The Mamahood

Lessons From a High-School Reunion

I wasn't sure I wanted to go to my high school reunion. As my angst-filled journals can attest, high school was not a high point in my life—as it wouldn't be for any overly sensitive girl who hadn't yet embraced her inner geek, who tried desperately but never felt like she fit in. So why would I revisit it? I found myself asking that very same question as I pulled into the parking lot, hands shaking, with an overwhelming urge to turn the car around.

But in the end, I'm glad that I didn't run screaming. Because now that I've survived both high school and the 20-year reunion, I've lived to tell you what I learned.

1. You will second guess your decision to drink like a college student at a high school reunion. I figured a gin and tonic was the perfect way to calm my nerves—but quickly found myself testing my tolerance in ways I haven't since I won a drinking contest in an Aruban nightclub. Better advice? A (doctor-prescribed) valium—especially if you have a long car ride with small children ahead of you the following day.

2. You won't need to fret about the 20 pounds you gained in the 20 years since high school. There were a few people who somehow managed to keep the sleek physiques they had in high school, but the majority of my former classmates (myself included) would have a hard time fitting into their prom dresses or acid-washed jeans.

3. You may find closure. If you have unresolved issues with particular high school classmates, you may discover that seeing them in person makes those issues suddenly melt away.

4. Someone will definitely surprise you. It may be that the kid you thought wouldn't amount to anything is suddenly super successful with a fabulous life. It may be that the person who ruled the school became a loser after graduation. Or you may have a great conversation with someone who didn't give you the time of day in high school, but could become your best friend down the line. But you won't know if you don't go. 

5. You'll be amazed how many people found their mates at high school. Or at least, I was amazed how many, given the size of my school.

6. You'll discover that, for the most part, everyone turned out okay in the end. Granted, the nonattendees could all be homeless and/or living in their parents' basements. But the people who came were all doing well: We had teachers, an architect, an author, a college administrator, a doctor and a seemingly unending supply of nurses in attendance—and a lot of people with happy marriages and happy kids. (Or at least, that's what they were telling us!) 

Happy 20 year, class of 1990—I'm glad I went.

Milestones

The day after tomorrow, my oldest is a first grader, and her first year of elementary school is over. The week after that, she'll turn 6—and she'll be officially through the first 1/3 of her childhood. To me, it's blown by in an instant. I can still distinctly remember how she fluttered in my arms like a little bird when I held her for the first time, five years ago next month.

That's the hardest part of being a parent. As you're cheering your child on through milestones both well celebrated (the end of a school year) and silently, invisibly achieved (my youngest's newfound ability to pronounce those always tough ls and fs), every accomplishment they make is another step away from you.

And though I'm working hard every day to ensure my girls grow up to be confident, well-adjusted, independent adults, selfishly, I wish that I could slow or stop time, and keep them forever as they are now—my sweet, boisterous almost-six-year-old with the loose tooth, who's completely confident in her abilities to conquer anything, and my mischievous, giggly three-year-old who's always on the go (even when she's supposed to be asleep). 

I"m going to miss this particular moment in time, dearly, when it's gone. But I'm excited to see what's next for these two.

Where Will the Helicopter Parenting End?

I feel a bit bad for the poor teen girl in the cell phone commercial—the one whose mom is tracking her every move, surreptitiously, with a big-brother style cell phone app. I know it's meant to be a touching, "poor mom can't let go" kind of moment, but it comes across as a little creepy to me.

Even though I know where it's coming from. Because as a mom in this  new age of hyper-aware parenting, allowing kids the kind of freedom I enjoyed growing up is considered tantamount to neglect. By the time I was my oldest's age, I know I was playing out in the yard without a parent breathing down my neck. It'll be at least a few years before I'd consider doing the same thing—probably about the time my mom decided I was able to go off on my own with a "see you at dinner time" to run around the neighborhood with my pals.

