both be listed on all of them as "parent," and not have to worry about the state recognizing our rights if something happen to one of us. If we waited it would be $4000 to do it in a separate hearing.<br /></p><p>No. I'm not going to spend thousands of dollars for something that we shouldn't even have to do. To prove the legitimacy of our family. To tarnish the exciting addition of J to our family with the acknowledgment of the state's bigotry. Let's save that for another day.<br /></p><p>The pain and guilt of this has been weighing on me lately. For a moment, while we drove down a mountain with such majestic views that you can't help but feel small, I heard another mother talk about how their family began with lawyers and awkward classes. How she dealt with the internalized homophobia that convinces you that you don't belong in these spaces, you aren't really a mother. How she also surrounds herself with family, both biological and chosen, as a cloak of protection from these hurts, both big and small. I wiped away a tear and drove back to the real world, where these things fade into the noise of everyday and the weight finds it's well-worn spot on my shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>To my family, my protectors: Thank you <br /></p><p><i>I'm beginning to feel the years, <br />But I'm going to be okay,<br />As long as you're beside me along the way.<br />Gonna make it through the night,<br />and into morning light.</i></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><i><br /> </i><br /><p></p>Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03644934944941325281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-45806087587389489542021-04-22T15:26:00.011-07:002021-04-23T17:21:03.997-07:00This Is The Start of Our Sweet Little Story<p> After the birth of our first two children, I loved writing
out their birth stories. When I was doing the birthing, I cherished hearing the
memories of all the other strong women in the room. I loved knowing what all
was happening while I was focused inward. I chronicled those experiences, for
myself and for Mom and for E and C to read for themselves one day. This one is
for you, my youngest son.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Your story began on an unusually cool day in August of 2019.
It only reached 99 degrees Fahrenheit, in a month where every day easily
surpasses triple digits. It’s not surprising to me that, as a lovely little
morning creature, you were already hard at the work of being born as the day
dawned bright. In my imagination, I can see your mother breathing deeply and
concentrating as she pushed you out to greet the day. You were born in a little
bathroom only two miles northwest of our home, and I didn’t even know that
someone momentous was breathing his first breath of the sweet, humid air that’s
found in every place life blooms. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If I close my eyes, I can hear the cicadas sing and smell
the creosote hanging in the summer breeze. Zinnias grew in our garden that
August, and we had a yellow-bellied Siskin finch visit often who loved to eat
the aphids that gathered under the leaves. Maybe we’ll grow zinnias again this
summer, so you can see what the garden looked like during your birth. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzR7B5A87Dh56S69K8B0EGYH1kp_RI-XZSxwz1KvaJbrnBsxKTYcdBfQiXrlJ5vKcK5Z_ZFvIXqt_v-A1ROJjx52Z4zZ_8C0oLHtIe8_TAjkEKSNNkv2PIQOiIqxL0y-Wimz3qLyc2BmFl/s6016/GM1_2139.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4016" data-original-width="6016" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzR7B5A87Dh56S69K8B0EGYH1kp_RI-XZSxwz1KvaJbrnBsxKTYcdBfQiXrlJ5vKcK5Z_ZFvIXqt_v-A1ROJjx52Z4zZ_8C0oLHtIe8_TAjkEKSNNkv2PIQOiIqxL0y-Wimz3qLyc2BmFl/w400-h268/GM1_2139.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><br /><br /><br />I regret that I cannot account for every moment of those
early days and weeks for you. I do know that you were loved. You had people who
couldn’t wait to meet you, to hold you and look upon your small crinkled face.
I’ve seen pictures of you as a little babe – even then, you were a skeptic of
this bright new world. Your first mother and father loved you. They loved you
as best they could. But you also were loved by your grandmother, your
grandfather and step-grandmother. Your aunt, and your incredible uncles. </p><p class="MsoNormal">We are
so grateful that we get to know your uncles and aunt, and that you will have
them in your life forever. We are thankful for the opportunity to maintain your connections to your birth family. It is our hope that one day you can reconnect to your first mother and father, to know them and to have them know you. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCrWOUJqm6D5Iakav0-1ESTWMyB_IjqhtfTQEEu7um3VHK0VHXHK7u1z1RplI8IW00YjEsVtRgTZWqwe7HmJKjB8zge9Qdo00K8uS_tEuEhXAMIthzC34U6ajuUXPSedy-nrZgCazWQ3lX/s2048/IMG_1204-2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1041" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCrWOUJqm6D5Iakav0-1ESTWMyB_IjqhtfTQEEu7um3VHK0VHXHK7u1z1RplI8IW00YjEsVtRgTZWqwe7HmJKjB8zge9Qdo00K8uS_tEuEhXAMIthzC34U6ajuUXPSedy-nrZgCazWQ3lX/w326-h640/IMG_1204-2.jpg" width="326" /></a></div><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNsiiSNtFR3CHvzCAXVhohzRPVmpDWwtGGAlOoPfVvbzNpF1UyvxfEh6XdcjEKanXBy6Gs7-Cg6qHj-staVwKxH1Ymqt7DehjGR3_-ISklovMeaECLb2hfPHnX0yHSfXF0esYnD3Rd6pe9/s1200/Resized_2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1030" data-original-width="1200" height="344" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNsiiSNtFR3CHvzCAXVhohzRPVmpDWwtGGAlOoPfVvbzNpF1UyvxfEh6XdcjEKanXBy6Gs7-Cg6qHj-staVwKxH1Ymqt7DehjGR3_-ISklovMeaECLb2hfPHnX0yHSfXF0esYnD3Rd6pe9/w400-h344/Resized_2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><br /><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br />Your uncle B took you home with him in September, when your
parents could no longer care for you safely. He and uncle A set aside
everything to love you and raise you. I know from their stories that it was a
year of duality. Utter joy at your small presence, while pushing the limits of
pure exhaustion. They rejoiced in your growth, in your sharp intelligence and
your easy laugh. You lived a life of love and cuddles and safety with them, but
all the while your case, your future, was in limbo. Surviving in times of unknown answers and
unending timetables is an incredibly stressful thing. Your uncles are two of
the strongest people I’ve ever known. After many tears and long nights of
discussion, they decided to see if they could find an adoptive family for you
who would let them still be your uncles.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-CbG1JVf87vrT_3EIRnp3lQGKKwCLb1LWupDKY4LZJA83LrxyYgGOJmCKAgLNQEB5gzlnRvNf2HL-Vzie2RJoenW7Y6FxEGPl2VKDJWtbGks6TDouxlq9MsriadrUpOUKvVV3EuQKVDxc/s1600/IMG_1102.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-CbG1JVf87vrT_3EIRnp3lQGKKwCLb1LWupDKY4LZJA83LrxyYgGOJmCKAgLNQEB5gzlnRvNf2HL-Vzie2RJoenW7Y6FxEGPl2VKDJWtbGks6TDouxlq9MsriadrUpOUKvVV3EuQKVDxc/w400-h266/IMG_1102.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br />Meanwhile, we were pursuing our foster care license. We had
one class left to complete, plus our home safety inspection before we could
submit our application to the state. I received a text message one day from the
worker doing our training classes, asking if she could call me later. I
answered that of course she could and wondered why she wanted to talk. My brain
offered up, “Maybe she’s got a baby for us…” and then instantly I laughed at
myself because that was ludicrous. We weren’t even licensed. Later that
afternoon, she called and wove a tale of two young men who were hoping to find
the perfect family for their 11 month old nephew, a family who would accept
them as a couple and also as uncles who wanted to remain in his life. It was
all I could do to clench my lips shut long enough for her to finish the story
because I wanted to shout, “YES! Yes yes yes!” to these young men and to this
little boy who I had yet to meet. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I wanted them all. Somehow, they already lived in my heart. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm2sX5wvFgQp1F-TYeanuEHj9vVKIJ6uMBzzbBJX-eAFifh0wTSApu3TzQIRMRdRUQw5gSWfS-6NOa2RgQQzRji6NUVSjgxtuCODZzEpl4QxX-f1my6zNsjuGBcF2nOvnJE8YQorUTektm/s2048/IMG_1087.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm2sX5wvFgQp1F-TYeanuEHj9vVKIJ6uMBzzbBJX-eAFifh0wTSApu3TzQIRMRdRUQw5gSWfS-6NOa2RgQQzRji6NUVSjgxtuCODZzEpl4QxX-f1my6zNsjuGBcF2nOvnJE8YQorUTektm/s320/IMG_1087.jpg" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdUvfOFktVHxKfzGhR8pxxYu4NKRaRJxaWJKYH-G9PuHKvCoILFjr-jdCRGgd8KSv6AsfMHuKAex5pf0Xs7_NvAEPT9PQzRZq7P-0S0afLpsjvnoSG7FSATKyI0__IBcUDl3OXYONY9aWT/s2048/TAM_7042.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdUvfOFktVHxKfzGhR8pxxYu4NKRaRJxaWJKYH-G9PuHKvCoILFjr-jdCRGgd8KSv6AsfMHuKAex5pf0Xs7_NvAEPT9PQzRZq7P-0S0afLpsjvnoSG7FSATKyI0__IBcUDl3OXYONY9aWT/w400-h268/TAM_7042.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">In the waning golden sunlight of a July evening last year,
the four of us waited with bated breath in our front yard to meet you. We had
seen pictures of you, and we had done a video call with you and your uncles.
