Holiday Card Greetings

Hello, my name is Andrea and I have problem with bumper stickers. I love reading them. I secretly covet the courage to apply some semi-permanent life philosophy to my car but I cannot bring myself to do it. Oh how I would love to announce to the world on a 7 inch by 3 inch piece of vinyl that the religious right is neither. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to choose something like "doing my part to piss off the religious right." I fear that it might look like I am obsessed with the evangelical fundamentalism. I know just enough about advertising to know that you should never name your competitor in an ad.

I could go an entirely different way and let the world know something about my kids. I could tell everyone who would venture to read my car that my kid is on the honor roll. Once Emerson starts school I could get the one that says my kid could beat up your honor roll student.

I am puzzled by stickers proclaiming: "I am pro-life/pro-choice/pro-gun and I vote." I find it statistically impossible that these stickers could be effective. What are the chances that your your congressional representative would be following your car at the same time they are deliberating on which way to vote? When a "pro-[fill in the blank] and vote" person bends down to slap this declaration on their car, are they imagining that they will change minds? Are they threatening those who don't feel the same? "Hey buddy, I feel strongly about this issue and I VOTE so you just better reconsider your position."

I find bumper stickers to be humorous, irritating, irrelevant and sometimes downright stupid. And I cannot find one that I am willing to let define me to the world. The majority of the people who will read the sticker will never know anything about me other than what they read on the back of my car. That is a lot of pressure for a simple phrase.

For awhile I thought about buying the one that says: "God bless everyone, no exceptions." It seemed to have a multi-dimensional mission statement wrapped up in five words. I believe in God. I believe God blesses people and I believe that God should bless everyone, even those with whom I do not agree. I found the website that sells the stickers. I even went so far as to load it into my virtual shopping cart. I couldn't submit the order. Something checked me. It felt slightly superior. Do you ever see ones that say "God just bless me and no one else?" That's the implication though and it seems a little passive aggressive. For me, it felt a little like I was flaunting my liberal sanctimony.

There are probably a whole host of psychological descriptors to identify my quirks. I obsess about phrases, about words, about bumper stickers. Unfortunately I often speak without letting my thoughts marinate long enough to become tender. However, when I write I obsess about words.

Let's say you were a hoarder and because of that affliction you were the sort of person who saves Christmas cards. If you were to line up all of my cards through the years, you would be able to tell a lot about my life by the greetings I wrote.

Each year I choose a phrase and apply to each card. It always starts the same way-- Wishing you and your family [blank]. The year we adopted Peyton the phrase was wishing you joy. We had found unimaginable joy and wanted to bestow that intoxicating feeling on all our friends and family. The year before we were smack dab in the adoption process. There wasn't a baby yet but there were a lot of dreams. We wished people that same feeling of anticipation that something really good was about to happen. We wished hope.

The year we adopted Bennett it was wishing peace. He was born in mid-November and by Christmas card season he was nowhere close to sleeping through the night. We so badly wanted a peaceful night of rest that I wished it to everyone else. Once Emerson was added into the mix, I finally believed that our family was complete. As I watched our children develop relationships with each other I was touched by the genetic bond so evident in their interactions. I wished everyone love that year.

It is December 31 and I just ordered our holiday cards last night. I thought they might be a nice mid-January or February surprise for our friends and family. Well that and I could not get it together this year. Doesn't it sound much nicer when I say the decision is about someone else's joy instead of my laziness?

I've noticed that all of my holiday greetings are the symbols of advent: hope, peace, love and joy. This year I have a million examples of each. People are already going to raise an eyebrow when they receive their holiday card in February so I'm not sure I can go so far as to wish people advent. That's what I mean though.

This year our church held a family advent event. The activity was for each family to build an advent candle thing-y. It was supposed to be an advent log but it didn't look like a log. It looked like a green foam board poorly covered in fake greenery and holly berries. Peyton embellished ours with a bunch of silver ribbon. It looked like a homemade craft. But since we didn't have an advent wreath before, we held onto our advent log thing-y and displayed it proudly.

As much as I am anti-crafts, this one served as a special reminder for me during Advent 2009. Each time as I walked past, I tried to focus on something at least loosely related to an advent thought. With the age of our children we don't really light many candles around here. It is good that I can use my imagination to light the candles.

As we move into 2010, I want all the feelings of the holiday season to continue into the new year. When I feel completely beat down, I want to light the candle of hope. When there is conflict at work or church or home, I intend to light the candle of peace. When I am inclined to think the worst of someone's motives, I will extinguish my anger and instead light the candle of love. When I am at my lowest, then I will light the candle of joy.

What I wish for my friends and family is secretly a wish for myself. I don't do resolutions but I do goals. So my goal for the new year is to live in advent spirit. Realistically, I will lose the lighter, the candles will be missing because a small boy needed a sword for GI Joe and the fake greenery will fall off the log. A spirit of advent for an entire year is a tough goal. Since I'm not one to be constricted by traditions, I will add another candle to my advent thing-y. It will be the start afresh candle. So when I have failed at my advent spirit goal by noon on New Year's Day, I will light the start afresh candle and try again.

Moments In Time

When I first moved to a certain south suburb of Chicago I was intrigued by a couple of things. By intrigued I mean slightly disturbed. First of all, every strip mall had a mattress store, a nail salon and a place to get an Italian beef sandwich. Despite my love of patterns, I've yet to decipher the connection between these things. The other thing that I found unique to that particular southern suburb was the penchant for near life-size plastic nativity scenes.

A drive along any residential street during the Christmas season was sure to yield several houses that chose to honor Christ's birth with a plastic tribute. Mary, Joseph and a manger were always front and center. Rudolph, Frosty, Santa and the occasional toy soldier flanked the nativity scene. The intended message was clear--Christ would be central! This house was sure to keep Christ in Christmas. No silly phrases like "happy holidays" would be uttered from their lips!

For several weeks during my first Christmas in that area I was convinced that there was a maniacal crime spree that stole all the plastic baby Jesus figurines. I envisioned a stall at a flea market fencing the hot Jesus'. Since no nativity scene is complete without the tiny Messiah, the thieves could demand a top dollar ransom. One day at lunch I mentioned the theory to my colleagues. Mouthes stopped chewing. Forks were dropped. My colleague Pat indignantly (and by indignantly I mean she turned red and spit tiny bits of her Italian beef sandwich my way as she spoke) explained that of course baby Jesus wasn't in the manger because he was wasn't born until Christmas. My colleagues went back to eating lunch and muttering about my lack of religious training.

Never one to take a subtle hint, I mentioned that it was also unlikely that Mary, Joseph, Frosty and Santa stood around staring at the empty manger from the day after Thanksgiving until December 25.

While I have not added a life-size plastic nativity scene to my collection, I do have quite a few other types. All of them are differently abled in some way. In one set the donkey is missing an ear. A couple of years ago I told Bennett that the nativity scene was a "pretty" and he shouldn't touch it. He decided that I meant "right now" and dropped the donkey that was in his hand. In another set one Wise Man lost his head when Gloria the Angel came tumbling off the top of the creche. So far no one has owned up to making the angel fly.

My favorite set is a sleek crystal one from Dansk. Over 20 years ago it was the first significant gift given to me by Beth. Last year, I found a matching Wise Man offered on Ebay. I had no idea the set had other pieces so I placed the high bid without fully investigating. I was disappointed when it arrived and I found that it was just another Joseph. Now my favorite set looks as if Jesus may have had two dads.

Two sets have the scene depicted by people of color. Unfortunately the manufacturer didn't pay much attention to details. It looks as if the blond hair, blue-eyed set was just dipped in brown paint. We also have a plastic set for the kids to play with. I'm not sure that a sheep ever dive-bombed baby Jesus while screaming "Cow-a-bunga!!" but that's how Bennett sees it. This year Emerson has taken to hiding baby Jesus so we may be missing a crucial part of the message in future years.

My sister-in-law Caroline tells how her parents never seemed to have a camera handy at life's big moments. Her father's instruction was to "take a picture in your mind." I think that's pretty good advice. There are many moments in time that I want to capture in my mind.

There is the moment right after I would lay one of my sleeping babies in their crib. I hoped that my beating heart or the sound of my breath didn't wake them. I didn't want anything to disturb that peaceful slumber. For that moment I could forget all that it took to get this baby to sleep. I could forget the crying, the wailing, the diaper changes and the spit-ups. I could focus on the soft checks, the small chest rising and falling with each breath.

There is that moment when someone you are starting to love holds onto a hug a little longer. It has been over 20 years for me and I still remember that moment. There is that rare occasion when I use more than two ingredients and a microwave to make dinner. Once the food has been prepared and plated and right before it goes to the table, I look down and realize that with my two hands I was able to prepare something that will nourish and delight.

There will be a moment on Christmas Eve. It will be after the chaos of the "Instant Nativity Pageant" at church. The children will have been tucked in their beds. All the presents will have been wrapped and Santa will have done his thing. The Christmas tree will be all that illuminates the room. I love that moment each year.

