Here We Go Again

 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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

"No..." I responded slowly, as I whipped out my phone to check the post. 

Two newborn babies needed placements. Two newborn babies were headed from the hospital to the DCS offices that night. 

I swallowed hard as I felt cold fingers grip my throat, encircle my lungs. 

"We can't." I croaked. T looked at me with sympathy. 

"It would be too much. We're not there yet." she responded quietly. 

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. 

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. 

I touched T's arm. "But... what if we *could* do it?" 

"Hmm?" she paused the show. 

"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?" 

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, Untamed. She read me the quote.

"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.
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.'
Courage says, 'I will not let the fact that I cannot do everything keep me from doing what I can.'
We all want purpose and connection.
Tell me what breaks your heart, and I'll point you toward both."

That was it. Glennon Doyle helped us see that our hearts and hands could do this work.

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. 

Then something unfathomable happened. 

She asked us to PICK A BABY. 

"What? How do we pick a baby? They're both newborns. Just send one our way." we said. 

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. 

He arrived at 11pm, in all his beautifully perfect soft newborn glory. 

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. 

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.  

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. 

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. 

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.

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. 

July 23rd

 

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.

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.

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.

Amidst a global pandemic, carrying both the grief and joy that can come from joining families via adoption, our hearts grew.

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.

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.

Together.

Always together.

Broken Horses

Not only did we end up with 4 copies of Broken Horses 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.

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.

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. 

I've just seen a face
I can't forget the time or place
Where we just met

 
She's just the girl for me
And I want all the world to see
We've met, mm-mm-mm-m'mm-mm

 

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TgBpgOZr6-Q, start at 2:25)

 

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.  

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. 

 

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. 

 

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.

 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.

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.

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.

 

To my family, my protectors: Thank you

I'm beginning to feel the years,
But I'm going to be okay,
As long as you're beside me along the way.
Gonna make it through the night,
and into morning light.

 

This Is The Start of Our Sweet Little Story

 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.

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.

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.

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. 

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. 

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.

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. 

I wanted them all. Somehow, they already lived in my heart. 

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.

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. 

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. 

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.

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.

 Today is Adoption Day. Today you are legally a McGill, a third child, second son, and fifth family member. You are cherished. Always.

This is the start of our sweet little story;
the part where your page meets ours.
No matter where the tale takes us tomorrow,
the story will always be of love.

A Bonafide Kid

Daughter of mine;

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.

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.

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.

Your friend answers her door. You are so confident; so happy. "Are you ready?!"

"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.

"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.

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.

I swallow my worries deep, shove my hands into my pockets, and turn away to walk home.

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.

Have fun.

Be safe.

I love you.

Coming Out, #6,347

Today 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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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-
"She must get her curls from her daddy!"
"Actually, she doesn't have a daddy."
"That's okay, Jesus can be her daddy."
um, no.

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.

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.

Magic in the little things

I 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.

Today, the littles were playing outside in the yard. C came to the door, shouting about poop. 

"You want me to help you clean up the dog poop, bud?" I asked. 

"Yeah! Yeah! POOOOOP, Mama!" came the enthusiastic reply. 

Laughing, I hauled myself outside. 

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. 

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? 

"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. 

After I raked up the first couple, he wove all around the far end of the yard, poop-hunting. 

"Poooooop, are you?!" He hasn't learned to say 'where' yet. It's fantastic. "Ah HAH! Dere you are! Righ' dere, Mama! Yeah!" 

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?" 

"I think we got it all, love. Thank you for your help!" 

"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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

So I beg the universe again. Please let me keep this. Please let their places in my heart and mind live forever. 

Let me keep the magic. 

Mothering humanity

Dearest children of mine,

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. 

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?

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.  

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: 

What if these things happen to MY babies, like they happen to other people's babies every day? 

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. 

I know I make mistakes. I'll make more. I'm sorry for what I don't get right. 

Just know that everything I do... it's borne of my absolute love and devotion for each of you. 

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. 

I will always be behind you. 

Six Months

And in a puff of smoke, suddenly six months have passed since C was born. He'll actually be seven months old in about ten days... yeesh.

These last six months have been challenging, for sure, but C is such an amazing little boy and the way I love him sometimes takes my breath away.

We've had a lot of challenges in our breastfeeding relationship, but it's become more important to me to preserve that than I had anticipated it would be. You see, in 2009 I had a breast reduction surgery, knowing full well that it may affect my ability to breastfeed any babies I have. I prepared for his birth, knowing that my body would likely not be able to make a full milk supply for him. I also suspected that I would have problems with him nursing because my nipples are flat - I worried there wouldn't be enough for him to latch onto. When he was born, sure enough, he couldn't latch properly. Our lovely nurse and IBCLC Judy, whose praises I cannot sing enough, helped us to use a nipple shield. The shield is a piece of thin, formed silicone that goes over the flat nipple in order to give the baby something to latch onto. There are holes in the tip of the silicone nipple, so milk can get into the baby. We got pretty good at using the shield, and I was satisfied.