But on this warm summer evening, I felt deep in the pit of my stomach that I
was about to meet one of my children. It was surreal to think that I didn’t
know you at all. I didn’t know what made you smile, what helped you feel safe,
how you went to sleep easiest, or what your favorite food was. I suppose none
of us know any of those things when babies are born into our families anyway.
The uncles came bearing ice cream for all of us and carrying you in your car
seat. For the first time in their lives, E and C abandoned their ice creams in
favor of sitting in front of your car seat on the ground to smile at you and
touch your wiggling toes. E brought out books and read to you, while C
carefully examined your fingers and your nose and kept kissing your head. It
wasn’t long before the kids dragged the uncles into our home to show them around.
You demanded to be put down in C’s bedroom to investigate his cars and trucks
and bookcase. I took a photo of the 3 of you for the first time, your heads
bent closely together. It was then that I noticed your hair is
nearly the exact same shade of brown as your siblings. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWrT7FzCiB-_DarZNYS_l77RDxeHvAiB8kYjW528Ef1mgO_F0Tvm9FVxciKqhuHwOVa_YcuhwqZyoBDMazYpAJF7_nIZAGwO98buf4CIwfQaxBmR-YpJ52bKZ-FFbql7OHnhuFfisYHSG7/s2048/TAM_7119.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWrT7FzCiB-_DarZNYS_l77RDxeHvAiB8kYjW528Ef1mgO_F0Tvm9FVxciKqhuHwOVa_YcuhwqZyoBDMazYpAJF7_nIZAGwO98buf4CIwfQaxBmR-YpJ52bKZ-FFbql7OHnhuFfisYHSG7/s320/TAM_7119.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKWyF2djsihwwdz-slM5NUXX4XSc1bxAuaxQRdNZkqBuWLSm6FwixB_E5EvuIbjMZ0LUU54tPlxW52Yu011ghDhdHvMpy1HGDOv2wC8DchHyCvulvsAIn8-qqyBpYSABs726o-fDvsLrTD/s2048/20200723_201139.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKWyF2djsihwwdz-slM5NUXX4XSc1bxAuaxQRdNZkqBuWLSm6FwixB_E5EvuIbjMZ0LUU54tPlxW52Yu011ghDhdHvMpy1HGDOv2wC8DchHyCvulvsAIn8-qqyBpYSABs726o-fDvsLrTD/w300-h400/20200723_201139.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><br /><br />After that first meeting, we planned family dinner nights.
We got to celebrate your first birthday together, and Mom and Uncle A baked and
decorated your cake. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrP58QdXJa5OHFGGdK_Vf0PAJlLxhTDmPt_bOVJ13nMtiLjYtOOVCHKfdIl3n9Xa-hmdeamd_Ic2bg9wWYkNMixkMa3txUMI_X4_Bt8fHObRIOycZFgAI7IafUxsV45gfywku51Rq2nUZM/s2048/TAM_7845.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrP58QdXJa5OHFGGdK_Vf0PAJlLxhTDmPt_bOVJ13nMtiLjYtOOVCHKfdIl3n9Xa-hmdeamd_Ic2bg9wWYkNMixkMa3txUMI_X4_Bt8fHObRIOycZFgAI7IafUxsV45gfywku51Rq2nUZM/w400-h268/TAM_7845.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj73WCBVGqvBFJyg-wZdGlpkiFPpsASVofJQAJClT7UETbc0UIUnsmcdwfflOu62yT8tKhXd2oI18KFfDhhRxCcCGMDHy0y3C3P-eb5KuxXj956MHuFsL4D_GU0fGhR86MLDdPU0_2PC8w1/s2048/TAM_7872.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1367" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj73WCBVGqvBFJyg-wZdGlpkiFPpsASVofJQAJClT7UETbc0UIUnsmcdwfflOu62yT8tKhXd2oI18KFfDhhRxCcCGMDHy0y3C3P-eb5KuxXj956MHuFsL4D_GU0fGhR86MLDdPU0_2PC8w1/w268-h400/TAM_7872.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEN1oANMAC42NjU_RMmvXjJwrjVrTwIv2e8gEtwxjNF-_3Zt7C5Vi0r0PzrBu83H-weCgNa7KoAVaAnZbxy3hd4tFhb3b9stxxSGVcAxbfD0Gygg8iWKh_G6gwS8aMOFraPxDvzYaKWYRv/s2048/TAM_7978.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEN1oANMAC42NjU_RMmvXjJwrjVrTwIv2e8gEtwxjNF-_3Zt7C5Vi0r0PzrBu83H-weCgNa7KoAVaAnZbxy3hd4tFhb3b9stxxSGVcAxbfD0Gygg8iWKh_G6gwS8aMOFraPxDvzYaKWYRv/w400-h268/TAM_7978.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq8yEmNJMEI3-21fcRrlQpDgnyFWO4td8Pn6R6iVvYEobLu1PesNGGyHdR15VHsGHuGSpMPW8VcVo0l50-vv9JpBcfHh2Ac8XtafzVi5SQFq7AgyQ4nn3aXP_NeP7EP7Oc_lIGSAVHSX2k/s2048/TAM_8019.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1367" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq8yEmNJMEI3-21fcRrlQpDgnyFWO4td8Pn6R6iVvYEobLu1PesNGGyHdR15VHsGHuGSpMPW8VcVo0l50-vv9JpBcfHh2Ac8XtafzVi5SQFq7AgyQ4nn3aXP_NeP7EP7Oc_lIGSAVHSX2k/w428-h640/TAM_8019.jpg" width="428" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbVmZfSLulB4kBCzQ2cryIZ3RxEYBB6BdjueSsEd9znqyJ0pXXFl2NmrEdJaDSzuMF4Ya5qOqF0Z8IULjjXaycBa7pzuB7emoOmh7zFmCREWupGFa-RPMeK51HQsxyLP2ZvO2UPNDVBbIT/s2048/LP0_4986.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbVmZfSLulB4kBCzQ2cryIZ3RxEYBB6BdjueSsEd9znqyJ0pXXFl2NmrEdJaDSzuMF4Ya5qOqF0Z8IULjjXaycBa7pzuB7emoOmh7zFmCREWupGFa-RPMeK51HQsxyLP2ZvO2UPNDVBbIT/w400-h266/LP0_4986.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">We started to have you over by yourself for a few hours at
a time. Our license was approved in late August, and we started having you for
overnights the very next night. We were building many relationships. </p><p class="MsoNormal">It is an
experience unlike any I’ve had, to commit our lives to two adult strangers and
a baby before we knew each other. We have all grown so close in such a short
span of time. You were placed with us officially at the beginning of October,
and that started the countdown clock to your adoption.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now, as spring blooms and brings with it the Mexican gold poppies and orange globemallow, the last grain of sand in this hourglass has fallen into the
base. Our time as your foster family has come to a close, little one. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> Today is Adoption Day. Today you are legally a McGill, a third child, second son, and fifth family member. You are cherished. Always.</o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is the start of our sweet little story;<br />
the part where your page meets ours.<br />
No matter where the tale takes us tomorrow,<br />
the story will always be of love.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoZ1v9M_TAqRRcklS_U0iPNSqZ_BRDeM4jIVbvT7OjbKmxr9lfkr5XolTPuTrpXAPFKLHu9l-nr8PydX2e58kOmhXDkua7ITS2uzI31TyP5P5EN3FnwxMT_QGPHkqmK8wO7GcsXyidJYJ6/s1620/GMO_3097+%25281%2529.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1620" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoZ1v9M_TAqRRcklS_U0iPNSqZ_BRDeM4jIVbvT7OjbKmxr9lfkr5XolTPuTrpXAPFKLHu9l-nr8PydX2e58kOmhXDkua7ITS2uzI31TyP5P5EN3FnwxMT_QGPHkqmK8wO7GcsXyidJYJ6/w400-h266/GMO_3097+%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>A Mother McGillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446386034365046275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-48831566295301214202021-01-19T12:33:00.003-07:002021-01-19T12:33:38.620-07:00Sleep Tight, My Love<p> My littlest one. </p><p>Somehow, it's already been six months since we met you. We've had the privilege of being part of your life for six of your 17 months on this earth. I find this... wondrous, and also, if I'm really being truthful, slightly sad. Sad in the most selfish possible way. I'm sad I didn't know you sooner. I feel greedy to admit this, but it's how I feel. I accept that I don't get to have memories of your earliest days. I am grateful to have the memories of you that I do get. </p><p>Realizing that half a year has passed already since we met you has really set me back on my heels. So much has happened in six months, and I worry that I might miss something. I want to memorize you as best I can. </p><p>I just laid you down for a nap before sitting down to write. You were so tired. I'd forgotten how much I love the napping ages. It's a moment of such peace and stillness, that instant that your body somehow burrows into itself, your weight deepens into my arms and my breast. You breathe a deeper breath and huff out a tired, sleepy sigh. I love that you let me rock and sing you to sleep. Thank you for indulging me. I know you are fully capable of falling asleep by yourself. That same selfish part of me wants these moments with you. </p><p>At 17 months old, you are a mischievous grinning dust devil. Always busy, always moving, always watching everything so closely that you can go back later to investigate properly. I think if you could speak full sentences, you would sing out, "No time for cuddles, Mama! Things to do!" And I laugh and smile and clap my hands to watch your achievements. So when you're ready to go to sleep, I crave those small quiet minutes when you want to gently rub your owl friend's soft wing rhythmically back and forth on your cheek as you lay your head on my chest. I sing softly and quietly, knowing the reverberations of the song will vibrate their way from my lungs and ribs into your growing body as sleep takes you. <br /></p><p><i><b>Goodnight, baby. <br />Sleep tight, my love.</b></i></p><p>I've sung these Tom Petty lyrics thousands of times, to each child in this family. I love to sing them to you. I love that you are a child in this family.</p><p>We've been listening to the song, "Carried Me with You" by Brandi Carlile from the Pixar movie "Onward" a lot lately. It often puts you in the forefront of my mind. Maybe I'll learn all the words and it can become a lullaby, too. </p><p><i><b>If you bear a heavy load<br />I'll be your wheels, I'll be the road<br />I'll see us through the thick and thin<br />For love and loss until the end</b></i></p><p>Just know, darling boy, that you'll never bear a heavy load alone. You've got a lot of people who are walking beside you. </p><p>Love always,</p><p>Mama</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIqFMYilz2LSey86TUuC0fkjs9I3GAaE1NsBfb9YKJZtUOxIWDNC9_jWdw2_w_lzf-0ve7wHzYKdj_HblDjQsBRZeRxQ1FOkCVhY81lZghVjL_Cv5072vG3W8qdRqRVszm5ZRosbHY2puy/s6016/TAM_0358.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6016" data-original-width="4016" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIqFMYilz2LSey86TUuC0fkjs9I3GAaE1NsBfb9YKJZtUOxIWDNC9_jWdw2_w_lzf-0ve7wHzYKdj_HblDjQsBRZeRxQ1FOkCVhY81lZghVjL_Cv5072vG3W8qdRqRVszm5ZRosbHY2puy/w268-h400/TAM_0358.JPG" width="268" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWTng7A0vBuwbZU8t2JvZpU4nA4bVdKPXecI0yIUmVFSBZUr12kXv6HtIGch9SnspfagNqeStmVmRYrxo9Xs1JNE2GlEuM655bc4bKYiQx1CIAzhzKw7hk1ryOXKvpew5q6TFV3GGJENDB/s6016/TAM_1181.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4016" data-original-width="6016" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWTng7A0vBuwbZU8t2JvZpU4nA4bVdKPXecI0yIUmVFSBZUr12kXv6HtIGch9SnspfagNqeStmVmRYrxo9Xs1JNE2GlEuM655bc4bKYiQx1CIAzhzKw7hk1ryOXKvpew5q6TFV3GGJENDB/w400-h268/TAM_1181.