I come from a long line of excellent bakers. My mother's cucidati (Sicilian fig cookies) are a hit at every family party. The recipe was passed to her from her grandmother and even though I am sure mom could make the cookies by heart, she pulls out the yellowed index card with my great-grandmother's illegible writing every time. The cookie base is an incredibly basic yet somehow complicated recipe that yields the popular cucidati as well as giuggiulena (rolled in sesame seeds) and plain 'ol "white cookies". Many a Sunday afternoon has been spent rolling the dough into various shapes under my mother's watchful eye. Not too big, not too small, don't play with the dough. (She actually made my nephew cry once.)
It is obvious were my mom got her baking skills and regimented, slightly dictator-like method of instruction. My maternal grandmother made a kick ass meringue that she whipped by hand with a fork and mouth-watering, eat-them-til-you-burst sfingi (basically a small deep fried doughnut covered in powdered sugar). When I was little I would stand by with the shaker full of sugar, meticulously covering each warm sweet sfingi with a generous sprinkling after they came out of the fryer. Which I could never distribute to my grandmother's liking. Ever. Not like it should matter what the sugar looked like. But it did. A lot.
The baking style of my paternal grandmother was a bit different. She was famous for her apple pie (I dream about it every time I sink my teeth into a slice of not-grandma's apple pie) and chocolate chip cookies. Grandma C was much more laid back, letting me eat the perfectly curled apple peels as they fell onto the paper towel and baking up birds' nests out of the leftover dough. (My mother carries on this tradition - yum!) When she passed away I inherited her mixer and fell into hysterical sobs the first Christmas I pulled it out to make cookies.
My point is this: the baking gene should be strong in me. But it isn't. Despite having grandma's mixer and countless attempts, my cookies never really turn out. I'm not saying the results are inedible, they're just not that great. I struggle with the execution - the recipe following, the exact measuring - it's just not in my blood. I'm more an experimental chef who would rather cook to my own beat. That simply does not work when baking. Mom is worried that no one will take over her role as Sicilian cookie maker extraordinaire. Already the high-fat treats of my childhood are long gone (did I mention Grandma L made utterly amazing cannoli? I didn't? Well she did. A-MAZING). My sister doesn't really like to bake, although she is pretty good at making truffles. I think mom is secretly hoping that my brother's wife will carry on the tradition. She is a fantastic chef and loves to celebrate our heritage. But she doesn't like to bake either. Somehow it skipped our generation. None of my cousins seem eager to inherit the yellowed index card and responsibility for making twenty dozen cookies for every holiday, wedding, graduation, and anniversary party.
Sometimes I wish it could be me. Keeping heritage alive is important, and I want my children to be proud Korean-Italian-Americans. But it seems all I've inherited is the fussy controlling behavior of my mother and grandmother. J loves to help me bake, and I try very hard to let it go when he sloshes the batter all over the counter or ends up with more egg on his hand than in the bowl. To not nit-pick if the frosting doesn't look just right because, let's face it, my cookies are not that pretty to begin with.
At least I make a mean sauce.
Saturday, December 20, 2014
Friday, December 5, 2014
Looking for the pony
My dad loves to tell this joke:
A pessimist and an optimist both wished for a pony for Christmas. When the big day arrived, the pessimist woke to find a beautiful horse under the tree. Negative person that he was, he immediately began to second guess his wish, worrying about how much work the animal would require, whether he would fall off while riding, and where he would keep his new pet. The optimist, on the other hand, was greeted on Christmas morning with a giant pile of manure. He promptly rolled up the sleeves of his pajama shirt and dove in, digging around while happily proclaiming, "There's got to be a pony in here somewhere!"
While I don't consider myself a full-on pessimist, I am certainly not an "Always look on the bright side of life" person either. I worry. A lot. And when something good happens, I have to shut up the voice in my head that's questioning when it will all fall apart. It's difficult to stay positive in an industry full of rejection, especially when you look around and see others enjoying success, and you can't help but wonder if it will ever happen to you. But I am buoyed by the support of the writing community, both locally and online. People lift each other up. And not in a "I'm only doing this in hopes that you will lift me up in return" sort of way. They are genuinely supportive. And it is hard not to let that seep into your bones and change your outlook on life.
My part time job involves helping community college students with disabilities. I often work with a small handful of adults in the nursing department, a competitive and cut-throat program that is designed to make sure you can handle the pressure of a demanding career. The group is constantly stressed out. And I know that it would be easy for them to quit, easy for them to say it's simply too difficult. But they don't. They show up every day, pour over their notes, and give every exam their all. They support each other in sweet little ways, like the guy who passes out sticks of gum or the woman who has been planning their celebration dinner after graduation. It inspires me. Just as my fellow writers inspire me.
