A is for Animals

Lily loves animals.

The other day I picked her up from the sitter who told me she was on the tire swing with "friends." She thought they were maybe babies. I told her they were more likely animals.

She's having a cat-themed birthday party.

Her favorite neighbors are the dog next door, and the one at the end of the hallway.

Her dolls do not have names. All of her stuffed animals, however, have carefully-selected ones. The bunny she got for Easter is named Huffy. On St. Patrick's Day she got a stuffed dog from a street vendor. She named him Ali Hello Kitty Barack Obama.

Her imaginary friends are animals with rich back-stories. A family of alligators. A pregnant pink rabbit.

Her two favorite places in the world are the Bronx Zoo and the Norwalk Maritime Aquarium.

Here's why this is interesting to me as a mother. I am not particularly interested in animals. My husband is not particularly interested in animals. But to Lily, animals are at least as important as people.

We spent today at the aquarium, which has a touch tank. One of her favorite things to do is touch the sting rays. I had never done it before today. But it was a special Mommy/ Lily Day. So I summoned my courage. My sweet not-even-four-year-old held my hand in the water and helped me reach out. (She is a teacher. She gets that from me.) When I touched the sting ray I literally squealed. As she fell asleep this evening, she told me that when I was afraid of the sting ray, I looked ridiculous.

There is a lot of debate about nature vs nurture with adopted children. I have no idea whether her birth parents were into animals. I do know that birthmom loved to dance, and that Lily loves to dance. But she's being raised by a performing arts teacher, so that could come from anywhere.

Lily's love for animals- or teaching, or dance- may come from her nature or from the way she is being raised. But I know that my little girl is not me. She is her own person. And getting to know her each day is the most exciting journey I've ever been on.

I may not touch the sting rays again, though.

A to Z Blog Challenge

First, an announcement.

I've finished my book! I sent the most recent draft to my unofficial editor and homegirl the other day. And her response was that I just need to fix the typos.

WHAAAAAAAA????

I know, right? I'll be working on that this week, and then we try to find an agent. Unreal.

Finishing "Hope Springs" has been my focus for the past few months, so there hasn't been a lot of blogging going on. But now that I'm finished, (and in the habit of writing daily!) I felt like it was time to return.

Then. Yesterday. My friend Becky posted on facebook that she was participating in the A to Z blog challenge. It starts... today. Talk about perfect timing!

So. Every day in April (except Sundays) I'll be blogging my way through the alphabet.

For my fellow A-to-Z'ers: welcome, and thanks for checking out my blog! I blog about all kinds of things. But I'm a Mommy first. And that's what I'll be talking about this month. Parenting, adoption, infertility, and ridiculous things that happen to the Mommy of an almost-four-year-old.

Here we go!

Over the River and Through the Woods

Yesterday I saw a facebook post from a friend of mine, Spencer Day. (Confession- we're not actually friends. I saw him sing once at a concert and became his fan on facebook.) He had just released some Christmas songs on itunes (Check them out here!) and the title caught my eye. "If Christmas Doesn't Kill Me." That's funny, right? And we all love funny songs sung by amazing voices. He asked people to share crazy Christmas stories. For the most part, my holidays are the same every year. Santa and food and peace and joy. But I do have one that didn't go as well. It was way too long to post there, but I told him I'd share it. (and, by extension, his music.)

This is an excerpt from my book- in it's final edits- called "Hope Springs." Those of you who may have come here from Spencer's page (Hi!) need a little background information. The book is a memoir that follows my husband and I in our first year of trying to conceive. I tend to cope with humor. This story has nothing to do with any of that.

Friday, December 22, 2006

            We’re spending Christmas in Denver with my family. Even though my parents have been divorced for ten years, we still all have Christmas together. And when I told my Dad we didn’t think we could afford the flight this year, he booked the tickets for us., So. We’re spending Christmas in Denver with my family.

            The weather has been terrible all week, so I get up early to check our flight online to make sure it hasn’t been delayed or cancelled.

            But I can’t find it. There is no flight at that time. I check the flight number again, and it just doesn’t exist. I’m looking at the email confirmation, and I can see that I have the information correct, so I finally call the service hotline for Southwest. I get an automated response, and enter my flight number. There are no matches. I try again. No matches. Out of desperation, I try the “just press zero” trick, and miraculously I am soon talking to a real live person. I explain my situation, and give her my flight number.

            “Um, Ma’am? That flight doesn’t leave for a month.” I look at my email confirmation again. And there it is, plain as anything. January 22, 2007.