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>A Mother McGillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446386034365046275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-2661154591110528932021-01-16T18:16:00.000-07:002021-01-16T18:16:20.382-07:00To E<p> Two years ago, you were in first grade and beginning to make real friends who were of just your own making. A few houses down from us lived Kay. She was in second grade, and you chatted together at the bus stop and on the way to and from school. She started to ask if you could come over to her house to play, and you began asking us if she could come to our house. </p><p>You and Kay were different kids. She was the youngest child, the only one at home, and was accustomed to playing independently. You are the eldest child, and had a 2 year old brother who insisted on being part of everything. The way you played was so sweetly accommodating of him, but the way Kay wanted to play was simply older and more mature than you were capable of. Over time, you spent less and less time together. A new girl moved in across the street who Kay befriended, and you grew closer to Jay, the little girl at the other end of the street who has several big siblings and a little sister close in age to your little brother. There are no hard feelings anywhere, we all still greet one another affectionately when we cross paths. </p><p>This afternoon we went on a bike ride, all of us together. Now you're in third grade, and Kay is in fourth. You were blazing down the street wearing light-up pink sneakers, your pink sweater with black hearts tied around your waist, and your Lisa Frank-esque psychedelic unicorn helmet atop your joyful face. Your life is still centered around sparkles and singing while you swing and shoes that flash and flip sequins and Dragon dance routines of your own invention. </p><p>We ran into Kay and her friend. I watched Kay from a distance, feeling a distinctly motherly pang of sadness that their childhoods are slipping past so quick. She was always gangling and thin, but this year her gangling youth has gained the beginning of elegance. It brought a smile to my face to recognize the beginning of her adolescent experimentations with identity and trend, finding where she belongs. She got a short haircut, had worn red Chuck Taylors on her feet. Knee high black and white striped socks, fingerless gloves, oversized cardigan and shorts. Her bike is big, surely it can't be a kids size anymore. </p><p>Will you need an adult bike next year? How long do I have before you trade unicorns and mermaids for eyeliner and ever-present headphones? Don't get me wrong, kid; I'm here for it. Watching you grow up is the greatest honor of my life. But I see Kay changing, and I see you changing, too. I know you're almost eight and a half now. You aren't a little child anymore. You rejoice in counting down and reminding us how long until you're a teenager, until you can drive, until you can vote. (Yeah, turning eighteen means voting to you, and I can't tell you how amazing I find that.)</p><p>Ten years ago, Mom and I were in foster care training classes, and I'll never forget one particular thing we learned: Every stage of maturity and newfound independence is cause for both celebration AND grief. Celebrate moving forward and growth. But we must also mourn the loss of what used to be, what is gone. You need me less and less, at least in the way small children need their parents. You can make your own snacks and meals. You choose all your own outfits. You can brush and style your hair (dubiously, but nonetheless). You're an amazing help with your little brothers. </p><p>I got to carry your dangling arms and legs and your strong, thin, big kid body to bed a few nights ago. You fell asleep on the couch reading books with Mom. It was hard to fit you through the doorway while I held you, and I laughed. I used to be THE BEST at laying your small sleeping form down in bed so slowly and gently that you wouldn't wake. You were the easiest baby to wake up and the hardest to get to sleep. Now you are so difficult to get out of bed that I know the universe is cackling out new, stubborn stars to celebrate the ways you challenge us. </p><p>Tonight, I'll close my eyes and remember how round your sweet pink cheeks used to be when you grinned. I'll do my best to remember your slightly gravelly small voice, and the way you used to say "lasterday" and "starflake" and "shicken". I'll smile and a tear will roll as I say goodbye to your small ways and your little chubby hands and your incorrect pronunciations. I'll smile as I think of all the grand things in your life that you've yet to experience (and as I privately rejoice that you still say "trocklate" instead of "chocolate"). </p><p>Love always, <br />Mama</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtE4-JQSnho1HOKpFs6Jg4nXv67K8zrHpmiVl9KUk6v3bC_Lsiivb_GOpLCIr32Lm0zrvT_zvd6rpIJ19f8XPCM50Df-R84t6ejncCQzF1h0jjuWUgelmP0VduOLo8j8IYIEvXxn9zwfQ4/s2048/TAM_1009-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1367" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtE4-JQSnho1HOKpFs6Jg4nXv67K8zrHpmiVl9KUk6v3bC_Lsiivb_GOpLCIr32Lm0zrvT_zvd6rpIJ19f8XPCM50Df-R84t6ejncCQzF1h0jjuWUgelmP0VduOLo8j8IYIEvXxn9zwfQ4/w268-h400/TAM_1009-2.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd5mkWvNaULat6ouIK-B6r8Pvm4KD9m09Oloj3TvGSC_K3VqrF_Ioz5nOsbNbCSl-W1ZGuq_eyRR8F-16Om3mUx-gtxQ0N6M0Cn3GuxMU6rSHxz_AURFHN1YX1Gs0i0mljgTZ1HC5Yq4Lp/s2048/TAM_1138-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1367" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd5mkWvNaULat6ouIK-B6r8Pvm4KD9m09Oloj3TvGSC_K3VqrF_Ioz5nOsbNbCSl-W1ZGuq_eyRR8F-16Om3mUx-gtxQ0N6M0Cn3GuxMU6rSHxz_AURFHN1YX1Gs0i0mljgTZ1HC5Yq4Lp/w268-h400/TAM_1138-2.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03644934944941325281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-21236280255330025602020-11-04T15:58:00.001-07:002020-11-04T15:58:21.049-07:00First Month<p> Sweet J. </p><p>Legally, you've been placed with us for a month. Yesterday, your case moved from the Foster Care division to the Adoptions division of DCS, and today I spoke with your Adoptions worker for the first time. </p><p>Since we first saw your photo in July, we've been waiting. To meet you. To hug you. To bring you home. To call you ours and to become yours. Today was another step along the path to legally solidifying you as part of our family forever. In July, my mind whirled at the thought of what it would be like to have you home, to enfold a one year old into our family unit. Today, I cannot imagine my life without you in it. </p><p>You bring such light and love with you everywhere you go. You are as charming as you are stubborn, and I love that you want to ensure everyone hears your many opinions. As the littlest, I think it's your goal to be the loudest so everyone knows you're here. </p><p>You're here, my boy. </p><p>You're home. </p><p>You are beloved. </p><p>Love always, <br />Mama<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2td9WnEAgYrwqKMr1Vya9cstnFVlyD5sC2lRnskNhzgUyWhfSxA0dy0MWSs4PVy2RTVbGwG16FWIiiPrRVKifJL5XEX3K6oJTDTvQxK5TketWaEFKAKb5Z7NzHddIv82e92V5b6lCazPs/s2048/TAM_9966.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1367" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2td9WnEAgYrwqKMr1Vya9cstnFVlyD5sC2lRnskNhzgUyWhfSxA0dy0MWSs4PVy2RTVbGwG16FWIiiPrRVKifJL5XEX3K6oJTDTvQxK5TketWaEFKAKb5Z7NzHddIv82e92V5b6lCazPs/w268-h400/TAM_9966.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj131gdAgk5uEcOODCah2fBBN8sYIu-_RDoBOSIYOHtyRnmofNoEJl3DkAqYpaXW-63dEVtKKvTIRqFkYW3XWGTZAli6RtuODJ53AG0pBbOHb2SuBARBXNMWkVUvKiaVVMjznnaa1sCc96I/s2048/TAM_9975.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1367" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj131gdAgk5uEcOODCah2fBBN8sYIu-_RDoBOSIYOHtyRnmofNoEJl3DkAqYpaXW-63dEVtKKvTIRqFkYW3XWGTZAli6RtuODJ53AG0pBbOHb2SuBARBXNMWkVUvKiaVVMjznnaa1sCc96I/w268-h400/TAM_9975.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><br />A Mother McGillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446386034365046275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-3937710851225939962020-09-20T12:59:00.005-07:002020-09-20T13:01:19.464-07:00In-BetweenLoveliest daughter, <div><br /><div>These small, "in-between" days are the ones I sometimes forget or run out of time to write about. It's not a holiday, or a birthday, or a milestone. It's another day in a line of days that sometimes melt together, since they are often very similar to one another. This oddly interminable pandemic time passes in its own fashion - simultaneously at lightspeed while also at a snail's stodgy pace. And yet... you are growing and maturing so much. I think I get caught up staring so closely at things that I forget to take a step backwards and look at the whole of you. </div><div><br /></div></div><div>Your confidence is shining bright these days, love. Your joy is catching. It's silly, but your face has grown into your new adult front teeth and you are so unquestionably stunning. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was so struck the other night, when I was in your room to sing songs and wish you goodnight. I got such a strong sense of YOU; your heart and your spirit. You are formed. You are preciously and uniquely yourself, and adult E is already there in your heart, growing and learning, but present all the same. It's never been more clear to me that Mom and I are merely your guides. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now that you are eight and in third grade and have your own room, we are seeing more and more of your choices and preferences coming out. Your nightstand is a carefully cultivated space of intention. I love looking at your nightstand. And your bookshelves. Knowing that you've chosen the things and you've chosen the way that they are arranged is a small but amazing joy I'm finding for the first time. Your alarm clock. Your lamp with the rope and the pink sea glass. Your little woven runner - where did this even come from? Your horse figurines. Bookmarks. A pair of fashion glasses. A stack of carefully piled books. A plush shark toy. </div><div><br /></div><div>Darling girl. My greatest hopes for you are that you dance along this bright path all your days, with your chin to the sunshine and an ocean breeze playing through your curls. You are loved. You are cherished. You are deserving of all the joy you can find.</div><div><br /></div><div>Love always,<br />Mama</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY9wRJYzvJW21PY-jdTRnLSnL8FncHJjVhF7cOwRVaM_9-TUwgWP2VecjwQknT5PdOfSBxQi6RyFws9Pgj1xcMz4Dsdi6QaZfGj7-5HCZ3nqkP-eCDLRQ0pLhT0QcGVwMNOgvUf8YCdaLe/s6016/TAM_6675.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6016" data-original-width="4016" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY9wRJYzvJW21PY-jdTRnLSnL8FncHJjVhF7cOwRVaM_9-TUwgWP2VecjwQknT5PdOfSBxQi6RyFws9Pgj1xcMz4Dsdi6QaZfGj7-5HCZ3nqkP-eCDLRQ0pLhT0QcGVwMNOgvUf8YCdaLe/w429-h640/TAM_6675.JPG" width="429" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>A Mother McGillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446386034365046275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-65690557735917677552020-02-18T20:08:00.000-07:002020-02-18T20:08:34.018-07:00FourFour years ago, you entered this world and although I'd carried you for ten months, I couldn't wait to know you. Yesterday was the anniversary of your birth, and while I feel that I know you to the marrow of my bones, you often still have me shaking my head in amazement.<br />