I like nativity scenes because they capture a moment in time. It doesn't matter what happened the minute before or what will happen in the lifetime after. I imagine that for one moment the animals in the stable stopped doing what they do. I imagine that the shepherds forgot about the next pasture they needed to find. Maybe Mary was able to forget all the pain and confusion that led to that moment. Maybe for a moment Joseph was able to stop thinking about how he would provide for his new family. And maybe there was a moment when they all looked down at a slumbering baby. In that moment they felt hope and peace and joy.

This is my wish for the season. I will find a moment when nothing else matters but the feeling of hope and peace and joy.

Habits

I am convinced there are two periods in a person's life during which they should be declared certifiably insane. I realize that both "events" are optional so not everyone is destined for craziness. This is good. There are enough crazy people right now to think up things like The Real Housewives of Atlanta, the children's show called Yo Gaba Gaba and AT & T's customer service approach. We can't handle any more crazy.

The first potential for craziness is when a person goes through a divorce. It's not that I've gone through a divorce. And it is entirely possible the only reason it hasn't occurred is because I'm not allowed to get married. But, that is an entirely different discussion. I have however, walked the divorce road with several good friends. Feel free to make assumptions about how I'm a supportive, nurturing friend. It also doesn't hurt that there is nothing like a lesbian to take the woman's side in any dispute.

When I have a friend passing through the land of certifiably insane, I explain that they shouldn't change jobs, move houses or operate machinery any more intricate and dangerous than a Target shopping cart. Using all my best wisdom, I beg them to not let this divorce turn them into someone less than who they are destined to be. [Read: say "no" to revengeful acts like putting raw seafood in your ex's curtain rods.] I explain that they should take some time to determine who they are and what they want. There are so many changes swirling around that they often lose perspective and good judgment. I once had a divorcing friend come to my house to show me her new "snow" boats. The boots were Italian leather with six-inch spike heels and cost $600. She explained that the six-inch heels allowed her to walk "over" snow drifts instead of through them. She also planned to wear them to a job interview in another city. I just give the advice, I don't think anyone listens to me.

The other period of insanity is parenthood. My oldest child is seven so I'm not quite sure if the insanity lasts throughout parenthood or just until the kids leave your house for good. Sometimes I participate in conversations that would land me in a padded room if not for the context of being a parent.

I once heard a wizened business guru pontificate on how the definition of insanity was to do the same things over and over again and expect different results. I wanted to raise my hand, disrupt his presentation and say "You weren't home much when your kids were little were you?" There are days when I think a cardboard picture of me with a looping soundtrack of my voice could do just as good a job. "Eat your breakfast. Wash your hands. Put down the ax. Get off the roof."

Emerson is learning to use utensils. I start every meal admonishing her to not throw her fork. At some point, during every meal, she throws her fork. And if we serve something she doesn't like, she whips her plate of food across the room to join the fork. Call me an optimist but I have high hopes that this behavior will stop before she has a prom date.

Emerson is in the midst of teaching her self to be potty trained. I want no part of this. Well meaning people [mainly my parents] turn up their noses and ask if I'm looking forward to a life free of diapers. They talk as if this is some disgusting habit that I personally need to break. You know what is disgusting? One time my newly potty-trained oldest daughter had an accident while sitting on my lap. It was late November and we were at a theme park riding on a train to look at Christmas decorations. Walking around in the cold night air with someone else's pee on your lap is disgusting. Diapers are not.

One day this week when I picked up Emerson from daycare she was wearing someone else's clothes. Her teachers answered my quizzical look with the explanation that Emerson spent her entire day yelling. Emerson has a lot to say and the misfortune of lacking intelligible words as of yet. She assumes that we don't understand her because we all speak some sort of foreign language so she just turns up the volume. Apparently she is ready for international travel. I assume the teachers have learned to tune out her yells just like I have.

Emerson was standing in the middle of the room yelling something like "I see a bee" or "Cookie! Cookie" or "Set my people free!" They eventually figured out that she was saying "I gotta pee!" when she unsnapped her overalls and whipped off her diaper. So, she was wearing someone else's extra set of clothes. And so we will start the potty training process. We will set a timer so we can remember to ask her about bodily functions every 15 minutes. We will spend countless hours sitting in the bathroom with her until she is successful. I will put away my germ-a-phobe tendencies long enough to feed her M & M's while she is sitting on the toilet.

Hopefully, at some point in the not too distant future, we will do the same things over and over again until we reach the potty promised land. It isn't insanity. It is teaching a habit. Some day she will be sitting on my lap and I hope the new habit sticks.

I think habits get a bad reputation sometimes. People most always refer to breaking a habit instead of developing one. I happen to be a fan of habits. Somedays they keep me doing what I should despite my feelings to the contrary. Right now, going to church is a habit for me. It used to be my most sacred hour of the week.

I used to plan trips and activities so that I wouldn't miss church. Now, I get up on Sunday and go through the motions out of habit. Unfortunately church for me has become too much about soul-sucking committee meetings and not nearly enough about community. I can be spiritual on my own. But it is pure arrogance for me to believe I can do this faith journey by myself. I need community for that. So right now I attend church out of habit. I don't always expect that it will be this way. I have high hopes for myself and my church.

I truly believe that habits do pay off. Each week I am finding at least a small nugget of hope. Our praise band sings something that stirs my soul. Dear friends embrace me and we laugh raucously. My kids come out of Sunday school telling me the stories of Jesus.

A couple of weeks ago a woman I don't know particularly well walked up and held my hand after church. She looked into my eyes and told me how important it is that I do what I do for my church. She told me that she had been praying for me...a lot. I had wanted to skip church that week. Habit didn't let me.

Easy Like...

There's a Commodore's song from the early 90's called "Easy Like Sunday Morning." Except for this sentence, that song and I will never be linked. Now if there were a song called "You're Easy Like a Bladder Infection" I could totally rock that as my personal anthem. I am not easy. It's not easy to be my friend or my partner. I'm sure if you ask my children they would say that sometimes it isn't easy to be my child. I spend a lot of time obsessing, thinking, trying to find reasons and make sense.

Lately I've been reading and re-reading the story of Moses and the Israelites and their 4o-year adventure in the desert. I keep re-reading it looking for a clue or a hint or something they could have learned or seen or done to minimize this time. Surely, there was a point when they could have turned left or could have taken the other fork in the road. There must be someone to blame for the length of that hellish experience. I have a GPS system on my phone for God's sake. I cannot fathom being lost, without direction or permanence for 40 long years. I would have conducted performance reviews and org chart assessments. I would have had the equipment tested and calibrated. I would have demanded accountability!

I have the tools to fix these sorts of situations. I've had experience, taken classes and seminars and read books on how to fix these strategic issues in an organization. While I'm certainly not an expert, I can usually see a path and lay out a plan to make things better. The problem is that I cannot seem to do this with my life. I cannot find my way out of my desert.

There are some parts in my life that feel like you-assemble-it furniture from Ikea. You know the stuff with the pre-drilled holes that never really match up? Sure, you can force the bolt to connect the pieces but there is an odd tension. Things do not align. They are slightly off center. It works for now but you just know that odd alignment cannot last forever and the shelves will come tumbling down at the most inopportune time.

I can pinpoint the time when my desert experience began. There was an event that kicked me into the wilderness and it seems as if more and more desert elements continue to be added to the diorama. What seemed like a day trip along a desert path now appears to have become a full-fledged "period" in my life. Later on, maybe 40 years from now, I will be able to look back at this "period" and by then I will have all sorts of wisdom and learning. Right now it just feels dry and desolate. As if by instinct I am trying to rush my way through this wilderness. I am looking for the GPS system settings to find my way out.

The thing about my desert experience and probably about all desert experiences, is that I am continuing to get what I need. I doubt that any of the early Jews claimed that the manna tasted like a pepper-crusted filet mignon but it sustained them. I doubt the beds in their tents had the "select your own firmness comfort setting" but they provided a place for rest. The other thing I know about desert experiences is that yours looks different from mine.

Last night my family cranked up the Christmas tunes and decorated our tree. Clumsy little hands broke a couple of ornaments. Those hands also tended to load a single branch with every ornament they found to be appealing. They laid claim to the branch and all that was placed upon it. Our primary Christmas tree is in the living room. We have a large picture window that looks onto the street. Last night during my Norman Rockwell moment, two police squad cars pulled up to my neighbor's house. They frisked, cuffed and hauled away my neighbor's boy. They're a "good family" and I've always found him to be a polite kid. Lately he has made some pretty bad decisions. I cannot fathom his parent's desert right about now.

Deserts are not competitions. I have three children and you only have one: I get the point. You have a bigger mortgage: point goes to you. My parenting issues are about bed times and spelling tests. Your parenting issues are about defense lawyers: you get the point. It doesn't work that way. My desert parches my throat and the hot sand burns my feet just like your desert does the same to you. Deserts seem to be individually designed. Mine isn't better or worse than yours.

As the squad cars pulled away last night, I said a prayer for the family, for the troubled boy, for the police. No matter how barren my desert is right now, I have what I need to sustain me and maybe what helps to sustain is compassion. Maybe my desert gives me kinship with all the other wanderers. I cannot look down from a place of judgment when I'm trudging alongside them.