            “Um, yeah, OK, I see that.” Note to self: when sixty-eight-year-old father offers to buy ticket home for Christmas, always accept. But next time, get credit card information and book the flight yourself. I sit, silently holding the phone to my ear, staring blankly at the screen, waiting for the logical answer to come to me through divine intervention. I try to will the flight into existence. Or, more accurately, to will the flight into this month. When that doesn’t work, I try a different tactic. “Is there anything available for today?” I ask the woman on the other end of the phone, knowing the answer before I hear it.

            “No, ma’am, all our flights are booked for the week.” Of course they are. It’s three days before Christmas. So, I call out to Ryan, who is saying something in the other room about waiting until the last second to pack again. Something about how we’ll never fit all this in our luggage. He joins me in the office, where I tell him that luggage is probably not going to be an issue. “My Dad booked our tickets for January 22. We don’t have tickets for today. We have tickets for a month from today.”

            And he just laughs. “Looks like we’re staying here then.” He has always fantasized about a quiet Christmas in our very own home. The look in his eyes tells me he thinks this is his chance. But I’m not up for that. Not this year.

            “We can’t just stay here! We need to get there!” I yell, trying to remain calm.  But within moments, I’m crying, and he can tell we need to find a way. “OK,” he says. “Let me think for a sec. You should call your Mom though and tell her what’s going on.”

            Ad so I do. And she tells me how heartbroken she is. And that we have to find some way there. I tell her we’ll try, but I just don’t see how it’s possible.

            “Hey!” Ryan says from the living room a few minutes later. ”We have a car. We could drive.”

            “To Denver? In Elyse Keaton? Would she make it?”

            “Sure she would! It’ll be fun! Call your Mom and tell her we’re driving.”

            And I do. And she is terrified. Not so terrified that she doesn’t want us to do it, but terrified nonetheless. I call my sister and give her the news. She laughs at me from Canton, Ohio where she is celebrating Hanukah with her in-laws. “Seriously, though. Be careful.” I tell her we’ll be careful, and that I’ll see her in a few days.

            Minutes later, the phone rings. It’s Michele. “Hey. Can we have a ride?”

            “To Denver? From Canton?”

            “Yeah. The snow is so bad here all the airports are closed. There are no flights in or out of Canton. Or Cleveland. Or Detroit. Or Columbus. And they don’t think they can get us out of here for at least a week. You drive to Canton, and then leave your car and we’ll rent one. No offense.”

            “None taken. We’ll come get you. It’ll be a road trip! It’ll be fun!”

Saturday, December 24, 2006

            I’m not sure what part of this we thought would be fun. It hasn’t been un-fun. Just not fun. It’s mostly just exhausting. And cramped. We had time for a ninety-minute nap in Canton before heading back out on the road.  And now it’s the wee small hours of Christmas Eve morning and I’m wondering if I will ever get out of this back seat. I’m drifting in and out of sleep like I have been for the past twenty hours when I hear a loud bang.

            “Shit” Eric says. He’s driving.

            “That’s not something you want to hear from the driver,” Ryan answers flatly from his shotgun seat.

            “I hit something.” And then, everything in the car powers down completely. Eric turns the steering wheel hard and manages to get us to  the side of the road. The rental car rolls to a stop. Ryan and Eric get out of the car all manly-like and come back with the report.

            “Yeah. Something tore through the gas tank. That’s why we stopped. We’re out of gas. It’s all over the road.” We all look at each other stunned. There are twenty years of Ohio University education in this car (not to mention my two from NYU) and we all come up with the same answer. We call our Mommy. It’s 3 AM, but she answers. “Hi,” I say, trying to be casual.

            “Well, hi. What’s going on.”

            “Um, we hit something. Well, Eric hit something. I mean, he didn’t mean to. But it tore through the gas tank and we’re stuck on the side of the road. We’re all OK. But we’re stuck.”

            “What do you mean he hit something? What did he hit?”

            “We don’t know. There was something in the middle of the road.”

            “Well what did they say?”

            “What did who say?”

            “Whoever you called to come help you!”

            “We called you.”

            “Melinda Kay. Hang up the phone and call Hertz. They will send someone to help you.”

            “Oh. We didn’t think of that. Sure. We’ll call them. Do you want us to let you go back to sleep? Or should we call you back.”

            “My two daughters and two sons-in-law are stranded on the side of the highway in the middle of nowhere on Christmas Eve. I won’t be sleeping. Please call me back.”