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You are an utterly fascinating creature, my C.<br />
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Quietly proud. Strong. Unapologetically honest. Brave. Curious. Uncommonly self-aware. Compassionate. Loving. Stoic. Introverted. Humorous. Intelligent. Stubborn. Persistent.<br />
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Just as in the year you were born, the wildflowers are beginning to bloom. I love that they will mark the beginning of every year of your life, my wild child.<br />
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You are in Montessori preschool right now. You are drawn to figuring out how things work, discovering new plants and insects and animals in our beautiful desert landscape. Your imagination is wonderfully inventive, and I love playing with you in the worlds of your own creation. You are a self-proclaimed "cat guy" and you adore animals. You're learning to ride horses, and I'm betting that this will be the year that you say goodbye to the training wheels on your bike. I think you may enjoy cooking as you grow up, because you certainly enjoy helping to bake and cook and assemble your lunches! I've even been letting you cut your own vegetables and fruit with a knife, and you're working on peeling potatoes - it's hard work for small hands. I can always count on your help when I am sewing, and you are so proud of the hand-sewing you bring home from school!<br />
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I don't know many things for absolute certain. But one of them is that I am here on this earth to love and nurture and support you as you grow. You and your sister are incredible people and it's an honor to be chosen to help guide you as best I can.<br />
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May you always walk a path of love. I hope for your own sake that it has many challenges, and sometimes it will seem that it's in darkness or too difficult to keep going, but always know that I am with you. Every night I tuck you into bed with Captain Sea Salt, the plush cat toy that I sewed for you, and I remind you that if you feel lonely, every stitch of him was sewn specially for you with my love. My heart is in your heart. My hand is in your hand. I don't have to be near you to be with you; always.<br />Love,<br />Mama<br />
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<br />A Mother McGillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446386034365046275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-65849109382695926732020-01-29T17:23:00.000-07:002020-01-29T17:23:12.280-07:00The PhotographerToday I bore witness to some dear friends' adoption of their second child. These friends are pretty fantastic people, and we've adored them for a long time. But as tends to happen in adult friendships, once we no longer played rugby together, we saw them with decreasing frequency. The adoration remained. Over the years, we've seen them infrequently but always were reminded at each reunion how much we cherish the relationship.<br />
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Now these friends have two kids, and we have two kids. Since becoming mothers, we've seen each other way more often and it's been amazing. To hold each other's babies and watch our children begin to develop their own friendships is nothing short of awesome.<br />
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And today, I was honored to photograph the adoption of that second cherished baby. I was privileged to photograph the first adoption, too, and after going through hundreds of photos of their friends and family all gathered together to celebrate this small, new family, I am struck.<br />
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I am struck by their village.<br />
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Everywhere I turned, there were outstretched hands. Little chubby beckoning fingers. Older, calloused fingers carefully guided the gripping fists of an almost-walker. Growing teenaged hands tossed babies and cuddled toddlers and pointed at words in a book.<br />
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All shapes and sizes and colors and ages were there to show their love and support for this growing family. If I didn't already know them, I wouldn't even be 100% sure which children belonged to whom, or who the grandparents or aunts or uncles or family friends were. That's the most beautiful part of all.<br />
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I can only hope to translate their love for one another through my lens. I hope to do them justice. I hope they can feel my love and admiration for them.<br />
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<br />A Mother McGillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446386034365046275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-59066715958154246802019-06-30T21:31:00.000-07:002019-06-30T21:31:28.014-07:00The Beginning's End"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end." -Semisonic<br />
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Tomorrow morning the birth center where my children were both welcomed to this world will close. They will still have appointments there at the clinic, but the actual birth rooms will no longer be used. They have opened a new "Midwifery Center" at the hospital for the midwives where that will focus on low-intervention, physiological birth. They will still allow water births and families will be able to go home after 4 hours, just like they could at the birth center. They have real beds instead of hospital beds, and the requisite family waiting area and kitchenette. All of the boxes are checked and it should be just the same, only in the hospital. <br />
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But it's not the same. It looks like a hospital, it feels like a hospital. It is sterile.<br />
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About a decade ago, before we were able to even seriously consider having babies, A was perusing my copy of "Our Bodies, Ourselves" and read about births attended by midwives, home births, and free-standing birth centers. Being raised by a mother who had a home birth and avoided doctors when at all possible, my response to her exciting new knowledge was probably somewhere along the lines of "Yeah, so?" Her next tidbit was that there was a birth center less than a mile from us.<br />
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I remember being more freaked out that she looked this up than excited, we were still years away from being able to start a family. However, we both established well-woman care there so we could get a feel for it and start meeting the midwives. They were lovely, and we were sure this was the place for us. <br />
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Fast forward to 2012, we finally had conceived E and we were nervous and excited to start our prenatal visits and centering classes. Since we had been foster parents, we had already had a taste of the marginalization same sex couples face as parents, but we weren't prepared for the onslaught that came with being pregnant. The birth center was our haven. We knew we would be included and valued. We knew that our care providers would make an effort to use language that was respectful. When they didn't know they best way to talk about something, they would ask instead of being awkward and uncomfortable or downright insulting. We could have conversations and were empowered to be in control our health instead of just being told what to do. It was refreshing. <br />
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When we finally were able to tour the birth rooms, they were each carefully decorated in a different style and we fell in love with the blue room. That September, we welcomed E to the world surrounded by strength and love. <br />
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When it was time for A's pregnancy with C, we couldn't wait to get to know our new Centering class and be surrounded by this wonderful community once again. This time we would regularly have to go back to a birth room to check A's blood pressure, it seemed to get stage fright. Often we would end up in the green beachy room, and decided that would be where C was born.<br />
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Since then I have been able to be involved on the community advisory board and my friendship and respect for this amazing group of strong women only grows. As we learned about the plans to close, I was shown the true depth of spirit they have poured into the birth center. My own sadness and nostalgia were nothing compared to the fierce protective force they showed as we tried to save it.<br />
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The new hospital unit is a welcome addition to the options for birth in Tucson. But it also marks the end, because with this new door opening, the closed doors in its wake are being glossed over and brushed aside. Not only to the parents who do not want to be in a hospital when to meet their child for the first time, but to those nurses and midwives who searched out the birth center as the model they believed in and would dedicate themselves to. There are many of these women that I now consider my friends. It is for them that I mourn. <br />
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This space was made sacred as it bore witness to babies
taking their first breaths. To mothers' blood, sweat, and tears. To growing families. To the
midwives and nurses who calmly supported each birth, giving away a
little bit of themselves with each long night and beautiful new
beginning.<br />