But then we were hospitalized two times, and the second time C began refusing to nurse. He would get so worked up that he couldn't calm down enough to try to latch. Fortunately, we got one night nurse who saved our sanity and was able to help C get settled and latch. But after that, he had increasing problems with latching and nursing successfully. He'd lost weight while hospitalized, so we were under close scrutiny by our pediatrician, just as nursing became increasingly painful for me. I offered to let him nurse nearly constantly. We heard time after time, from family members and well-meaning strangers (and certain nurses who were jerks in the hospital), "My, he sure seems to nurse quite a bit! Does he ever do anything else?!" I never had the energy to explain why it took him longer, even once I did know why. I cringed and had to practice deep, concentrated breathing techniques to handle the pain stabbing through my nipples as C suckled.

We began offering him supplemental milk that I had pumped and kept frozen. T would give it to him, at first, through the Supplemental Nursing System via her own breasts. She was the first one to tell me that something was wrong with his latch. She suffered through his feedings just as I did, but with thin tubes taped to her breasts that he continually ripped off with flailing, frustrated arms. T pressed me about seeing Judy the IBCLC, she wouldn't stop telling me things I didn't want to hear. No no no no... our baby is perfect and if I just keep going, soldier through, it'll all be okay...

One day, T sat down and looked me in the eye. "You are not just going to power through this. This is not going to get better. We have to get help." My cracked and bleeding nipples that stuck to all my breast pads and bras agreed.

It struck me then that I really had believed I could power through it. I knew she was right. We made an appointment with Judy right away. I cried, trying to explain to Judy what had been going on and acknowledging that he wasn't getting enough milk; that I wasn't good enough. She gave me the space to compose myself and dry my tears before telling me that he was eating and gaining weight, just slowly, and that we were going to do everything we could to make the hard parts easier. Then she cradled C in her lap and gently began to evaluate his mouth. She believed he had a tongue tie and perhaps a lip tie. She noted that he struggled to latch, that he had difficulties getting all the working parts to coordinate in order to have an effective suckle. She suggested seeing a pediatric ENT and a chiropractor specializing in infants.

The pediatric ENT worked us in within a few days, and agreed with Judy about the tongue tie. He performed a frenotomy that day in the office - he clipped the flap of skin that was holding C's tongue too tightly to the bottom of his mouth.

Naturally, nothing's ever easy, and nursing didn't improve right away. We had to stretch open the cut in C's mouth with every feeding to prevent the flap from reattaching. We had to do tongue and mouth exercises with him so he could relearn how to latch properly.

Finally, after a couple weeks and several visits to the chiropractor, who told us he was all out of alignment, things began to settle into a more comfortable rhythm. He was gaining more weight; the pediatrician was satisfied.

Our final hurdle: the damned nipple shield. We used that for five months before we could kick it. It took some effort to get him off it, but once he realized that he got even MORE milk without it, he was ready to transition. I could have benefited from a slower transition time, because nursing for the first time without the shield HURT! My nipples had just barely healed from the improper nursing when I subjected them to nursing without the shield. Fortunately, we didn't end up with any more cracks. Since then, his weight gain has been very good and nursing has been relatively smooth sailing. I'm intensely grateful to be past those first five months of struggling to breastfeed.

You might be thinking to yourself that I'm a bit crazy to be "oversharing" all these intimate details about milk and breasts and nipples and my challenges. But I'm writing about this because as a society, we've lost the normalization of breastfeeding. As my wife so frequently bemoans, our culture has lost its generational knowledge of breastfeeding our babies. Many of us have mothers who didn't breastfeed us and are learning alongside us as we go. Issues that could be fixed with old traditional remedies or techniques now leave us stymied, in need of professional intervention.

Since C was born, two close friends of mine have experienced similar breastfeeding struggles. Both their babies had tongue ties, and one also had a lip tie. Both babies had weight gain issues. Both my friends worried and grieved and wondered what they were doing wrong.

The truth is that sometimes we just need some help. That breastfeeding, while very natural, doesn't always COME naturally. Sometimes it takes hard freaking work. That all babies don't breastfeed the same way, that some come with innate challenges.

We need to relearn breastfeeding culture, so we can all support one another. So we can offer sound advice to our daughters and our granddaughters when one day, they become mothers.





Now, I don't want anyone thinking that my life has been a shambles for the last six months. Far, far from it.