We've bumper-padded childhood to the point where kids may not learn the valuable life skills they need to survive. We've cushioned the sharp edges, uprooted playground equipment, and overscheduled our kids' lives to the point where they no longer get that chance to run wild, to discover new things—to maybe test their fledgling life skills in the face of real life.

But even though I know all this overattention is smothering, I can't stop myself from doing it. I hyperventilate at the thought of letting my kids walk alone to the school five doors away from our house, in the presence of countless neighbors who know my kids and would step in if something happened. I have a hard time considering leaving them with a teen neighbor, even though she's a lovely, responsible girl who is already much older than I was when people entrusted me with their kids. And I'm thinking my daughter will likely be legal age to drive before I'd consider letting her go hang out at a mall with her friends.

It's a shame, really. Because the kids haven't changed a bit—but somewhere, at some point, we parents did.

Green with Envy

Every evening, as I wander the neighborhood with my rabbit-chasing puppy, I find myself discovering that the grass really is greener, pretty much all over my neighborhood.

Because I start every spring with great expectations: This will be the year when I turn my overgrown front yard into a charming English garden (just a touch on the wild side). And by year's end, I have a somewhat lovely but totally overgrown mass of green (with plenty of weeds thrown in for good measure).

Unfortunately, I bought a house in a neighborhood populated with the types of people who can manage a landscape. There are an abundance of able-bodied retired folk, who have nothing left to tend to but their luxe emerald lawns (so soft and plush I want to lie down and nap on them). There's also a significant number of stay-at-home moms who have kids in school—and so have a leisurely morning to spend planting pansies and keeping the dandelions at bay. And of course, there's a small minority of working couples with no kids, who may not be tending their gardens during the week, but aren't spending their weekends constantly running kids around to karate practice and birthday parties, or ensuring their kids don't run into the street after a ball.

I can literally walk down any street in my neighborhood and pick out the houses of women in my working-mom boat—the overgrown, brown-patched lawns, the virtually nonexistent (or ridiculously ungroomed) landscaping, the days' worth of newspapers thrown into the bushes.

I know that someday I'll be one of the retired folks, tsk-tsking at the miserable mess of my neighbor's piecemeal attempts at home upkeep. Until then, I'll be spending my time growing girls instead of begonias.

Taking My Daughter to Work...When I Work From Home

I love the whole concept of take our daughters (and sons, if you have them) to work. They get a chance to see what you do all day, and what it's going to look like when they finally hit the workforce (unless, of course, by then we're all wearing Jetson suits and working from our home pods).

Next year, when my daughter's finally old enough (and they won't plan a field trip on the same day), we have a few options for her. She can take the early morning train into the city with her father, get a glimpse of how he edits stories speedily and sends them on their way (and engages in whatever newsgathering activities they have planned for the kids—corporations here now have very fancy programs set up for the kids). I could probably take her into the city and let her try her hand at creating clever advertisements at my main client's place—it'll be a rare treat to be in the city for a day for both of us.

But in some ways, I'd like to have her really see what I do all day. So she'd stay home with me, curled up on the couch with a laptop and a dog. I'd let her help me with my content matrix for a client—and pick our entertainment to accompany the activity (audiobook or movie?). We'd take a laundry break—then later, a lunch break to cobble something together from the kitchen. And then interview a few people for a story that's due next week. And maybe shop for some clothes for my daughter online. (She's growing like crazy, you know.) I'd let her borrow her dad's laptop to pull together a great blog post about our day together, then we'd head out on our route of pickups and errands.

I wonder what she'd think of my work day, my type of work, my attempts (often lousy) to try to balance my work and life. And I wonder what her work life—and her work-life balance—will look like when she's the mommy.

The Truth About Adoption

In the wake of all the recent horror stories about adoption in the news, several adoption advocacy groups have asked bloggers to share their stories, their truths. Here is mine.

The truth is that we talk about adoption a lot, but still often forget that our children were adopted. Note the "were"—past tense. Adoption just happens to be how they joined our family (as marriage was the route for me)—now they're just family. No modifier required.