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Today marks a different sort of new beginning. I hope that, in time, the new space will have the quiet, heavy feel of a sacred space. A place where time seems to stand still. Waiting for that next new beginning.<br />
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<br />Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03644934944941325281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-83903089617890435502019-02-16T07:49:00.000-07:002019-02-16T07:49:18.118-07:00ThreeIn the quiet darkness, I sit hunched. Good posture isn't my strength.<br />
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These early hours are mine alone, while everyone slumbers in bed, and my thoughts can tumble over one another without interruption. I am watching the pink streaks of clouds brighten the black of night, just as watercolor seeps across the page. The heater is running and I am pleasantly warm, but the longer I am still, the more acutely I feel the tendrils of cold snaking up my feet and wrapping themselves around my ankles.<br />
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Today, I'm daydreaming of that last full day of my pregnancy; that last full day when our bodies were permanently and irrevocably entwined, hurtling towards our impending and certain separation. A time of anticipation and discomfort, of excitement and uncertainty. Except that three years ago, I didn't know it was our last day in this most intimate of relationships.<br />
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Tomorrow is your third birthday. I knew I would love you - I already did. I'd loved you since before you were conceived. I'd been waiting for you since I was a very young woman. You see, you were already in my heart long before you lived in my body. But now... to really know you, see you, hold you, kiss you every day...<br />
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That is a depth of emotion which I could not have known. I am still learning it, and adding new bits all the time.<br />
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You are a work of art, child of mine. My greatest collaboration; always unfinished, as it must be.<br />
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C, I adore every fiber of your being. You are impossibly charming. Sweet and affectionate, you can win anybody over and melt the iciest of exteriors with your loving personality. Already, before you are three years old, you wield humor as a weapon. Sometimes it's sword, and sometimes it's shield, but always with intention and always with capability and understanding beyond your years. You are intelligent and curious and your little fingers are strong, sure and quick. You're certainly going to be able to use your mind and your hands to create magnificence, in whatever form sets your soul on fire. I feel a sense of empathy and genuine kindness from inside you. You are still very young, and so you are learning, but the ability to feel another's pain or joy is there.<br />
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I am interested to observe as you grow, to see if we will be able to discern which of your attributes are formed within your genes and which were formed by being raised in this family. At this point, it's impossible to know why you are already very effective at identifying your feelings and communicating them clearly, but it is amazing to behold. Last week, we took you to your first swim lesson, which you wanted to participate in and were so excited to do, you could barely wait your turn. Until the instructor helped you into the pool with the other children. I don't know if you were offended that you weren't able to decide when you entered the water or if it was because a stranger was holding you, but you were immediately and deeply unhappy. You stayed with her in the pool for the 30 minute lesson, but none of it was fun. For any of us. I came out to wrap you up in your towel when the lesson was over, and between hiccups, you told us, "I'm really really sad, guys! I did not like that!" My heart broke into a thousand shards, but among the pieces, I was amazed that you could tell us what was happening in your mind and your heart.<br />
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Tomorrow morning, the Earth will turn her face to the sun. I will watch the sky shift from the vast starry view of the universe to the bright blue of Sol's luminescence. You will open your eyes for the first time as a three year old, and everything will be different. And everything will be the same.<br />
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You are so loved, darling boy. Your birth is one of the greatest moments of my life. I feel so lucky that I get to be your mama.<br />
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Love always.<br />
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<br />A Mother McGillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446386034365046275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-77408614363499048512019-02-05T15:25:00.000-07:002019-02-05T15:26:10.522-07:00Tea and cats and homeworkDaughter.<br />
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The days often pass me by in a blur, their colors melding together like our watercolor paintings. I was about to type that it's challenging to sometimes sit back and really SEE you as you're growing, but that's actually untrue. It's one of the easiest and best parts of my life, slowing down to watch you pass. Some days, I am taken aback by the sudden length of your feet, or the strong muscles in your back that I could swear weren't there just the night before, or the speed with which you innately understand your math homework.<br />
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I told a good friend last week that I worry about not teaching you everything I want to. Before you were born, I knew that I would have your entire childhood to impart all my wisdom. I knew so many things before you were born, and the older you become, the less I find I truly know. Today you're a bright, sunny six year old and already I wonder: when you're an adult and someone asks you what your best memory of your childhood is, what will your answer be?<br />
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Will I be good enough for you? Do I hug and kiss you as much as I could? Do you know with every fiber of your being how very loved you are? Or will you remember me as being tired, stressed about the state of our kitchen, or asking you to give me 5 more minutes on my sewing project? I just don't know.<br />
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I hope you'll remember decorating sugar cookies, creating watercolor paintings, tending seedlings in the garden, the feeling of exaltation when you figured out how to ride your bike without training wheels, the thrill of jumping into the biggest rain puddle you can find, reading together all curled up on the couch, making dinner together. Mostly, I hope you remember the laughter.<br />
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It's time to lure you to the table with a cup of hot lemon cake tea (or sometimes Earl Grey, hot - Mom taught you to say it just like Jean-Luc Picard) and get some of your homework done. I fear I'll never be your favorite person at homework time. But you're on my mind. You're always on my mind.<br />
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Love always,<br />
Mama<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stealing the rugby ball during a game of touch</td></tr>
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<br />A Mother McGillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446386034365046275noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-90936706181988466632018-10-15T18:33:00.000-07:002018-10-15T18:33:04.183-07:00Ten Years Later - the story of UsOn that Sunday, there was no indication that it might be a different or particularly important day in my life. It was February 20th, 2005. I can't recall what I'd done that morning or afternoon, other than I had a sense of excitement, of anticipation, because I was going to bravely walk into the indoor sports center, lace up my new roller skates, and step out onto those plastic tiles. I hoped not to look like an idiot. The coach that night had bleached blonde hair with black and pink streaks, heavy black eye makeup, some band t-shirt, and a broken thumb. Her name was eeka (lowercase e, yep), and she wasn't skating. Since it was my very first practice, I was going to require some special attention. The skating coach was actually a referee, a shy white guy everyone called Pablo. I remember his long braided goatee. Pablo was in charge of running the practice, which was populated with experienced skaters, and they were running drills I couldn't even dream of participating in.<br />
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Before roller derby practice, there was men's hockey on the schedule. I remember the building stank of stale sweat and plastic. It echoed with the jeers and laughter of everyone gearing up. Pablo rolled up to me and explained that I was going to be paired with an experienced skater, who would teach me the basics. I rolled, wobbly and uncertain, in my brand new speed skates, over to the corner. Pablo introduced me to a girl wearing a Care Bear shirt (the green bear!) and a jean skirt. She had short hair tucked behind her ears, sparkling brown eyes, and a grin that stretched across her face. Her name was Dirty T. </div>
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I find it infinitely entertaining now, to think about that green Care Bear with a 4-leaf clover displayed proudly on his white tummy - he was the Good Luck bear. Indeed, he brought us more good luck and good fortune than I could imagine. </div>
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T and I were eighteen. The only teenagers in the whole league. That night, she taught me to keep my knees bent, complete a T-stop, and how to fall to one knee then stand back up. But in the 13 years since then... she's taught me much more. That night, I made a new friend. She was generous and kind and quick to laugh and encouraging. She offered to pick me up for Wednesday's practice, since those were held elsewhere and it wasn't easy to find. I gladly took her up on it. She still is generous and kind and quick to laugh and encouraging, and I still need help with directions sometimes, but now I get to call her my wife. </div>