All I have to do is gaze into this baby's big sparkling brown eyes and everything else melts away. He's been a part of me, of us, forever. We didn't know he was missing because he somehow was with us all along. He is a perfect fit, this charming and bold boy. With his thatch of brown hair and a mischievous grin, he's marked his place in our family. He is just as much wonderful trouble as we anticipated he would be - unafraid when his sister was cautious, strong and forthright when his sister was gentle, more level when his sister was a baby of extremes. Both babies have been witty and clever from the start, though we had hoped C might be a better sleeper than he is. Oh well; you can't win them all.

Before he even turned six months, he was finding ways to get where he wanted to go. Scooting, army crawling, rolling, pulling himself along, wriggling. From the get-go, this boy has been so strong. Now he's full-on speed crawling and working on pulling himself up onto things. He is intensely curious and wants to be a part of everything. He is so into food! He loves mealtimes and experiencing any food he can shove into his mouth - even the chunk of bleu cheese he swiped off his grandfather's salad plate like a tiny ninja.

I am trying so hard to hold onto these precious, short, long, wonderful. frustrating, sleep-deprived days with my children but especially with C. He's growing so fast, and the days just slip through my fingers like sand in an hourglass. I know how fleeting this time will end up being, and I'm determined to just be with him in these moments when he reaches for me, and when he sings his milky song, and when he falls asleep in my arms, holding my fingers. Sometimes I feel as if I'm barely scraping by, and yet sometimes I wish desperately that he would stay small just a little while longer.

It's the best part of my life - watching my children grow and change and learning who they are. I am in disbelief that my baby is already halfway to turning a whole year old.

Happy half-Birthday, you sweet and wonderful child.

Perfect Mother Magazine

We are coming to the end of my busy season at work and it could not come fast enough.  As I was finishing up a long day yesterday, missing my family and wondering if I would ever have a social life, a joke popped into my head.  It was one of those online lists: "How to balance kids, work, and marriage while still having a social life! Just follow these 73 easy steps!" Once I thought it, it was stuck. The other ridiculous standards we are held to kept popping into my head. All of the different miracle methods and divisive issues that define the Mommy Wars soon joined.  It kept me up all night (with some help from E). So here you have the product of insomnia, cynicism, and a day off.

By the end of this project, I was feeling a little guilty.  I have a great group of mom friends and we vary pretty wide on our parenting choice/styles. We are able to have conversations and accept each others' differences. We try to support each other when things get tough, and we have a safe place to say those hard truths that our culture pretends don't exist.  I didn't want anyone to feel like my satire was directed towards them. They lift me up and inspire me to be a better parent, but to also forgive myself. This cover is for them. I only wish we had a picture with all of us!

Halloween

Last night we celebrated Halloween with E, and though this is her third Halloween, it's the first time she had any inkling of what it entails. We decorated our front porch with a harvest wreath, a scarecrow, spiderwebs, and a family of pumpkins. E could really help, and my heart filled with joy in watching her stretch the spiderwebs, pull decorations out of the Halloween bin, and carry her "baby punkins" around.

We went a couple weeks ago to one of the local pumpkin farms and had a great time bouncing on the Jumping Pillow, climbing the Straw Mountain, buying fresh kettlecorn and taking a hayride into the pumpkin fields at dusk. As we sat on the wooden benches in the hay wagon and bumped along the dirt roads, laughing and sharing kettlecorn and watching the sun kiss the mountain peaks, I thought to myself that I would pay any amount of money for that kind of happiness.

E's costume this year is an incredible dragon, sewn by my mother in law in 2011 for our foster son. We loved the costume so much that we agreed, any kid in the family that's the right age/size at Halloween would be the dragon. We hoped last year E would fit, but she's pretty short and our foster son was a tall kid, so she swam in it. This year though, she (amazingly enough) had not yet outgrown it! She seems to enjoy wearing it, until she gets overheated. Not like that's common in Arizona in October or anything. We took her around our neighborhood to a few houses to Trick or Treat, then we called it quits and handed out candy to other kids the rest of the evening. It was quiet and simple and we had low expectations - all things we've learned are necessary in handling a 2 year old's perceptions of the holiday.

And as amazing as E was last night, and no matter how much I enjoyed taking her out Trick or Treating, I think there may always be a touch of bittersweet that lives on inside my heart when someone wears that dragon costume. After all, it forever reminds me of the first little blond-headed boy who toddled around in it, tripping over the feet and dragging the tail behind him.

Teri & "Andrew" the dragon, Halloween 2011

At the very least, he (and his sister) are far enough away now that it's easier to separate my longing for them from my ability to celebrate with E and love her as the dragon for her own sake.

I hope you all had happy and safe Halloweens with your families!