Sleep Tight, My Love

 My littlest one. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

Goodnight, baby. 
Sleep tight, my love.

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.

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. 

If you bear a heavy load
I'll be your wheels, I'll be the road
I'll see us through the thick and thin
For love and loss until the end

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. 

Love always,

Mama

To E

 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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.)

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. 

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. 

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"). 

Love always, 
Mama

First Month

 Sweet J. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

You're here, my boy. 

You're home. 

You are beloved. 

Love always,
Mama

In-Between

Loveliest daughter, 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.

Love always,
Mama

Four

Four 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.

You are an utterly fascinating creature, my C.

Quietly proud. Strong. Unapologetically honest. Brave. Curious. Uncommonly self-aware. Compassionate. Loving. Stoic. Introverted. Humorous. Intelligent. Stubborn. Persistent.

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.

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!

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.

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.
Love,
Mama

The Photographer

Today 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.

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.

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.

I am struck by their village.

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.

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.

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.

The Beginning's End

"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end." -Semisonic

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. 

But it's not the same.  It looks like a hospital, it feels like a hospital.  It is sterile.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.