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In May of 2008, she asked me to marry her. I don't remember if I said "yes", but I do remember the tears from both our cheeks mixing when I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her. We were twenty-one. Three months later, we joined our lives and hearts formally, in a small ceremony at the Laguna Hills county clerk's office. We asked the officiant to skip the ring exchange part, so that we could exchange our vows and rings with one another that evening on the beach, as the sun dove toward the waves of the Pacific. We celebrated with champagne and a barbecue in the cooling sand. </div>
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The next morning, we were in a gorgeous little art shop, and the salesperson asked us what we were in town for. "We got married yesterday!" was the enthusiastic reply. It was surreal. The salesperson looked sincerely happy for us. We drove back home that day and celebrated with a huge number of friends and family members that night. </div>
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The early years weren't simple. We loved each other; but it often felt like it was the two of us against the world. We fought hard for acceptance. We looked carefully around and filled our lives with people who could love us for who we were, but that bubble felt small sometimes. In a world where you feel that your love is constantly under attack, it's simple to grab onto each other and hold tight. We're both stubborn, hardheaded fighters and we weren't willing to give up. </div>
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Over the years, our bubble has grown so much. We're accepted by a larger swath of people. I'm thrilled to tell people, "My homosexuality is the least interesting part of my life," and actually be right. Of course there are still challenges, and there will always be bigoted people, but we've got a huge support system and I know that I can face anything with T's hand in mine. We are extremely fortunate. </div>
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Our family has grown in other ways, too. It started with a dog. Then we brought home a cat. Then we fostered some more dogs and cats and upon T's insistence, I grudgingly found them forever homes that weren't our own. I snuck home a rescue horse not too long after we were married (would not recommend) and surprise! She was pregnant. Soon we had a dog, a cat, the rescue mare and her colt, plus my old rodeo gelding. </div>
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A year after the colt was born, we became licensed foster parents and welcomed three children into our lives and hearts. After two years of loving children who would never be ours, we decided we were ready for a child who was ours. In 2012, T carried and birthed our daughter E. My heart burst open with the intensity of my love for both of them, and I found that it knit itself back together even larger than it was before. Now we had a whole other human to fight for. We knew that we had a huge responsibility for this little life, not just the regular child-rearing concerns but I stayed awake nights worrying about her future with two mothers. Again, hand in hand in tiny hand, we stood together. Now we were advocates for a person much more important than ourselves. </div>
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E grew into a magical, hilarious child. She was more than we ever knew we needed. Yet our family didn't feel complete. We knew we wanted two children. In 2016, I carried and birthed our son, C. Once more, I found myself being broken open and overwhelmed with the intensity of love I felt for not only C, but for our family as a whole. We were more than the sum of our parts. Once again, my heart found all its myriad pieces and stuck itself back together, but now with all the old stitches from before and the new embroidery I pieced it together with, it was larger yet again. As I held our newborn son and our three year old daughter and felt T's arms around all of us, I knew my whole world was contained in that embrace. </div>
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We're older now. Turning 32 this year. Together, we've weathered storm after storm. Hand in hand in hand in hand, we are a unit. We are a force to be reckoned with. With an army of love behind us and our hands locked together, we will face what comes our way. </div>
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It's not been an easy road. Life will continue to present us with challenges. It can be difficult to maintain a marriage while working and completing grad school and parenting two young children. There may be two children to hold between us, wife, but you are still the cornerstone to my castle. You help me keep my feet on the ground and my speedometer below illegality. </div>
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I know that I can face anything, with your hand in mine. This has been the best ten years of my life. </div>
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Happy Anniversary, darling. </div>
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A Mother McGillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446386034365046275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-1799958856509723332018-10-15T15:17:00.000-07:002018-10-15T15:18:55.894-07:00A Bonafide Kid<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="2hdgj" data-offset-key="3kfi4-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Today you jumped off the bus and gave me a big hug. Your turquoise shirt has a cheerful cat wearing a floral crown, and your black leggings peppered with gold stars are ripped at the knees. Your feet look impossibly large in their turquoise athletic shoes, pounding down the pavement. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">You are all smiles and radiance this fall afternoon. Today we're headed down a few houses to knock on the door of your schoolfriend, to see if she can come out to play. I'm flooded with memories and emotions, remembering my own days of playing in backyards and streets with neighbor kids. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">These things feel impossible to me today. You cannot be in first grade. You cannot be scheduling after-school solo neighborhood adventures. When did your legs grow so long? When did the muscles in your back become so strong and sinewy? When did you lose the soft roundness of your babyhood? I swear I was there, and yet... you are still the chubby-legged 9 month old with untamed curls of my heart.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Your friend answers her door. You are so confident; so happy. "Are you ready?!" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Just one sec!" she replies, before ducking back inside. Your friend has a cat ear headband, and the tips of her dirty blonde hair are dyed pink. She comes back out with a small backpack, and you wave and shout, "Bye Mama!" as you gallop off down the sidewalk to the small neighborhood park at the end of the street. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Have fun! Be safe! I love you!" I shout after you, but a crisp fall breeze picks my words up and carries them away. You're running and laughing together, shoes slapping the pavement, pink hair and brown curls bouncing. I stand on the sidewalk and watch as you stop at the corner to carefully look both ways to check for cars before bounding across the street. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I am both overjoyed that you have this opportunity, and fearful of what could happen. I relish this chance you have to form a friendship that's all your own - no teachers, no parents to dictate what you choose to do with your time or how you interact. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I swallow my worries deep, shove my hands into my pockets, and turn away to walk home. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">You are growing up. I see more and more of your true heart every day. I am in awe of you, young person who I love so overwhelmingly much. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Have fun. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Be safe. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I love you. </span></div>
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A Mother McGillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446386034365046275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-54612175067335155432018-10-11T23:47:00.000-07:002018-10-11T23:50:05.624-07:00Coming Out, #6,347Today is National Coming Out Day. As if coming out is a singular event. I couldn't begin to truly count many times I have come out over the years. I think the last time I came out was to a new coworker about a week ago. There have been times that is has seemed like a daily occurrence in my life. It comes in waves. They may be easy to bear or they may tumble you around, leaving you ragged and confused.<br />
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You have to come out to yourself before you can "come out" to anyone else. Then your friends and family. I think this is what people think of when they think of "coming out". Even this can include so many conversations and so many layers. So many emotions and expectations and reactions. What about your job? There are still a lot of states that sexual orientation is not a protected class so you can be fired. Even if you can't be, your life can be made difficult.<br />
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Then there is a lull... But maybe you change jobs or you move. Maybe you are getting married and that grandparent you never told because they were of the "we just don't talk about it" mindset may or may not actually know. Maybe you're buying a car or a house and have to navigate loan paperwork (I swear I'm not still bitter about our loan being held up because they were waiting for our husband's credit reports... okay, I guess I am). Maybe you're on a date and the server just can't comprehend that you don't want the check split and that you are sharing dessert.<br />
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For me, having children changed everything. When we were foster parents, we discovered just how intrusive and tactless people are when children are involved. Children are public domain. Strangers make up a story in their head and if you correct them on their assumptions, it is offensive. When we had a baby that had a different ethnicity, people would ask me "what" her father was. When the children looked more like us, it was more plausible to people that we were sisters and each had one kid than us being a family unit.<br />