            I tell Eric he should call Hertz, which he does. He explains what happened the best he can, and explains our location the best he can. The Hertz agent tells us she’ll send a tow truck right away, but that she doesn’t know how quickly she can get someone to us, seeing as it’s Christmas Eve, and we’re in the middle of nowhere. This is not comforting.

            It’s dark. And it’s cold. And I’m tired. And I don’t know where we are. “What if we freeze to death?” I wonder out loud. “That happens. People break down on the side of the road and freeze to death.”

            “We’re not going to freeze to death,” Ryan tries to assure me.

            “Wait. She’s right,“ Michele agrees, probably not helping things. “We could totally freeze to death. That does happen. What if it takes them hours or they can’t find us and we freeze to death?”

            I’ve just decided that we are, in fact, going to freeze to death- I start glancing around me, looking for a piece of paper on which I can leave my last thoughts-  when the red lights from the fire truck swirl through the car. So I guess we‘ll be fine then.

            The fireman asks us what happened while his friends take a look at the gas on the road. Since the only information we have is “we hit something,”,” and they know a tow truck is on the way eventually and the fuel on the road has been investigated, the fire truck leaves our accident scene in a very anticlimactic way. No lights or anything.

            We have just enough time to remember that we have snacks in the back when the Sheriff pulls up. We offer him a rice crispy treat. He doesn‘t take it, but asks if we need anything. We tell him it’s cold, and he lets us into the back seat of his car. And I’m sitting there with my little sister, and we’re warming up, and we’re eating rice crispy treats at 3 AM on Christmas Eve in the back of the Sheriff‘s car. And we start to laugh. And then we start to laugh harder. And soon I’m laughing so hard that I can’t breathe and tears are streaming down my face and I’m not even making any sound. Just completely seized up in the joy of how ridiculous it all is. Ryan knocks on the car window. “What is so funny?” his muffled voice yells through the glass. “You’re shaking the whole car!” which only breaks us up more. I can’t answer him, but I gesture out with both palms up, taking in everything around me in an effort to say.” This! This is what’s so funny!”

            A few moments pass, and the fire truck returns. The Sheriff lets us out of the car. “The firemen found what you hit,” he says. They’ve brought it to us, like a Christmas present. They’ve tossed it in the snow on the side of the road. It’s a large hunk of metal wrapped in black rubber.

            “How does that even happen? What is it?” I ask the fireman who threw it there. He explains that it’s a metal mud flap from the back of a semi. And I know in that moment that when I recall this story in years to come, the mud flap will be decorated in my mind with the white silhouettes of two women sitting back-to-back, even though this is just a plain old ordinary black mud flap.

            “It looks like a tire blew, and tore this off with it. So it was all just sitting there tangled in the road, waiting for you to hit it. And that’s what tore through your gas tank.”

            “Oh,” I say. “Do you want a rice crispy treat?“ He doesn’t. And the laughing starts all over again.

            An hour later, we are sitting in the cab of Manuel’s truck. “Your name is Manuel?” I asked when we first boarded the vehicle, to make sure I had heard him correctly. And then I offered him a rice crispy treat, which he declined. And I have been sitting quietly ever since, as Ryan, Michele and Eric tell Manuel our tale. Ryan and Michele’s version is a comedy, while Eric’s is an I-hope-I-don’t-have-to-pay-for-this tragedy. And in a break in the conversation, I burst into song. To the tune of “Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel,” I serenade my tow truck audience.

            REJOOOOOOOOICE! REJOOOOOOOOICE! It’s Ma-a-a-nu-el! To save us from our Christmas travel hell!

            Michele stares at me in silent shock. And then, finally, “have you been just sitting there working on that?”

            “Yes.” She hands me another rice crispy treat, and we all go on as if I hadn’t just performed the greatest One-woman-show-about-hitting-a-metal-mudflap-on-Christmas-Eve in the history of tow trucks.

            We arrive at the Hertz office at the Denver airport to trade in our car, and we are greeted by two employees who have obviously been alerted regarding our accident. “Are you alright?” they say, rushing from behind the desk. “We’ve been waiting! Do you need water?” We assure them we are fine, and ask if either of them would like a rice crispy treat. Alan, our new friend behind the desk, says that he would love one. “Really?” I say. And I run to the car to get him one. When I return, Eric is filling out some paperwork. He is telling the whole story- about the loud bang, and the gas tank, how the firemen brought us the mud flap- to Jennifer, who appears to be paying attention. Technically, she had to return the first car, and rent us a second. So Jennifer starts with the questions that come up on the screen.