The truth is that when things go wrong in the adoption community, the naysayers take it as an opportunity to paint everyone associated with adoption in broad strokes of bad—damaged kids, self-absorbed and unloving parents. Yet  when biological parents abandon, abuse and kill their birth children—or the birth children grow up to become serial killers—we don't take that as an indictment of families.

The truth is that despite the innumerable hurdles and checks you have to go through to adopt a child, sometimes bad parents get through. (And I'm hoping I'm not counted in that number.)

The truth is that, in a perfect world, I wouldn't be a mom to these wonderful girls. And though it's like a knife through my heart to think of not ever knowing them, let alone getting to be their mother, sometimes I wish it was that perfect world for them. 

The truth is that I get very tired of the stares and the comments because of my family isn't a "matched set." I am glad that people at least seem to have the good sense, now that my girls are bigger, to not say anything too obnoxious in front of them.

The truth is that people we never met gave us the most amazing opportunity—to be able to love and parent these two wonderful girls. And I am indebted to them for every kiss and hug, for every smile and moment of joy.

The truth is that it doesn't matter how  you get to your family—all that matters is love. And we have that for each other—the bold, you-can-do-anything-and-we'll-still-love-you, rescue-you-from-a-burning-building kind of love. To all the people who think that blood is thicker than water, and birthfamily is stronger than adoptive family, I ask you if you love your husband or wife or life partner less than your kids—even though you didn't give birth to them, and you don't share genes with them. I rest my case.

How I Became My Mother

The one thing my mother has always been famous for (besides her amazing cheesecakes and complete devotion to her family, of course) is her tendency to well up and cry over just about anything. She never needed a whole sad Sophie's Choice movie. Anything would do—a long distance commercial. An Oscar awards moment. A friend of a friend's wedding. You get the idea.

It's the kind of thing that would generally, from most kind, sensitive people, elicit an "aww...that's so sweet." That's not my family, of course, where my poor mom was relentlessly mocked for it. It got to the point where she even lied about crying at my wedding, if only to avoid the mocking. (Unfortunately for her, our photographer captured undeniable evidence of the fact.)

And now, my genetic destiny has sneaked up on me. By the late 90s, about the time I fell in love with my husband, I started getting overly emotional over sad stories involving dying spouses. When I saw the Sixth Sense and started crying uncontrollably at the scene where he visits his wife and realizes he's dead, I had a sneaking suspicion that something was amiss.

But after my oldest daughter came home, things started to really go awry. I could not watch any medical drama involving small children without full-on, messy, ugly sobs. I cried my way through The Time Traveler's Wife—the book and the movie. I bawled when I watched videos of perfect strangers meeting their babies in China. And when Beijing hosted the Olympics, just one week after we came home with our youngest, well, I cried then too. When Michael Phelps hit his record swim. When I noticed that two members of the Chinese girls' gymnastic teams came from our daughters' home provinces. When the Chinese had their beautiful opening ceremony, which captured the highlights of their culture so poetically (I'm tearing up now just thinking about it). 

It's gotten to the point where my husband wonders, openly, why I bother to watch shows like Grey's Anatomy anymore (sobfests like Extreme Home Makeover have already been banned from the watch lists). I can't get through one without crying. At least, though, I have one advantage my mom didn't have—I can zip past the sappy commercials.

The Reunion Has Been Televised...er...Facebooked

I'm trying to shove all the must-dos for this summer into our jam-packed schedule—and right now, my high-school reunion may be the one piece that just doesn't fit. In many ways, it's unfortunate—despite the fact that I regularly visit my hometown to see my family, the last time I ran into a classmate was only a few years removed from my high school graduation 20 (egads!) years ago.