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So it was a conscious decision that if we were going to have a family, we needed to be out. O. U. T. We never wanted our children to feel like our family structure was something to be ashamed of. We couldn't continue to "pass." As it turns out, pregnancy gave us a lot of opportunities to practice. My [least] favorite comment: "Oh, you're having a girl? Is your husband disappointed?" Wait... what?<br />
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Since then we have had to navigate mom & baby groups, soccer classes, day care, school, swim lessons, pediatricians, and a million other situations where we are not the norm. Even the grocery store cashier-<br />
"She must get her curls from her daddy!"<br />
"Actually, she doesn't have a daddy."<br />
"That's okay, Jesus can be her daddy."<br />
um, no.<br />
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This is a legacy that we will pass on to our children. Regardless of changing public opinions, it is hard to be seen as "different." E is already faced with the decision of whether or not to correct classmates when they assume she has a father, whether to take one her mothers or a uncle or grandfather to "daddy" events at school. We haven't labeled it for her, but these are her first "coming out" stories as the child of lesbians.<br />
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So to our allies on this National Coming Out Day, remember that coming out is not a one time shot. Sometimes it is easy and sometimes it is not. It can be a beautiful, liberating experience, but it can also have catastrophic repercussions. And sometimes, after years and years, it can just be a chore.<br />
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<br />Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03644934944941325281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-46867794955419401902018-02-22T18:25:00.002-07:002018-02-22T18:27:13.584-07:00Magic in the little thingsI think all parents believe there are things about our children that we'll never forget, but if there's anything I've learned this far, it's that the magical little moments slip away without even leaving a void. I think that's part of why I cherish photographs and videos and kid quotes and blog posts so very much. I hate the idea of forgetting, although I know it's happening.<br />
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Today, the littles were playing outside in the yard. C came to the door, shouting about poop. </div>
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"You want me to help you clean up the dog poop, bud?" I asked. </div>
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"Yeah! Yeah! POOOOOP, Mama!" came the enthusiastic reply. </div>
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Laughing, I hauled myself outside. </div>
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My sweet, hilarious little 2 year old loves pointing out dog poop. It used to be our daily ritual, until I broke my leg 4 weeks ago. Now it happens... considerably less often. </div>
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But out he ran into the grass, ready for me to bring the rake and bucket. Who knew that I'd ever find cleaning up dog waste adorable? </div>
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"Righ' dere, Mama! Poop dere!" He exclaimed, running up to the first poop pile he found with determined elbows and marching knees, then shuffling his feet up as close to the poop as he could get, all while pointing emphatically. I noticed his shoes were on the wrong feet and smiled to myself. </div>
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After I raked up the first couple, he wove all around the far end of the yard, poop-hunting. </div>
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"Poooooop, are you?!" He hasn't learned to say 'where' yet. It's fantastic. "Ah HAH! Dere you are! Righ' dere, Mama! Yeah!" </div>
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He has such an earnest little face, this one. So sweet and so utterly unapologetic about his interests, even if one of them is picking up poop. Turning his face up to mine, he shrugs his little shoulders and lifts his hands into the air. "All done, Mama? No more poop?" </div>
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"I think we got it all, love. Thank you for your help!" </div>
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"Welcome!" I hear faintly on the breeze he leaves behind, as he's already running onto the patio to remind me where the bucket and rake belong. </div>
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I wish I could keep the sound of his darling toddler voice and funny words in my mind, but I know they'll fade. One day, all I'll have is this blog. </div>
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Future self: Today is just another day. A day in a long line of days during which I know all the following: My children are inescapably amazing. They are unerringly bright. But they're also challenging, as children are meant to be. Sometimes I get beyond my own ability to be reasonable, so how could I expect them to manage better than myself? Today is just another day. Work. Kids. Housework. Dinner. Bed. Rinse, repeat. Looking at my days that way doesn't tell the true story, though. </div>
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The magic is in the little things. In E's amazed discovery of a new nasturtium bud; in C's complete devotion to keeping the yard clear of dog poop. In E's pride over having helped sew her own Belle apron and wearing it over a blue dress so she looks just like Belle. In C's happiness over climbing out of the car by himself and touching the garage door remote to close it. In eating warm homemade banana bread fresh from the oven. In the joy my ridiculous children have when they learn we're to have grilled cheese and tomato soup for dinner - again. </div>
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So I beg the universe again. Please let me keep this. Please let their places in my heart and mind live forever. </div>
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Let me keep the magic. </div>
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A Mother McGillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446386034365046275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-26120033873561181462018-02-17T21:28:00.000-07:002018-02-17T21:28:40.082-07:00TwoToday is your second birthday, sweet child. Yet your birth feels no further away than the flutter of the bluebird's wing. Reconciling the two can sometimes be a challenge for me, but all I have to do is watch you solve a problem, climb a tree, or say something surprising and I see the child in front of me, no longer the baby of my body.<div>
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It's been raining and chilly this week. But today, the sun unfurled his cloak and smiled gladly upon us as we celebrated you. We are a very lucky family to have so many people who love and care for us. Many friends and loved ones joined us this afternoon to wish you well as you step forward into your third adventure around the sun. </div>
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Mom and I had somewhat of a contradictory day. As your parents, it's logical that we should spend this day with you, remembering the last two years. But as your birthday party was this afternoon, unfortunately, we spent the morning trying to get ready for the party. Maybe someday we'll have everything done enough in advance so that we're not rushing until the last moment. The odds don't seem in our favor though, so please don't get your hopes too high. So the morning and early afternoon were a bit hectic, but the party was truly lovely. </div>
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There is something that always moves me deeply when everyone gathers around the lit candles on your cake and in one breath, sings Happy Birthday. In this moment, I feel completely unified with all the people who surround you, little one. This large group of people, of mixed backgrounds and ages, all came together to wish one little person well. To share their love with our family. To lend support and to join together in mutual joy. This circle of voices carries warmth and love and such a sense of peace and comfort. I watched your small face glowing in the light of the candle on your cupcake and I saw your smile of shy pleasure as you looked around at all the faces singing to you. I hope you know how loved you are, and how precious you are to us. Sometimes, it still takes my breath away to know you're mine and I'm equally yours. </div>
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You're on your way, my love! My big two year old. You beautiful soul. </div>
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Happy Birthday! </div>
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A Mother McGillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446386034365046275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-40714568460288043772017-11-12T12:57:00.000-07:002017-11-12T12:57:07.488-07:00Mothering humanityDearest children of mine,<div>
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I love writing to you. I love the thought that one day, an adult version of you, maybe even a parent yourself, will read my words from a time when you were still small and young. Perhaps you'll learn something about me you didn't know. I dream that maybe my words will help your current situation, whatever it may be. At the very least, I hope you can feel the love I carry for you always. </div>
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But sometimes... I am filled with uncertainty about what I should write. To be honest? How honest? How much should I protect future-you from present-me?</div>
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The world is filled with unimaginable beauty and good, my loves. I want you to know all of it. There are good people everywhere, we call them "The Helpers". In every city, town, and community, there are The Helpers. Mom and I are some of them. You'll grow to become them, too. In some ways, you're already The Helpers, because of your good and joyful hearts. </div>