            “Is the gas tank full?”

            “No. It’s not,” Eric answers.

            “Oh. How full would you say it is?”

            I can see that Eric is getting tired and frustrated and worried that he’s going to have to pay for something else, so I step in. “Um, the gas tank is empty. But I tell you what. We’ll pay for as much gas as you can get to stay in the tank. The one that tore open. When we hit the mud flap.”

            “Oh. Right.”

            And we get in our new rental car, and we drive those last few miles over the river and through the woods.

 

Divine Secrets of the Ta Ta Sisterhood

I probably shouldn't be telling you this. I'm probably breaking some kind of girl code. But I just can't keep quiet.

I had my first mammogram today.

And it was absolutely no big deal.

I'm sitting in the robe now, next to the Totally Not Scary machine. (Although I heard some terrifying mechanical crunching sounds as I was escorted down the hallway. Turned out it was the Xerox.) I'm waiting for the results of one of the easiest medical tests I've had in a long time. Seriously. I have jeans that pinch me tighter. (But they're so cute!) The most uncomfortable part of this process has been the orchestral arrangement of "I Believe I Can Fly" that's currently being piped in.

Ladies, why do we scare each other? I've seen jokes and cartoons my whole life about mammograms and how uncomfortable and painful they are. And I'm sorry, but it's a buncha lies. Dangerous lies. Because mammograms contribute to saving lives. We need to tell our friends and family to go. Not just if they think something is wrong (because for me, I absolutely do not) but because they should. Especially if they have family history, (which is the only reason I'm here today sitting in this robe next to the Not Scary Machine at the ripe old age of Almost 37.)

We're tough and proud for lots of reasons. We fight through a lot of things as women. We don't need to be martyrs. Not about this.

Mammograms. Totally no big deal.

Teachable Moments

In celebration of National Adoption Month

It started with a simple conversation about Halloween with two second grade girls. Did they have fun trick-or-treating. Did they get a lot of candy. That sort of thing. Then we talked about Lily and how much fun she had. What her costume looked like.

"Would you like to see a picture?" I asked. One of the little girls is a returning student from last year and has met Lily. The other has not.

"She's cute!" the newer little girl said. But I could see it in her eyes. "She doesn't look like you."

"No, she doesn't." I planned to elaborate, but I could see her trying to work it out, while trying to stay polite.

"Does she look like your husband?"

"No, she doesn't look like him, either. Lily is adopted!"

"Oh! OK!" she responded, handling it with more grace than some adult strangers I've met. "She looks JUST LIKE Princess Tiana!"

"Do you know anyone who is adopted?" I asked. They both had met people, but didn't have anyone close in their lives.

The other girls arrived, the class began, and I moved on.

But it made me wonder about the other girls, and whether they had an understanding of adoption. It usually comes up with each new group of kids I teach. I decided to test the waters with the Halloween conversation again.

"I was showing a couple of the girls a picture of Lily in her Halloween costume earlier," I said to the ten bright eyes looking up at me. "Would everyone else like to see?"

I had planned to let them react on their own, but the first girl was far too excited, and feeling extremely special. "She doesn't look like Mindy or Mindy's husband because she was adopted!"

I showed her pictures to each of the five girls, including the two who had already seen it. And then the questions began. Some of them I anticipated. How old was Lily now? How old was she when we got her? Did we pick her name?

Those questions were easy to answer.

But then I got some others.

Did someone leave her on our doorstep?

Why couldn't her first Mommy keep her?

Could that Mommy ever take her back?

What if we wanted to give her back?

Some of this was straight-forward enough, since Lily absolutely was not left on anyone's doorstep. The adoption process is complicated even for an adult to understand, let alone an 8-year-old. But I did explain that the lady who carried Lily in her belly decided at the hospital that she wasn't ready  to be a Mommy, and that the hospital contacted some people who knew we were looking for a baby.

But those other questions were tough. She just wasn't ready to be a Mommy. I wasn't about to tell these little girls the specific circumstances surrounding Lily's conception and birth and her birthmother's life. So she just wasn't ready. And I left it at that, and refused to say more.

And those last two questions. We talked about it until I was as sure as I could be that they understood.

Her birthmommy cannot come and take Lily away, and we would never ever give Lily away, any more than their parents would give THEM away. She is our baby forever. And we are her Mommy and Daddy forever. I even told them about going to court, and how a judge changed her birth certificate. We are her Mommy and Daddy. We are the only people she knows as Mommy and Daddy. And that will never change.