Mid-Life Crisis

Every once in awhile, my fingers find their way to the keys on my keyboard that lead my internet browser to find its way to a fantasy website of mine. My fantasy isn't exactly tawdry but nonetheless it is pretty unrealistic. There is a shiny red scooter that I'm eyeing--the Buddy 125. I've wanted a scooter for quite awhile now. Actually I want a motorcycle but that would feed into a stereotype that I have no interest in perpetuating. Somehow a scooter seems more... acceptable. The chances of me actually getting a scooter or motorcycle are so remote it would be an embellishment to even call it a dream. Not going to happen. My children need shoes and food and the chance to go on to an education that doesn't destine them for the life of a nail technician.

Instead of a scooter maybe I'll get a second tattoo. I have one tattoo now which makes me a slightly cool soccer mom. Beth says two tattoos indicate a certain lifestyle. I don't want a full ink sleeve or a facial tattoo. Maybe I'll get something small and honoring my children and my faith. A friend of mine is a surgeon. He warns of the effects of aging on tattoo placement. What may look appealing at 21 years old looks frightful at 65 years old. My current tattoo is on my ankle. I figure as my skin starts to sag the tattoo will move to the bottom of my foot and I won't scare any surgeons.

I am also kicking around the question of my life's vocation. Unfortunately, I have a childhood filled with bad theology and a mind like a steel trap. It's an awful combination. I vividly remember listening to a sermon from Rev. Cole that detailed the perils of ignoring God's call in your life. I was 13 and sitting in my pew listening for directions on how to live a life of faith. Rev. Cole thundered from the pulpit that God had a single calling for each of our lives. If we were to ignore that one true calling then we could never truly be happy. We might be able to achieve moderate satisfaction in life but would always fall short of complete and unfettered happiness.

Since that time I have been spent considerable sleepless nights wondering if I had at some point been focusing on something trivial and missed the opportunity to know God's true calling for me. During the last semester of my senior year in college I worked in the display department of Sears. Our store received a set of new mannequins. The older gentleman who supervised my department thought it was downright vulgar that the female mannequins looked as if there was a chill in the air. I spent an entire shift filing off the nipples of each mannequin. I remember hoping that God had something else in mind for my one true call.

Maybe I'm having a mid-life crisis. I'm 42 and if this is mid-life that would mean I'd only live until 84. Given my lifestyle choices, 84 might be a gift. Practically speaking, mid-life means that I'm halfway to dead. What if I still haven't found my one true calling in life? Each time I have a bad day or a string of bad days, there is a nagging feeling that Rev. Cole was right and I am destined to a life of moderate satisfaction.

There is one author who rocks my world with each of her books. When I read her stuff, I force myself to slow down and savor each word. While I might be inclined to race through the chapters, I muster my often elusive self-discipline and read at a snail's pace. Her words stick in my head. They roll around, they disturb, they challenge, sometimes they provide light and clarity. Barbara Brown Taylor's newest book is "An Altar in the World, A Geography of Faith." I am restricting myself to one chapter per week. As tempted as I am to race through to the end, each chapter is about a different spiritual practice. It seems reasonable that I would spend at least one week focusing on the wisdom of each practice to see if I can turn it into a habit.

This week's practice is living with purpose. It is about vocation and life's calling. This week when I was at one of my most dark and twisty places [credit to Meredith Gray on Gray's Anatomy for the phrase "dark and twisty."] I read these words: "Do anything that pleases you and belong to me." Taylor was writing about her struggle to determine her life's work. She had been praying, yearning, seeking and begging God for some answers about her life. The answer she received was do anything and belong to God.

Taylor goes on to write about Buddhist teaching, specifically how right livelihood is one of the flagstones on the Buddhist path. The basic principal is to do no harm. After that, there is considerable freedom to pursue a variety of vocations. The challenge is that not all vocations will come with a self-evident purpose. Maybe that is the one true calling. Maybe my calling is to find purpose in each job.

I don't think a shiny red scooter or a tattoo will snap me out of my mid-life crisis. And, most likely I will continue to struggle with the question of what I'm supposed to be doing with my life. But at least I will consider that my calling is to find divine in the mundane, to find God's image in the people I work with and to find purpose in what sometimes seems ludicrous.

Expectations

This week my children added pogo sticks to their toy repository. I know...a bit odd. I didn't realize that pogo sticks were still being sold. I certainly didn't know that my children knew about them. Their grandparents send money for birthdays. It comes in check form. When Peyton opened her birthday card this year, she asked: "How do I play with this?" I explained that we could take the paper to the bank and she would get dollars in exchange for it. She reminded me that when I take these things [checks] to the bank she never sees the money again. Darn, she is onto me and my quest to turn her into a saver.

This year we made a list of how Peyton could spend her birthday money. She chose several small-ish gifts. Each time she chose something we would deduct the amount from the total. Voice recorder and distorter from the Target checkout line: $7.99; pink glittery boots: $17 and a pogo stick: $34.99. She's holding tight to the remaining amount for a miniature Addy doll from American Girl. If only she could convince someone in her life to take her there....

Peyton got the pogo first. A few days later Bennett called my parents to inquire if they would be sending a check for his birthday. He wanted a "bongo" stick too. So my children got pogo sticks during the first week after the time change. It gets dark before we all get home at night--not great for pogo-ing. So I cleared a pretty big space in the garage. Each night we strap helmets on their heads and send them off to bounce like Tigger on speed while we are making dinner.

Tonight I was trying to return our house into a semi-organized space and the kids were pogo-ing in the garage. Peyton came running inside. Apparently Bennett was climbing in the garage, fell and was stuck. I ran outside to find him wedged between the snowblower and the camping gear. I freed my climber and determined there was no blood or broken bones. Now for the interrogation. What were you doing? Nothing. What were you trying to reach? Nothing. Why were you climbing? No reason.

Of course the next logical thing to do was to start haranguing Peyton about the responsibility that comes with being the oldest child. Why didn't she stop him? Why didn't she come tell on him? How would she feel if he were badly injured? Peyton, I have tremendous expectations of you. I expect you to be wiser. I expect you to make better decisions. I expect you to stop your brother before he makes the inevitable bone-headed mistakes that accompany his testosterone. You will be punished too. She's heard this before. She has wailed about fairness and how I'm nowhere close to being fair. I stand firm. Expectations are tough things.

One day this week when I dropped off Peyton at school, I decided to stand on the playground until the kids went inside. I use this as my "character assessment time." Most mothers would say that they love seeing their kids play with their friends or love being able to hug them right before they walk into school. There is even one mother who says "May God bless your day" to their kid right before the bell rings. I use this time to suss out the trouble-makers on the playground so that I can continue to crunch the joy from my daughter's life. If a kid is kicking mulch, pushing people off the slide or even mouthing off to their mothers, I can forbid Peyton to have interaction. We all know how well that works.

The mother of one of Peyton's kindergarten classmates walked up to me and offered a glowing appraisal of how Peyton had come out of her shell this year. I looked at her quizzically as she described how introverted, shy, withdrawn and reserved Peyton had been last year. Then she said: "I just figured that she had been badly abused by her family before you got her." Huh? I explained that we adopted Peyton as a baby. It was her turn to look quizzical.

I wonder if that's what people expect. Black kids, white moms. Must be some sort of foster care situation. Since my babies are small at birth, they must be crack babies right? Since I didn't have the "pleasure" of being the host womb, I can't know for certain but there wasn't any evidence of crack in my babies at birth. A friend of mine just told me about the healthy exercise and diet routine she followed during her pregnancy and how she delivered a 5 pound baby. She's a respectable, married lawyer. I wonder if people ask her about crack.

As much as publicity campaigns like Adoption Awareness Month try to dispel the myth of adoption, there is still a stigma. If a child was placed for adoption, it must be because of some "issue" like drugs or abuse. I wonder if my kids will go through life with lower expectations.

Right after we brought Emerson home, a lady at church asked me "How many of this woman's [birth mother] mistakes are you going to take?" I feel tremendous empathy and gratitude for our children's birth mother. I ache for the pain she must have experienced when she chose to place her baby for adoption. I can't imagine. She may have had unplanned pregnancies. But my children are not mistakes.

I've thought about changing the title of this blog to "Stupid Sh$% That People Say." Unfortunately I don't think that gives me the opportunity to show the grace and mercy that I am doggedly pursuing. But some days I think it would be more accurate.

Each day I pray that my children hold onto the expectations of being: kind, generous, thankful, thoughtful, thinking, praying, hoping and loving. Expectations are tough things and sometimes they aren't fair.

Boo Halloween!

I am a third generation Halloween curmudgeon. I would sooner celebrate Arbor Day, Flag Day and National Stamp Collecting Day than embrace October 31. Beth however, considers Halloween to be her high holy day. Thus, we have a mixed "marriage."

My brother and I did not dress up and trick-or-treat when we were kids. My parents offered to buy any candy we wanted. There was no sense going to the neighbors to beg for it. My parents started and ran five different businesses. Begging for candy was not part of the "pull yourself up by the boot" education they were instilling. Certainly threatening a "trick" was unsavory and unkind. My grandfather, the first generation Halloween curmudgeon lectured us on the dangers of presenting a false face. He was convinced that donning a monster mask now would predict an unsavory future. He quoted scripture about honesty. If some unsuspecting goblin would ring his doorbell on Halloween, said goblin would be the recipient of the same lecture. For good measure my grandfather would throw in a warning about a life spent in an eternal hell so horrific that the scariest haunted house would be a welcome reprieve.