But I'm wondering if the whole concept of the high-school reunion has gone the way of the bank teller in our strange new digital world. I've friended about half of my (admittedly teeny-tiny) high school class on Facebook—so I've uncovered the fates, viewed the family photos, and I'm clued in to the latest minutiae of their lives. I know that Carrie's recovering from a foot injury, and Kerri just had her third baby (a gorgeous little girl). I've discovered that most of my classmates didn't stray too far from home, and many ended up marrying fellow, familiar classmates. Several have babies—quite a few have teenagers. We have a few military men—and many, many women in the medical field. And I know who hasn't changed a bit since high school—and who has changed a lot. And isn't that the big reason for the reunion, after all?

For although I'm excited to reconnect in real life with so many of the people I'm Facebook friends with, I'm not quite sure I want to totally walk down that memory lane—high school wasn't my finest moment. Not by a long shot.

So what am I going to do? I'm going to continue to fuss and fight with my schedule—and hope I can get at least one event of the reunion weekend into it. If only for a few real-life hugs from my virtual friends.

The Writer's a Blockhead

That's how I feel today, curled up on a chair in my office, watching the rain course down the windows, listening to my kids play "Beatles Rock Band" with my husband downstairs. I'm working on a story about helping your kids deal with death—and I'm thinking the Debbie Downer subject matter is adding to the struggle.

Here's how I deal with writer's block. I get some of my other business to-dos done: So far today, I've sent out a bio and two invoices, and posted a few blog posts to other blogs I write for. (I'm downright productive, right?)

I check (and then double check) a few favorite sites, looking for inspiration.

I re-edit the lead I created on another writing session. Go back through my notes on two interviews and copy and paste quotes that I want to use. Then downstairs for a coffee break. 

Back up to "outline" my story. Move a few of the quotes around. Fuss with the wording of a subsection.

Back down for lunch. Check my favorite sites once again. See if anyone said something particularly witty on Facebook. Then back to the grind.

Then here to work on another writing project...to try to get the words flowing. No dice.

Generally, I need to wait until I'm down to the wire to get the words going. And unfortunately, it looks like that'll be the case this time.

The Long Wait

One of my friends finally saw her daughter's face last week, as China's slow-as-molasses adoption program finally hit the April 2006 dossiers. Referral days always seem like a miracle to me—I can still feel the tingle of nervousness and excitement I felt on the days when I first saw my amazing daughters.

For my oldest, I knew the referrals had already started arriving, and jumped every time the phone rang at work. Finally, I saw the number for my agency, and the tears started to flow. I wrote down every beautiful detail, and asked how soon we could come in to see her picture. A few hours later, my husband and I were at our agency, staring at three photos of the most gorgeous little baby in the world, who had adorable ears that stuck out like my grandfather's. We found out she was stubborn, loved TV and music and was a sound sleeper. (All true!)

For my youngest, we would still be waiting in the unending line of China adoption right now—log in date of April 11, 2007—if we hadn't told our agency that we'd be open to kids who had known medical needs. Out of the blue, in the middle of a conference call, my social worker e-mailed to see if we'd be interested in hearing about a child. My husband was home from work, so we insisted she call right away. She told us about our youngest, who has unilateral microtia/aural atresia (a small "nubbin" ear and no ear canal on her right side). We couldn't work it out to go see her pictures until the Monday following, so we spent the weekend excited beyond words, and researching the best and worst case scenarios of her special need like crazy.

On April Fools Day, we went into the office, and our social worker took us through the entire file before showing us the pictures—a somber-looking little girl with big, gorgeous eyes. And I knew right then that she was ours. The miracle of miracles there is that she is nothing like the quiet, shy girl I imagined she was from her file and her first few months home. She is a boisterous, vivacious and mischievous little girl. Definite class clown material.

I know what my friend is doing now—poring over every detail of those precious few photos, looking for anything she can read into her daughter's personality from a gesture in a picture or a few words in the file. She is falling in love with the face and memorizing the facts. And when she finally meets her daughter, it'll be all she dreamed of—and so much more.