November is National Adoption Month. For the third year in a row, I'm opening myself up. (although, let's face it. I'm always pretty open.) I have a feeling grown-ups have the same questions these little girls do, they just think they're not supposed to ask. So I'm officially telling you- please ask. I would love to answer.

Goin' Pro

I've known for a long time that Lily would probably go into the entertainment business. I thought she would be a dancer. I suspected she would start young.

I did not think that the first time she was paid to perform, she would be two.

But it has happened.

Lily likes to dance. No, Lily loves to dance. She dances with the TV, she dances in the car from her carseat. She dances walking down the street. She dances in the elevator. Her favorite movies are "Peter Pan" and "Singing' in the Rain," and she often insists that everyone in the room join in her dance of joy. She has been known to dance with street musicians.

So when we saw two young men playing their guitars and singing at Mystic Seaport today, we anticipated the show that would follow. What we didn't anticipate was the crowd the gathered. Lily clapped and shook and spun with her hands in the air. When the faster song stopped, she stopped and applauded. And when a new, slower song started, she adjusted her moves accordingly.

The young men had an open guitar case on the ground to collect their tips, and several people dropped in change, and even a dollar here and there. But Lily was the one getting the attention. We watched with pride as Lily danced and laughed, and we watched in shock and amusement when a man approached with a dollar.

"This is for you," he said with a smile. "You're at least as good as the band."

And what did Lily do with her very first paycheck?

She tipped the musicians. She dropped the dollar in their case, grabbed her Grandpa's hand, and walked away.

Today was the day Lily lost her amateur status. And you have to admit, the girl's got class.

The Good Enough Mom

Many parents out there will be familiar with the concept of the Good Enough Mom. (or Parent.) There's a lot of research to support the idea that kids who have little struggles of some kind now and then- whether it's being taken to day care, or not getting perfect nutrition every day, or playing alone while a parent is busy in another room- build character and strength, while children with "perfect" childhoods fall apart at the first sign of conflict in their lives.

I have to remind myself of this concept on days when Lily is building a lot of character and strength.

Lily and I had Pop-Tarts for breakfast this morning. She had never eaten a Pop-Tart, but she loved every minute of it. She loved the way it smelled, and the way it tasted. She even loved the way it looked- the sprinkles on top reminded her of a princess. We ate at the table, and she thanked me for her breakfast. When she was done, she said "All done, please," and then got down from her chair.

And I still feel guilty.

There is nothing of any nutritional value in a Pop-Tart. And I know this. She ran around from the sugar and then crashed in a grouchy nap-needing heap. I would rather give her oatmeal and peanut butter and fruit, like we sometimes have. But frankly, I didn't feel like making the oatmeal (even instant oatmeal) and cleaning the bowls and slicing the fruit. I woke up many hours late today and already had to postpone a play-date until tomorrow. It was just a Pop-Tart kind of morning.

And besides. Pop-Tarts were on sale.

Two boxes of Pop-Tarts and a box of Eggo waffles for $5. That's a lot of breakfasts for $5. And I couldn't ignore that.

I also couldn't ignore the sale on canned vegetables. They are approximately one-third the cost of fresh.

If I had my way, I would have the money to shop only at Whole Foods and make everything organic and fresh.

I would get enough sleep every night, and would never sleep through my alarm. And my apartment would be in the condition to have guests at any point, so even if I overslept a little it wouldn't matter. (and I would shower every day, so my hair would be in a similar condition.)

But that's just not my reality. In fact, I seriously doubt it's anyone's reality.

(OK, maybe there are a lot of people who only eat organic and have a clean apartment and take a shower every day. But I bet those people have things they would like to improve, too.)

My reality includes staying up late, and waking up late, and getting behind in the housework, and buying the food that's on sale sometimes. And Pop-Tarts for breakfast.

But it also includes meal-planning. And budgets. And the ability to feed my family, at the table, for a whole week for $60.

And it includes a little girl who sees sprinkles on a Pop-Tart and thinks of a princess. And communication skills between us that are strong enough that I know what the hell she's talking about. And a little girl who says "thank you, food, Amen." And "please," and "thank you" and "no, thank you."

And Family Dance Parties. Nightly.

And Family Sing-Alongs. All day, every day.

And a Mommy and Daddy who make being well-rounded people a priority over a quest for perfection.

And that's good enough.