On the other hand, Beth and her friends had a trick or treating team. Two weeks before Halloween they would hold tryouts for their team. No slow kids were allowed. Costumes were selected based on speed and agility. The "team" kept meticulous notes from year to year detailing which houses delivered the best treats--the Johnson's gave out full size candy bars if you got there early enough. The old man at the corner who handed out miniature Bibles was to be avoided at all costs. They practiced routes so they could reach the maximum number of houses in the two-hour allotted trick or treat time.

I often say that for every dollar we put into college savings for our kids, we put an equal amount into a therapy account. There is only so much "otherness" that one person can endure. I figure since my kids are destined for a life on the couch detailing how their moms screwed them up, I will get my full money's worth.

A few years ago, when Peyton was three and just learning about Halloween, I told her that this was the Halloween of vegetables. I explained that each year there was an announcement on the radio that instructed people on what to distribute for Halloween. The day before Halloween I delivered cans of green beans to my neighbor Renee. On Halloween night we went to Renee's house first. Renee is an elementary school principal and is therefore schooled in the art of torturing kids. With all the logic a three-year-old could muster, Peyton tried to explain that it was Halloween and you are s'posed to give candy.

Okay, so maybe Halloween isn't so bad. Last year was the Halloween of meat. This year is socks and underwear.

Beth is obviously a bigger influence on my kids. It is Halloween morning and the energy around the house is palpable. I woke up to Peyton singing "I want candy!" at her top volume level. Bennett will be Captain Hook. We were able to find the costume at the Disney store several weeks ago. He has a plush velvet jacket with gold thread details plus a hat with a real feather plume. Yesterday he went to Beth's school for her Halloween festivities. He couldn't bring his sword so he just looked like a pimp. Peyton will be a doctor. I told her it would be hilarious to carry around a basket of stuffed pigs and a syringe to immunize them against Swine Flu. She said that was lame and that the basket of pigs would just slow her down.

Emerson will be a mouse. When Peyton was four, she was an elephant for Halloween. Beth decided that it would be funny to dress baby Bennett in a mouse costume. Beth went online and ordered some crazy expensive mouse costume. The kind that can't be returned. She missed the part about the costume being made of white eyelet lace. I'm not sure any amount of therapy can overcome that for a boy. We decided that we couldn't allow Bennett to be a gay mouse. So Emerson will be the mouse this year.

A few weeks ago I found Peyton and Bennett trying to teach Emerson to say "trick or treat." They explained that she is so cute that she could get a lot of candy. But, since she is too little to eat most of the candy, they could split her bag among themselves.

So tonight I will tag along as the kids trick or treat. I don't completely understand the appeal of Halloween. I do understand how much I enjoy seeing my kids have fun. Besides they will fall asleep exhausted and surely we will have found a house that gives out full size candy bars.

Savor

I take a lot of photos. Since Peyton was born I have 5,349 "good" photos on my hard drive. Very few of these are worthy of a frame. Sure I delete the blurry ones, the ones where I cut off heads or limbs and the ones that show our house to be in complete disarray. I keep a lot.

I have this vision of a nursing home future. It will smell. Beth and I will take turns feeding each other pudding and reminding one another which medicine needs taking. I will have one prized possession. I will have my computer and it will be filled with memories.

I don't trust my actual memory anymore. I used to remember everything: song lyrics, special dates and the secret ingredients of my roasted corn salsa. Now I have a calendar that reminds me of birthday parties and soccer games; choir practice and doctors appointments. I wake up in the middle of the night remembering we need stain remover from Target. I can't go back to sleep because Bennett has school pictures on Thursday and I wonder when I will have 15 minutes to take him to the barber shop.

Before there were kids Beth and I took a trip to Northern California. One of our destinations was Napa Valley. We spent the large part of an afternoon on a rooftop terrace of a winery. We tasted many, many samples of wine, we ordered cheese and bread and fruit. We stayed long enough to watch the light change on the vineyard as the sun shifted. We sipped wine. We allowed the wine to wash over our tongues. We detected flavor notes. We savored. I used to savor and now I gobble.

It's tough to savor when you are throwing bags of nuggets and apple dippers to hungry kids in the back of the mini-van. My food selections are often made based what can be eaten on the move with minimal spillage. Not much opportunity for savoring. Our restaurant selection criteria has become: no wait, fast delivery of food and lots of noise so that we don't stand out anymore than two White women with three Black children are inclined to do.

I go entire days and never notice that the sun has shifted. The only light I notice is the low fuel light when it inconveniences me. I gobble up the day and claim victory if everyone was delivered everywhere--on time with everything they needed.

I want to savor. I want to savor the memories of Peyton and Bennett meeting Emerson for the first time. I want to remember how they investigated her fingers and marveled at how small they were. I want remember Peyton using her newly acquired 1st grade reading skills to read to Bennett when he was sick. I want to remember how he snuggled near her with his head on her shoulder. I want to remember the sheer delight on Emerson's face when she first was able to articulate that she wanted milk, instead of just screaming until we figured it out.

Sometimes these these moments happen during the big photo-worthy events. Sometimes they happen on a regular Tuesday. I take a lot of photos.

I want to remember that instead of saying apricots Bennett says leprechauns. I want to remember the the time when Peyton said that a girl in her class was not very polite-ful. I want to remember funny sayings and funny situations. I want to remember sweet touches and sweet exchanges. I am not very good at baby books but I write and I hope to use it as my memory.

I have a friend whose children are now out of college and are building lives of their own. She saw me shepherding my children during our hometown 4th of July parade. It's tough to keep order when there is candy and fire trucks and super heroes on floats. She saw me managing. She walked up to me, gently placed her hand on my arm and said: "Andrea, the days are long but the years are short. Enjoy them."

It is a tough thing to balance gobbling and savoring. I want to savor. As the list-maker and schedule-keeper I feel compelled to gobble. My kids are seven, five and almost two. I'm going to need a big hard drive for that computer.

Too Good To Be True?

Despite my natural proclivity to see every glass as slightly less than half empty, I am surprisingly hopeful about infomercial products. When I was about eleven-years-old, I was convinced that I had found the perfect Mother's Day gift. My mom loved to make apple pies. I just knew that she would make even more apple pies if only it weren't such an arduous task to peel the apples. When I found the magical apple peeling wand, I knew I had finally landed the mother of all gifts. (Pun slightly intended.)

The apple peeling wand was powered by electricity instead of human hands. A series of razor blades were inset at the tip of the wand. Plug in the magic apple wand and the tip would start spinning. A freshly peeled apple would appear in just seconds! Or so the box promised. When the apple wand was applied to the fruit, the razors would nick the peel. It was a slow process peeling an apple tiny nick by tiny nick. As an added bonus the little pieces of peel would fly everywhere. It was my first lesson that not everything is as good as promised.

Despite that early failure I have been undeterred when it comes to products that promise a reduction in household chores. Just check my cleaning supply closet and you will find entire shelves of products that promise to clean my bathroom with absolutely no effort on my part. If they promise to also eliminate harmful germs, I buy two.

I am dreadful at sewing. In fact on more than one occasion I have inadvertently attached the shirt that I was trying to mend to the pants that I was wearing. I have the shirt laying on my lap, I am sewing, sewing, sewing the button and viola, the new button is attached to the shirt that is attached the pants that I'm wearing. Imagine my glee when Ronco introduced the Buttoneer!

I can't quite decide whether to say it is fortunate or unfortunate that I often have the same hopeful expectation with people. When a friend is new and I am just learning their stories, it is easy to buy into the dream that this is the person who will not disappoint. This getting-to-know-you period is like the new box of a gadget: full of promise, clever packaging that hasn't yet been worn by years of use. Sometimes with a new gadget I sit with the package. I don't immediately tear it open. I want to luxuriate in the promise. I want to believe it is actually too good to be true. Sometimes I hold people at arms length. However you can tell the value of a friend when you take them out of their package of funny stories and witty banter and put them into a situation that requires them to reveal their inner workings.

Just like the magic apple wand, some friends hurt you with a thousand little nicks. It isn't an epic failure, just a bunch of little situations that make it clear that the person doesn't live up to the hopeful expectation you have about their loyalty or moral compass. Sometimes the friendship doesn't click. I'm sure the Buttoneer has worked for millions of people, just like the advertisement claims. It didn't work for me just like I don't click with all new friends. I lack some skill to be their friend. Maybe it's just easier to set them aside instead of doing the work of learning their intricacies. Maybe we just don't need each other's wisdom and experience at this particular time.

I'm going to keep trying--both with new gadgets and new friends. I imagine that it wasn't easy to be the first purchaser of a microwave oven. Really? I can cook a pot roast in just 13 minutes? Why that sounds too good to be true! The microwave works. It still isn't my preferred method for pot roast but it is pretty amazing at popcorn and midnight bottles of formula and Lean Cuisines at lunch.

Sometimes I'm going to select a friend who will nick me a thousand times. But sometimes I will find the friend who delivers on their promise and is just as delightful as hot, buttered popcorn prepared in just 3 minutes, 30 seconds.