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But today, this week... I'm struggling. I nearly wrote that I'm struggling to find my path forward, but that's untrue. You two are my path forward. You're the answer to every question I ask. But current events and the current political climate together create a country that I'm often disappointed in. Sometimes, I find the accumulation of terrible events and deeds happening daily to weigh heavily upon my shoulders. </div>
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Right now, we have the most unqualified person in history sitting in the Oval Office, pulling strings and making decisions as if he truly represents the people of the United States. He's selfish and cruel, uncaring about the plight of the poor and middle-classed; unable to sympathize with desperation and heartbreak that come with disasters that have wreaked havoc in the lives of millions of people. His agenda includes taking affordable health care away from the masses, building a huge wall across the US/Mexico border, preventing anyone of the Muslim faith from entering our country, refusing to aid refugees fleeing murder and devastation in their home countries, handing tax breaks to corporations and the wealthiest Americans, and removing the ability for women to make our own decisions about our reproductive health, among other things. </div>
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Earthquakes broke apart the earth and killed hundreds of people in Mexico; hurricanes and flooding ravaged Texas, Florida, Louisiana, Puerto Rico and the Caribbean islands. Months later, much of Puerto Rico is without power and water and food and the death toll continues to climb. Much of northern California and the northwestern part of the States fell victim to fire after blazing fire, burning up homes and businesses and lives. In October, a man mass-murdered 50 people at an outdoor music festival in Vegas from a 32nd floor hotel room with automatic weapons. A few weeks later, another man rented a truck and drove it onto a pedestrian path in Manhattan, killing 8 people. In November, another man mass-murdered 26 people inside a church in Sutherland Springs, Texas with a semi-automatic rifle. That was 6 days ago. Since then, we're learning about the horrific things that men in power have done to women just because they wanted to and they could. Huge names in politics and entertainment are falling from grace as countless women step forward to share stories long hidden and held close for fear of personal and professional consequences. </div>
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I carry so much empathy and compassion for others that reading and listening to accounts from victims of any one of these issues is taxing. As a whole, the cumulative experiences of pain and suffering are crippling. At the end of all of it, through the haze of knowing that these things have happened and are happening, the thought I'm left with is: </div>
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What if these things happen to MY babies, like they happen to other people's babies every day? </div>
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I'm living on a thin edge between the planes of confidence and fear, my loves. Every decision I make is calculated to help you become the best adult you can possibly be but also to keep you as safe as I can. Having lived through middle school and high school myself, I know that being a kid on the fringe or being an "outcast" from whomever happens to be popular, can be character-building experiences. I also realize that for some kids, these terrible experiences have ended their lives. Ultimately, I don't get to choose what experiences you get and which you don't. We both just have to live with what comes to us. </div>
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I know I make mistakes. I'll make more. I'm sorry for what I don't get right. </div>
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Just know that everything I do... it's borne of my absolute love and devotion for each of you. </div>
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So grow. Learn. Conquer. Seek. Step forward into the light and find your paths. Be bold and confident, children of mine, and together we will do our best to keep the fear and darkness at bay. Together, we will help create a culture, a country, a world that's a better place to be than it is today. </div>
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I will always be behind you. </div>
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A Mother McGillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446386034365046275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-73868857922730087062017-05-12T13:31:00.000-07:002017-05-12T13:31:26.665-07:00A Hard DayHard days come in lots of flavors. Problems at work. Not enough sleep. All the right buttons being pushed.<br />
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Today was different.<br />
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It started like most days, getting the kids ready for school. While E finished her breakfast, I was changing C. I sat down on his floor and got him dressed and then he sat in my lap to get socks on.<br />
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The first pang.<br />
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It is one of my favorite things- when they start coming over and plopping down in your lap. It makes my heart warm. But it holds memories of the other little boy who used to run over to sit in my lap. Bold and proud.<br />
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"Ba!" he yells. Pointing at the ball across the room. His socks on, he runs over to grab it. We've always been careful to say "ball" instead of "a ball," but it is still a little tickle in the back of my mind. It probably wouldn't have been so bad if my mind hadn't already been there.<br />
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He's bouncing the ball in the kitchen. "Ba! Ba! A ba!"<br />
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Damn.<br />
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I'm about to go to Mothers' Day Tea at E's preschool, but I'm stuck in the feedback loop of our first Mothers' Day. The one that felt like we weren't supposed to celebrate, like we weren't real mothers.<br />
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So this is for that first little boy. The one who tackled me to sit in my lap on Halloween. The one we took to the pumpkin patch and it exclaimed "A ba! A BA! A BA! A BALL!" as he picked up the pumpkins. <br />
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Him and his sister. And the little girl before them. The kids who taught me to be a mother. My heart will always be broken, but its worth it knowing you each have a little piece of it with you.<br />
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<br />Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03644934944941325281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-68429960722399002592017-03-07T17:56:00.002-07:002017-03-07T17:56:42.599-07:00SpringSweet boy.<br />
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It's a gorgeous spring day. The sun is out; there are big, fluffy white clouds dotting the perfect blue sky, and there's a slightly cool breeze. We're outside playing in our backyard, and you are exploring your world and abilities.<br />
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I have indescribable joy in my heart, just watching you. You study the rocks, looking for and choosing the right one carefully. You try to climb up the ladder to the slide, but find it difficult. You work at it doggedly until you conquer it and slide down into the grass again. You touch the bricks, the dirt, run your chubby fingers through the tall blades of grass with wonder in your eyes.<br />
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Sometimes, it might seem silly to take joy in watching a toddler choose a rock, which you know will immediately go into his mouth. Perhaps if you have children of your own one day, you'll understand better.<br />
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But for right now, for today... and for always. May you always have the breeze at your back and the sun to warm your face. May you approach life with wonder. May you know the sweet results of hard work. May you continue to choose carefully.<br />
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Love always,<br />
Mama<br />
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<br />A Mother McGillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446386034365046275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2342682128082813471.post-50945409060493834402017-02-24T20:45:00.001-07:002017-02-24T20:45:35.544-07:00A year ago; TodayA year ago this evening, I held you close and whispered reassurances into your ear as a NICU nurse finally, after hours of attempts, set an IV catheter into a vein in your scalp. Our littlest unicorn baby.<br />
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Today, I arrived home from work and you ran to me, arms outstretched. I picked you up and swung you around and grinned at your squealing laughter.<br />
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A year ago, you wailed in frustration and fear, unable to easily latch on to nurse with all the complications the hospital brings (and an undiagnosed tongue tie, to boot). I cried alongside you because I couldn't fix any of it.<br />
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Today, you lie next to me, sweetly sleeping and making tiny, contented noises. Body curled towards me, hand laid upon my breast; you're a much sturdier and larger boy than a year ago. The only tears I shed today are those used to remember the fear and sorrow from last year, and the loving gratitude I feel today.<br />
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I wish I could hug myself a year ago. "This will pass. You'll get through it. It's going to get so much better."<br />
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But we made it through without that future knowledge.<br />
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And it is so good.<br />
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<br />A Mother McGillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446386034365046275noreply@blogger.com0