Trains And Cars And Mercy

I am a train commuter. I wish I could say it's because I am a vigilant recycler and am concerned about the fossil fuels that I would burn if I drove into the city everyday. That wouldn't be true. I know I'm supposed to care for God's earth and in theory I do. But I'm also supposed to honor my mother and father and value all life and not covet my neighbor's perfectly green and manicured lawn. In the "to do list" of life, recycling falls to the bottom a lot of the time.

I commute by train for two reasons: I have ADHD when it comes to driving and because I am woefully passive behind the wheel.

I often conduct a goal-setting session with myself before I begin a car trip: pay attention, pay attention, pay attention. However as soon as I begin to follow a car with bumper stickers, it's all over. I wonder about the sort of person who plasters their car with slogans about witchcraft and vegetarianism and who obviously saves space in the landfill by storing all their fast food wrappers and empty cups in their back seat. I wonder if they have tried other religions and decided that wicca is the one that suits them best. I wonder if they were raised by a Catholic mother who forced them into a Catholic education complete with plaid jumpers. I wonder if their mom ever gets in that car. I wonder if they adorn their car like that in order to get under their mother's skin. I wonder if their boss sees that car. Do they have a job? If they don't have a job, how do they earn money? Oh no, what if they are living in their car? It's too small to sleep in the back seat. Oh, Emerson's pajamas are too small. We should probably head to Orland Park this weekend to go shopping. Oh, a Five Guys (burger joint) is opening in Orland Park. Tee hee hee, a vegetarian bumper sticker got me to think about a burger....

See? By the time that stream of consciousness plays out I could have turned a quick trip to the grocery store into an adventure in Iowa.

In addition I do not consider driving to be a blood sport. A successful car commuter (SCC) knows which lane to be in at which time. SCC's know to look way ahead to determine which lane is slowing down so as to avoid that lane. SCC's know when a busy exit is approaching and knows that there will be a whole gaggle of cars slowing down in the right lane in order to take that exit. SCC's know to be in the opposite lane. How do I know this? Beth is a successful car commuter and she tells me these things each time I mistakenly try to drive with her in the car. I imagine that car commuters start their day by slamming a Red Bull and biting off the head of a live chicken just so they can get their blood pumping. I also do not like to cut off people in traffic. It seems like cutting in line. It is as if I am in first grade and learning the line rules of the water fountain all over again. It's mean to cut in line. I do not like to switch back and forth between lanes. I cannot be bothered with all that. I am busily contemplating witchcraft and Catholicism and empty fast food wrappers.

Commuting by train is not without nuances. Train commuters tend to take the same train each morning. We become a quasi-community. I am part of the 7:45 am Flossmoor to Randolph Street/South Water collective. We have our own social norms. There is the grandmother who takes her young grandson to the University of Chicago elementary school each morning. No matter what time she arrives at the train station, she worms her way to the front of the group that is waiting to get on the train. Four of five mornings she is the first one on the train. She does whatever it takes to assure that. There is the guy who buys the Chicago Tribune each morning and throws away everything but the sports section. There is the 80's hair band rocker who wears black motorcycle boots year round and reeks of a lifetime spent smoking cigarettes. I often wonder if he really is in a hair band and if so, why does he have to be in the city early each morning?

We tend to sit in the same spot in the same train car. Once seated we pull out our books or iPods or slouch into a restful position. We glare at the non-regulars who talk loudly to their neighbors or who chat on their cell phones about business issues or bad dates.

Exiting the train exposes personality traits. There are those who get up from their seats and stand in the aisle until we come to a complete stop. They don't want to be on the train one minute longer than is necessary. I imagine that they are going to a job where a boss will yell if they are one minute tardy. There are those who wait until almost everyone has left the train before they get up. I imagine they are the ones who hate their jobs and want to prolong their non-work time as long as possible.

By the time we reach my station the aisles of the train car are clogged with my fellow commuters. Some will stop in the aisle and allow those still seated to move into the aisle ahead of them. Some set their jaw, look straight ahead and will not acknowledge the passenger waiting to leave the cramped quarters of their seat. No one and I mean no one will be allowed to cut in front of them! I imagine they don't have any issues with cutting off people in traffic either.

Each morning without fail, as I get up from my seat and make my way off the train, the exact same phrase pops into my head: show mercy just as it has been shown to you. I imagine that God has assigned some poor angel the job of tapping me on the shoulder each morning at 8:38 am. I think the angel is charged with reminding me to tread lightly on my fellow humans. I am reminded to smile and invite them into the aisle ahead of myself. Show them kindness, let them cut in front of you.

I take a moment. I think about some situation, some time in my life when someone has shown me kindness, mercy and grace. It doesn't matter whether or not I've yelled at my kids that morning or forgotten my lunch on the kitchen counter or spilled coffee in my lap. None of that matters. The phrase washes over me: show mercy just as it has been shown to you.

This is how I start my day. I wish I could say that by the end of the day I had always remembered to show kindness and grace and mercy. That is my growing edge. But as I step into each morning, that is my intent.

Speaking Truth

A couple of years ago I packed up Peyton and Bennett and headed to my parent's house in Missouri for a vacation week. It was Beth's first week back at school and I thought she would appreciate the week without some of the chaos of our family. Emerson was only a few months old, not mobile and hadn't yet displayed her full potential to wreak havoc. Beth could enjoy a week of getting her office settled during the day and evenings filled with treating Emerson like an only child. I could plan my favorite type of vacation: relaxation through non-stop action.

I planned a full schedule of boating, swimming, amusement parks and baseball games. My mother made one simple request for the week--that we attend church with her. My parents were anxious to have their church friends meet the kids. It seemed reasonable that my mother made this request. Okay so maybe there'd be just a little bit of stress in this vacation.

My parents attend a Baptist mega-church in the South--attendance of 3,000 at each of 3 services, choirs that top 300, multiple pastors and fantastic programming. But it was a Baptist mega-church in the South.

My kids attend church just about every Sunday. While they don't always have perfect behavior they at least know the basics. It didn't cross my mind to be concerned about their behavior. I was worried about mine. (Remember, I walk out of churches--see the blog titled: I Am A Promise.) At 5 and 3-years-old Peyton and Bennett were familiar with the rhythm of worship.

As we walked in the front doors of my parents' church, Bennett put on the skids. He refused to move. He pointed out that this was not his church and that he didn't want to be there. He was three and very skinny so it wasn't difficult to pick him up and carry him on my hip despite his protestations.

As we sat down and tried to get settled, Bennett continued to tell me that he didn't want to be in this church. He wanted his church. My mom pulled out her bag of tricks: Goldfish crackers, candy, crayons, gum. I found this just a bit odd since her bag of tricks when I was growing up was a dirty look and a promise of a spanking if I didn't behave.

Three thousand people singing a hymn can easily drown out a whining boy. During the announcements and prayer requests, there were enough audible "Amens!" to drown out Ben's small voice. But we had to pray at some point. We were instructed to bow our heads. I'm fairly certain that no one was praying harder than me. It was unreal that 3,000 people could be that quiet. Bennett waited until the sanctuary was absolutely still before screaming: "I hate this church and I want to get out of here now!!"

Never has one of his requests been honored so quickly. I'm pretty sure I ran over the tops of pews in my effort to get out of the sanctuary. We found our way to the cry room. It didn't take long for the mothers of fussy infants to clear out of that room also. Everyone was giving Bennett a wide berth.

As if the heavens opened to provide me with new wisdom, I suddenly understood something my mom used to say when I said or did something she found inappropriate. "I wanted to dig a hole and crawl in it." Oh...that's what she meant.

While I was embarrassed, I couldn't be mad at Bennett. The truth is, I was feeling the same way, I just didn't say it. Somewhere between the ages of three and forty-two, I learned that throughout my life I would have a lot of thoughts and sometimes those thoughts should just stay in my head. Sometimes I remember the lesson. Sometimes I don't.

There are times when situations are so unsettling and so troubling to me that I have to speak out. It is as if the words start out as a slight grumble down in my toes and by the time they reach my lips they are a full, glass-shattering scream. The fact that I can speak and not scream is some sort of physical wonder.

It isn't easy for me to figure out whether I'm speaking a truth that needs to be heard or if I'm just screaming out in a proverbial quiet sanctuary. Maybe if I were not a person of faith it might be easier to decide what is appropriate or not. I know it's important to speak the truth. I also know that I must speak that truth with love. It's that "with love" part that gets me. Every time.

As part of my volunteer life I participate in a lot of meetings. I listen to presentations, pitches and pleas and then I'm asked what I think. Sometimes I look around the room hoping someone else will take on the job of telling the emperor that he is naked. When no one else speaks up, I feel that grumble in my toes, the scream is forming.

When speaking the truth, I wish I were always mindful of speaking with care, with concern, with love. I wish I could make the "love part" as evident as the "truth part." I am not so good at this.

Ben was being honest. He was speaking his truth. Because of his delivery his message was discounted, brushed off as the outburst of a petulant toddler. Even if he had calmly explained his position and made clear the things about that church that he found unsettling, I'm not sure I would have listened. Best case I would have listened but probably not acted on his request to leave.

So how do we learn whether or not our truth should be told? How do we know if we are being petulant toddlers or a prophet in the wilderness? How can we be mindful that the things we are saying are said with love? Maybe that's a lesson I will get in my next 4o years.

Literally

This week we have officially entered the world of spelling tests. On Monday Peyton brought home her list of words. Her teacher, Mrs. Seidel, attached an instruction sheet for the parents. Thank God! Imagine the blow to my ego if my first child failed her first spelling test.

Per the instruction sheet we were to complete a spelling word activity each night so that the children would be prepared for a spelling test on Friday. The first night we were to cut apart the words and have Peyton sort them into categories. Mrs Seidel assured us that the children knew the categories and could explain them to us. One category was words with "short a" sounds. Another category was "long a" sounds. The third category was "eyeball." I questioned Peyton on the "eyeball" category. Despite having successfully navigated many English and journalism classes in college, I had never heard of the eyeball category. Peyton insisted. I was anxious to learn about this one. Of the entire list of 20 words, only the word "what" was an eyeball.

So Peyton sorted the words for me. Rake--long a; snap--short a; make--long a, glass--short a. On Tuesday we were to do a blind sort. We parents, at least those of us who believe that we will have to relinquish our "mother of the year" trophies if our children don't master first grade spelling, were to read off the list of words. Without seeing the words Peyton was supposed to tell me the category of each word. I read the word, Peyton squeezed shut her eyes, thought about her options for what seemed like 7 minutes and declared each word to be short a or long a.

After four words, I couldn't take it any longer. I was ready to raise the white flag on first grade spelling. It had taken Peyton 428 minutes to make four easy classifications. With each word she closed her eyes, fluttered her eyelids, rubbed her temple and waited a seriously long time before making the declaration. I told her she needed to speed up or she would be repeating the first grade several more times. Still she closed her eyes and thought about each word.

I had to leave for a meeting so I suggested that Beth take a crack at this spelling thing. What's the use of having a teacher/principal for a mom if not to help out in situations like this. I suggested to Beth that Peyton may have a photographic memory because she was trying to see each word in her head before categorizing them. I knew that kid was brilliant.

When I got home that night, Beth informed that that Peyton was doing much better. Apparently when I told Peyton that we were doing a blind sort, she thought she had to pretend to be blind during the exercise. Oh and the category "eyeball"...she was trying to say oddball. It is going to be a long year.

I Am A Promise...

There's a song I learned as a child in Sunday School. Those who are younger may know it from VeggieTales. Read the words, if you know the song, see if you can stop yourself from humming it the rest of the day. Sorry 'bout that.

I am a promise

I am a possibility

I am a promise with a capital P

I am a great big bundle of potentiality

Catchy tune that one...powerful message to a child. Promise. Potential. Possibility.

I cannot for the life of me come up with a comparable song for the word abomination. And yet, that is what I was recently called. Talk about the journey of a lifetime. In about four decades, I have moved from a great big bundle of potentiality to an abomination of God. There is no catchy song for this word.

The twisted part is that I heard both from church folks. If I had to bet, the woman who called me an abomination probably attends a church that teaches their kids the promise song.

My recent brush with the abomination label was what I call a "drive by shooting." A drive by is one of those random acts of verbal violence. The most disturbing thing about a drive by shooting is that you don't have to look into the eyes of your target before you decide to pull the trigger. You feel the release of squeezing the trigger (or sending the email) but you don't have to experience the aftermath of the violence.

A person I once knew in high school is now a "facebook friend." I don't see that we have much in common. But I'm an adult and the adult thing to do on facebook is to exchange pleasantries about children and aging and the weather. That is the extent of our exchanges.

A couple of weeks ago I received an email through facebook:

"Andrea, are you divorced? I see that you support gay marriage. I also notice that you talk a lot about church and youth group in your posts. God clearly says homosexuality is an abomination. How could you possibly support it? By the way your facebook posts are hilarious."

Drive by shooting.

Several years ago, after we adopted Peyton, Beth and I decided that we needed to find our way back to a church, back to God. We tried out several churches. And we left several churches in the middle of the sermon. Some of the stuff coming from the pulpit felt like it was defiling my head. I couldn't endure it for the sake of politeness.

Beth stopped going with me. Her instructions to me were to try out a church for a few Sundays. When I was absolutely sure I could listen to an entire sermon, then she would give it a try also. Eventually I made it to our neighborhood church. I made it through the first sermon, then the second and eventually I couldn't stand the thought of missing a service. We had found home.

I decided that the most expedient way to determine what this faith community was all about was to attend the membership class. I had really come to love this church. The last thing I wanted to do was to create controversy. So before we started the class I emailed the pastor.

I explained our family. I explained that if we decided to join, we would be active. We would serve, we would engage, we would learn. I wanted to know if this would create a problem. I wanted to know if there would have to be some special meeting to decide if we could join the church.

What came back to me was the single most healing message of my life. First the pastor apologized that I even had to ask the questions. Then she said: "We will welcome you. We will help you discover your gifts. We will be more complete as a community when you use your gifts with us."

Do you hear the song? I am a promise, I am a possibility....

You Can't Always Get What You Want....

The Rolling Stones have a song "You Can't Always Get What You Want." I'm not a big fan--haven't been since my junior year of high school when a boy that I really liked wrote the chorus of that song in my yearbook as a way to explain that we didn't have a dating future. [Don't worry. This isn't what made me gay.]

"You can't always get what you want.

But if you try sometimes, you might just find, you get what you need."

Beth and I started the adoption process in 2000. The Cradle in Evanston had just began to allow same gender couples to adopt. They didn't exactly have all their processes worked out. When we received a mass mail piece it was ALWAYS addressed to Mr. & Mrs. We complained. Other same gender couples did as well. We were told they hadn't figured out a way to fix the automatically generated greeting.

You might say that I'm data driven. Apparently this means I'm in exact opposition to SOME social workers who are driven by hoping, wishing, puppies and stuffed unicorns in the rear window of their beat-up Nissan Sentras. The adoption process wasn't a fun one for me. I wanted statistics. I wanted averages. I wanted predictable timelines. The social workers couldn't give me any of those things.

Then entire adoption process took us about a year and a half. It was a year of getting prepared: attending classes, group therapy sessions, writing our dear birth mother letter. Some make it through that part faster. We slowed ourselves down. There were so many things to figure out. So many things that would challenge us and our future kid.

Once we had completed all the necessary steps, the really hard part started. The waiting. The out of my control, jump every time the phone rings, wait patiently, wait not so patiently part of adoption. We were lucky. It seemed every time I was ready to throw in the towel, Beth was up and feeling positive. And then we switched roles and it was my turn to be glass half full about the situation.

Each time a birth mother would approach the Cradle they would ask if she might be willing to consider a same gender couple. Not many were. We didn't get many "at bats." Part of the "getting ready" process is to determine what "medical risks" we would be willing to accept. If the birth parents had a history of mental illness, would we say yes? If the birth mother used drugs throughout the pregnancy would we say yes? What about a history of mental retardation? Cleft palate? Blindness?

A few times during the wait our social worker called us and said that she had a birth mother willing to consider choosing a same gender couple. But there were risks beyond what we had indicated was acceptable. These were difficult situations. One birth mother did heroin every day of her pregnancy. Would we say yes? One birth mother tried to self-abort by doing 12 shots of tequila and throwing herself off a bed. Would we say yes? The first call was the toughest. I'm not sure anyone enters the process hoping for this. Secretly we all hoped for the brilliant college student, fitness-freak birth mother who found herself in an unplanned pregnancy. These were tough discussions for Beth and me. Someone was asking us to put a stake in the ground about what we wanted, what we valued, who we were as people.

We decided, if not us, then who? It became our mantra for future calls. We would say yes. In our hearts we knew that we would have the strength and resources sufficient for the situation. If not us, then who?

The thing is, these birth mothers didn't say yes to us. What??? We had created this life that included a house with a backyard, stable jobs, a loving relationship and yet it still wasn't good enough. I may have been just a little angry.

Finally in August of 2002 a birth mother came to the Cradle looking for a same gender couple to parent her baby. She wasn't sure about the father...may be Black, may be Caucasian, may be Hispanic. Oh, and she was headed to prison after the birth. She wanted a same gender couple. She was willing to take a chance on us. She wanted to see the materials of a male couple and a female couple.

She didn't choose us. Devastation.

During the whole "getting ready to adopt" process, we had become friends with the gentlemen she did choose. We found out she didn't choose us because the guys called to let us know they would have a baby in a matter of days. We hid our tears; we shared their joy. We decided that maybe having children wasn't the plan for us. We decided to use all the money we had saved for the adoption to buy big jewelry.

A few weeks later a colleague of mine, Susan, gave birth to her first son. Susan's office was next to mine. During each stage of her pregnancy she would tell me what was going on. The baby is developing fingers and toes. The baby can respond to sound. The baby can kick a soccer ball down the field for a goal. Susan gave me the "feel" of pregnancy without the swollen feet and hands, without the morning sickness and exhaustion.

Since I had walked the pregnancy journey with Susan, it made sense to visit her shortly after the birth. After my visit, I returned to the office and to a voice mail from our social worker. I returned the call sure that I needed to sign another form or attend one more class. But instead she said the most magical words ever.

Social Worker: You and Beth have been chosen to parent a little girl.

Me: When is she due?

Social Worker: She was born 4 days ago.

Me: When can we meet her?

Social Worker: Come now.

Peyton, Bennett and Emerson have the same birth mother. This one call started us down a path that completed our family.

Seven years ago I got what I needed. I always get what I need.

A Pretty Good Start

I have many nicknames for my children. In fact I often wonder why we bother to give them formal names at all. We should have left the birth certificate blank or put in some phrase like "to be determined after we get to know them a bit better." Some of the nicknames are actually endearing. Most of them poke fun at something. I know, I know... I should build their self-esteem.

I often call Peyton "Jitter-bug." From the day we met her she has been on the move. When she was a baby she had a toy bug called a jitter bug. Pull a string and it wiggled all over the place. We have a real live jitter bug--no string pulling necessary. When Peyton was teething she was a bucket of spit. Therefore "Jitter-bug" dissolved into "Jit-Spit." Lately I've been calling her "One Shoe."

Have you ever been driving down a road or highway and seen one shoe? This is very disturbing to me. I can understand losing two shoes. Perhaps you put your shoes on the roof of your car as you were getting the kids loaded into car seats and they fell off as you drove away. There are potential explanations for losing a pair of shoes. How does someone lose one shoe? Very disturbing I tell you.

While Peyton hasn't technically lost one shoe yet, I fully expect her to walk home from school one day minus a shoe. "Mama, I don't know what happened...I had two shoes when I left school but now one is just missing...." Over the short years of her life she's lost pants, jackets, toys, toothbrushes. She has misplaced books, baseball cleats, earrings and on occasion a sibling. And this can happen on the way from the family room back to her bedroom.

Case in point: last winter we bought Peyton a pair of ear warmers that perfectly matched her coat. We explained that these were very expensive and that if she lost them she would have to go without or return a Christmas present to re-buy them. Okay, let's be honest. They weren't that expensive but we had to get to her somehow. And lest you are composing a letter to the Department of Children and Family Services, you should know that Peyton had a perfectly warm stocking cap to wear. She wanted the ear warmers because that's what the big kids (3rd graders) wear.

One week after the introduction of ear warmers to Peyton's winter ensemble, they went missing. Peyton waged quite a search. She scoured the lost and found at school, at church, at her friend's house. We refused to help. She lost them and she would have to find them.

Finally, she went into the closet where we keep our coats. She sat on the floor and prayed: "Dear God, PLEASE help me find these ear warmers." And like I've done so many times in my life, she thought of God as a Santa Claus figure. Please God, can you just give me this job, this house, this baby. Or, I know I have made the mistake but please God, help me find it, fix it, change it.

For the record, two weeks after the ear warmers were misplaced, Beth was helping Peyton put on her coat. She felt something hard in one of the sleeves. It was the ear warmers. Peyton had been wearing them in the sleeve of her coat for two weeks and never noticed. One shoe.

Each night before dinner, one of the kids prays. We aren't so good at the before bed prayers. There are three kids and three different bed times. Someone has always misplaced a favorite blanket or toy or there is an all-family bounty hunt to find at least one pacifier for Emerson. We eat dinner together almost every night so it makes sense to do our praying then.

Usually Bennett volunteers to pray. In fact, we have taken to calling him Pastor Ben. On Saturday night his prayer was short, complete, heart-felt. "Dear Jesus, I'm sorry for calling my sister a big idiot. Amen." Ah, confession.

Earlier in the day the kids had been racing on the front sidewalk. Peyton is fast. Ben has the skinniest little legs--sometimes his nickname is Chicken Legs. He does this skip-hop thing and looks like he kicks his bottom with each stride. Peyton always wins. So after losing race after race Ben sat down in the grass, crossed his arms and in frustration, he screamed out at his sister.

Our pre-dinner prayers often follow a theme. In January I went on a work trip to New Orleans to help re-build houses. To help the kids understand why I would be gone for a week, we showed them pictures of the Lower 9th Ward after Hurricane Katrina. For several days after that Pastor Ben's prayers went something like "Dear God, make sure no one's house blows away today. You know people need houses, right?"

A few weeks ago Pastor Ben was praying once again. When he had finally thanked God for every member of our family, every kid in his class, every toy he owns, and the rockin' good mac 'n cheese, I looked up to discover Peyton was missing from the table. She was on her knees with her forehead pressed to the floor. Of course I asked. Of course she had a reply. "Mom, you know some people pray like this."

My kids know to ask God for help. They are starting to understand confession. They know they can petition God for the sake of others. They know that not everyone reaches God in the same way. I think One Shoe and Pastor Ben are off to a pretty good start.

Respect the Wave

A few summers ago, during our annual vacation week at the beach, my daughter Peyton and I spent considerable time each day playing in the waves. We would wade into the water until it reached my waist and since Peyton was a short six-year-old, the water was about chest-high for her. We would face the ocean and wait for the waves to roll over us. When we saw a wave coming our way we would brace ourselves for impact. Sometimes, if the wave looked really ominous, Peyton would jump into my arms and we would cling together as the wave crashed around us. As long as we knew the wave was coming, we could keep our balance and remain standing. But invariably we would turn our backs to the ocean to look at a kite, a squealing kid or barking dog. And when we turned our backs, the waves would knock us off balance and we would end up with eyes and mouths full of salt water. Once we regained our footing, we would look at each other and proclaim: "You did NOT respect the wave!" Then we would laugh and turn around once more.

I feel like this about race. As long as I keep vigilant watch, the issues surrounding our transracial family don't knock me off balance. But if I relax, if I linger at some diversion as simple as a kite, I get knocked down and thrown off balance.

The core of our jobs as parents is to give our kids the tools necessary for living a full life. I'm not talking about financial success or educational achievement. I am talking about success as humans. I could write a book on what I hope for my kids: that they know love; that they know God; that they know how to be kind and generous; that they know how to laugh at a really funny situation; they know how to be independent and how to rely on others. Included in that list would be the knowledge of how to move in the world. But what if I don't know how to move in the world they will face?

Later that summer, as I pulled into the parking lot to drop off Peyton at day camp, she begged me to stay in the car and let her sign herself in. Now from the time Peyton was physically able to hold her own bottle she has been the epitome of "do it myself" so this wasn't a big shock. I laughed her off and explained that the rules said I had to sign her in and that wasn't negotiable. Her pleading became more insistent. We went back and forth until I had lost patience and yelled at her to tell me why. Peyton and I walk a razor thin tightrope together concerning her independence. I encouraged her to ride a two-wheeler and yet I wouldn't let her ride it out of my sight. I love her self-confidence but I want her to display it in my full view. I get a kick out our her social skills but I want a hand in picking her friends. I'm a mom. And my oldest daughter wants the sweet taste of freedom.

In the battle of wills I usually win when I pull out the punishment card. If you don't X, your punishment will be Y. I had lost patience and I threatened her with some loss of privilege. Sullen, arms crossed, eyes cast downward, her words came tumbling out. Not well-formed, not manipulative, not rehearsed. "Mama, I'm embarrassed by you." Pause. "I'm brown and you're not. The older kids at camp say it's weird." And I was knocked down by a wave six years in the making.

I opened the van doors, hastily put on a pair sunglasses and fought tears. Peyton bounded out of the van and ran to the congregating crowd of kids. I walked to the sign-in desk and scribbled something resembling my name.

As I walked back to the van I had burning salt in my eyes and the taste of tears on my lips. But it didn't taste like the beach. I hadn't respected the wave. I didn't see this coming. I didn't cry because my feelings were hurt. It wasn't that at all. My daughter, the absolute love and joy of my life was handling a situation and it was a world I didn't know. Jumping into my arms would not help her ride out this wave.

My kids know their story of adoption. We celebrate their birthday and their gothcha' day--the day we got them from the adoption agency's nursery. They understand why, at least factually, we don't have the same skin color or hair. Sometimes the factual answers don't say enough.

When a big wave came barreling toward us at the beach I taught my daughter to ride out the crashing water by jumping into my arms. I loved feeling that my strong embrace could protect her from anything. It's time I teach her to keep her feet and roll with the water on her own. From now on we will jump the waves, side by side, while holding hands. That seems like a better way.

Really, no we can't have it all....

Okay, let me just say it. I will say it early in the post so that as you read along you can be composing your rebuttal. So here it is: We cannot have it all! And whoever said that we can may very well be the anti-Christ or the president of the PTO (Parent Teacher Organization).

I have a job. One that requires me to sit on a train for 40 minutes, walk to a office building and sit at a desk. My daughter says I boss people around and write checks. She isn't too far off. By virtue of this arrangement I cannot be a room mother, I cannot volunteer at the library each morning or do the 10-11:30 am shift at the book fair. I'm pretty okay with that.

Do I work harder than stay at home parents? Do they work harder than me? I don't know. Does it matter? I love my children. Parents who stay at home love their children. We all do what is best for our families. No judgment here. Am I engaged in warfare with people who make different choices? No. Do I feel like some people are? Unfortunately yes.

I have tremendous respect for parents who choose to stay at home with their children. I must admit that they do the heavy lifting with field trips, class parties and bake sales. I know that if I stayed at home the only thing I'd be lifting is a fifth of gin. Every day. Hopefully there is value in showing kids that you can work and be a good parent. And to be honest, since we are both just as likely to screw up our kids. We should probably work at this together.

Out of sheer curiosity, I want to know what the heck Peyton is doing with the 35 glue sticks we sent to school with her, so occasionally I want be at her school. However, I am uniquely unqualified to help out in a classroom. The president of the PTO had promised us that there would be a way for all of us to get involved. I was skeptical. On the volunteer form there wasn't a check box for teaching a class on sarcasm. No one needed me to chaperone a field trip to a brewery. And the job description clearly said BAKE cookies--not pick them up at 7-Eleven on the morning of the event.

At the kindergarten parent orientation meeting my daughter's teacher, Miss Watson, declared her need for parent helpers. She described how we could be a part of our children's first journaling experience. She needed one person to volunteer for one hour every Friday morning for a month. Journaling? Hmm, I like to write, I think writing is a one of those key life skills, this just may be something that I could do. So I signed up for October. It would be the kids first month of journaling. I had high hopes.

Miss Watson explained that we would start slowly. She had copied worksheets with a word missing from a sentence. The children would fill in the word and draw a picture to correspond with the sentence. Not exactly journaling...more like MadLibs.

The first sentence of our journaling lesson: I like to [blank] in October. My task was to wander around the room, help children decide what they like to do in October and help them spell any tricky words.

First up: Christopher. I asked young Christopher what he liked to do in October. His response: I like to ride around on a horse with a pumpkin on my head and use my sword to chop off the heads of people in the spooky forest. I said: Christopher, what I heard you say is that you like to carve pumpkins. So Christopher let's start by writing 'carve pumpkins' in the blank. I will wander around the room and help other children. I will be back in a few moments to check your work.

So I wandered. And I returned to Christopher and his blank paper. Christopher, what's going on? Why haven't you written 'carve pumpkins'? Blank stare. Okay, let's stretch out the word and see if you can figure out how to spell carve. CCCC---AAAARRRR----VVVVVEEEE. Blank stare. Nothing. Okay Christopher how about if I help you with the beginning sound. "C", the letter is "c." Start by writing a "c." Blank stare. Christopher, the letter "c" is the beginning letter in your name. Christopher, look at the laminated name on your desk. Can you find the letter "c"? Christopher, where are your parents??? Were you raised by wolves? How can you not know the first letter of your name!!! The next week Miss Watson suggested that I sit at a desk in the front of the room and the children could read their papers to me.

You think I would have learned. But then again by now you probably know that I'm a slow learner. Because I ignored the pleas for help with the holiday party, Valentine party, teacher appreciation party, field trip, recycle week and wrapping paper fundraiser I figured it was time I donated a little of my time to the cause of enriching my eldest child. So, I volunteered to help at the class picnic.

I was assigned the tattoo station. It was that or the tie-dye station. Quite frankly the idea of kindergardeners with indelible ink scares the bejesus out of me. Plus with tattoos I can continue my quest to inspire kids to a life of delinquency.

So for an hour and a half I sat on the steps and applied tattoo after tattoo after tattoo. Occasionally one of the mothers who were more experienced in the art of picnic volunteering would wander by and ask pseudo-questions like: "Oh my, you are letting them get a tattoo on their faces?" Yeah, I only felt a little bad when I inadvertently applied one upside-down. I just explained to the kid that I did it on purpose so they could read "I heart the USA" when they looked down on their cheek.

My other favorite pseudo-question from the uber-moms was "My aren't they colorful with all those tattoos? Isn't there some sort of limit on the number of tattoos they can select?" My reply: "There might be but some of these kids are destined for a life of full ink sleeves and I want to give them a glimpse into their future."

Alas, another year is upon us. Next week Peyton will be navigating the wilds of first grade. Last week at registration and fee payment day there was "volunteer fair" set up in the gym. Moms (no offense dads but I didn't see any of you there) scurried around the gym hoping against all hope that they were the first to sign up for the recycling campaign, PTO hot lunch handouts, the 100th day of school party or something like that. I casually wandered by the table for Junior Great Books. Hmm, reading, I like to read, I wonder if I could help with that....

Ignorance Plus Anger Equal...

We are a conspicuous family. This is the positive adoption language way of saying that no one mistakes us for Ward, June, Wally and Beaver Cleaver. There are very, very few places where our family is "the norm." When we walk into a room people look. I used to think it was because I was such a snappy dresser but.... When we were initially moving through the adoption process one of the big issues to ponder was our comfort level with being conspicuous. I wouldn't consider myself to be attention seeking--though I guess since I have a blog I might need to re-examine that assertion. When it was just Beth and me, people often thought we were just friends or even sisters; that made things easier for some. When Peyton turned us into mothers, it wasn't quite so easy for people to assume our relationship was mainstream. Now that we have three African American children and can often be seen corralling, herding, admonishing, teaching, hugging, correcting and supporting, it is pretty clear that we are an alternate definition of a family.

Part of our adoption education from the Cradle (adoption agency in Evanston, Illinois) was how to handle the inevitable questions and comments from complete strangers, acquaintances and family members. [I intentionally left out "friends" from the list. Complete strangers who have no boundaries are often whack jobs, acquaintances often don't take the time to understand a situation and family...well they are family and their filters don't often work.]

Admittedly some of the adoption stuff had questionable relevance. I'm not sure why we had to have a fire escape route complete with a floor plan prior to having a baby placed with us but the conspicuous family training was excellent. Our children watch us. They pick up on our body language, our tone of voice, the words we use to describe. And, when we are confronted, they watch how we respond.

In addition to being conspicuous our family is also trans-racial. This means that I get to walk along an interesting path when it comes to race and racism. If I were to put a penny in a jar each time someone made a positive comment about our family and then take out a penny each time someone made a negative statement, I would have a jar full of pennies. Overwhelmingly I hear positive comments. Unfortunately, I remember the ugly ones.

For the past 5 years I have had three examples of this ugliness. When we first brought home Peyton, some older "friends of the family" stopped by our house to see her. The older woman picked up Peyton, examined her and said "So, what is wrong with her?" My first response which I thankfully kept in my head, was "You're an old woman and I'm pretty sure I can take you." My calmer angels took over and I responded that she was absolutely perfect. I'm just not sure the woman would have asked the question if Peyton were white.

My next example happened when Peyton was about 18-months-old. We were walking through a store and a clerk paid more attention to us than was necessary or typical. She finally said: "Hm, hm, hmm I just don't think I could love a child of another race." The clerk was Black.

The third example happened when Peyton was about 2 1/2. I had her perched on my shoulders as we walked around a store in the south suburbs where we live. Beth was returning something and I was charged with occupying the toddler. A man walked up to me and loudly asked me where I had gotten the child. Those of you who know me know that I love to talk about adoption. So naively I went about explaining that we had adopted Peyton. The man interrupted me and with a look of abject judgment and anger he said that she would never, ever be my child. When I realized that I was being confronted I moved Peyton from my shoulders to my hip and I held her a little tighter. I scanned the area around me maybe looking for an exit or maybe looking for a friendly face who might step in and declare the man "crazy." There were plenty of people who witnessed this. But no friendly faces emerged. It took me a long time to go back into that store.

In the past four and half years there may have been other incidents. Maybe I'm too busy corralling, admonishing, laughing or hugging to notice. That's why I was caught off guard by a situation on vacation.

I should go on record as saying that I have boycotted the state of South Carolina for several years now. Any state that would fly the confederate flag probably doesn't break out the good china for our family's visit. But Beth's brother and sister-in-law invited us to visit their vacation home on Kiawah Island. I was steeled for the visit. I was ready to voice my indignation and bolt at the first sign of separate drinking fountains or segregated lunch counters. [I realize that sounds crazy but in my mind South Carolina had never moved past the Civil Rights era.]

Whether good manners precluded any untoward comments or enough Yankees had infiltrated the island, we didn't face any overt hostility. However, one day Beth and I were playing with Emerson in the baby pool while the big kids were hanging out in the big pool with their Aunt Caroline. A man with the Southern accent that signals ignorance versus gentility asked me which one of us was the mother. I replied that we both were. Then he pointed at Emerson and sweeping his hand up and down as if to encompass all of her said "So, why did you pick THAT color." And, with the word "that" he implied the color of her skin was something less than ideal. I wanted to believe that I hadn't heard his question. I wanted to believe that he was talking about swim suit colors instead. So I looked at him quizzically and said "I'm sorry?"

He went on to say to declare that she must be adopted and he wanted to know why we would pick that color. Wow. He said it twice. It wasn't a lapse of reason. It was a real question.

During our conspicuous family training we learned that there are three ways to handle situations like this. We could use humor (of which I am a big fan); we could reply with anger or we could educate. The "rule" is that we should take the pulse of our children. Above all else we need to protect them. This isn't the time to match wits, suggest a fiery location for their afterlife or disclose more than is necessary. Take a heartbeat is what we were told. And that is what I did.

I decided that the man asked out of ignorance. In my experience when you add anger to ignorance the outcome is rarely positive. Think confederate flags hanging in state capitals. I decided to educate.