Yesterday was my second pitmad contest. As I watched friends and strangers re-tweet my pitches from morning till night, my heart filled with joy. It wasn't a successful contest in terms of agent attention, and I'm not gonna lie - the pessimist in me was loud and clear, telling me I would never get my book published, and that I should just quit now because the road ahead is way too long and difficult. But this morning I'm listening to the optimist. Who encourages me to drive forward, insisting that eventually we will find that pony.
A pessimist and an optimist both wished for a pony for Christmas. When the big day arrived, the pessimist woke to find a beautiful horse under the tree. Negative person that he was, he immediately began to second guess his wish, worrying about how much work the animal would require, whether he would fall off while riding, and where he would keep his new pet. The optimist, on the other hand, was greeted on Christmas morning with a giant pile of manure. He promptly rolled up the sleeves of his pajama shirt and dove in, digging around while happily proclaiming, "There's got to be a pony in here somewhere!"
While I don't consider myself a full-on pessimist, I am certainly not an "Always look on the bright side of life" person either. I worry. A lot. And when something good happens, I have to shut up the voice in my head that's questioning when it will all fall apart. It's difficult to stay positive in an industry full of rejection, especially when you look around and see others enjoying success, and you can't help but wonder if it will ever happen to you. But I am buoyed by the support of the writing community, both locally and online. People lift each other up. And not in a "I'm only doing this in hopes that you will lift me up in return" sort of way. They are genuinely supportive. And it is hard not to let that seep into your bones and change your outlook on life.
My part time job involves helping community college students with disabilities. I often work with a small handful of adults in the nursing department, a competitive and cut-throat program that is designed to make sure you can handle the pressure of a demanding career. The group is constantly stressed out. And I know that it would be easy for them to quit, easy for them to say it's simply too difficult. But they don't. They show up every day, pour over their notes, and give every exam their all. They support each other in sweet little ways, like the guy who passes out sticks of gum or the woman who has been planning their celebration dinner after graduation. It inspires me. Just as my fellow writers inspire me.
Yesterday was my second pitmad contest. As I watched friends and strangers re-tweet my pitches from morning till night, my heart filled with joy. It wasn't a successful contest in terms of agent attention, and I'm not gonna lie - the pessimist in me was loud and clear, telling me I would never get my book published, and that I should just quit now because the road ahead is way too long and difficult. But this morning I'm listening to the optimist. Who encourages me to drive forward, insisting that eventually we will find that pony.
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Journey to Tofu
I have been a vegetarian for almost 23 years. My last hamburger was consumed in 1990, when I casually mentioned to the guy I was dating, "I'm thinking about giving up red meat."
"That's the stupidest idea I've ever heard" he said.
The gauntlet was thrown.
My reasons at the time were warm and fuzzy and fueled by teenage angst. I no longer wanted to be the cause of animal suffering and death. My bedroom door was covered in animal rights quotes and the Smith's "Meat is Murder" became my personal anthem. After watching a documentary on how chickens are processed for meat, I was ready to go full veg. The parents weren't exactly thrilled, especially my mother who announced that she would not be cooking separate meals (she still makes me a meat-free sauce, so I guess she was bluffing). During the summer of 1991 we hosted two English soccer coaches, one of whom was vegetarian. He convinced me that athletes could survive without meat and gave me the confidence to go forward with my new lifestyle. That November I ate my last turkey dinner on Thanksgiving, and as part of my New Year's resolutions vowed never to let anything past my lips that once had feet and a face. (There is still the occasional piece of fish in my diet, technically making me a "pescetarian".)
Shortly after my commitment to go veg, my mom suffered her first of two near fatal heart attacks. Suddenly it was more about taking care of my health than protecting innocent creatures, although I like to believe that it is a little bit of both, plus a conscientious way to reduce my environmental footprint. But I won't get preachy. Everyone has a right to make their own lifestyle choices. Which leads me to the meat of this post. (Sorry, can't resist a good pun.) My husband eats meat. Not frequently - we only have it at home if he cooks it, which isn't very often. That was our compromise. And when we had children, I agreed to expose them to both diets and let them choose. P started out veg, and he's lactose intolerant so we avoid dairy. Or try to anyway. His favorite food is pizza. Slowly he's trying more and more foods and has discovered that he does want to eat meat. J is a different story. Not a huge fan of vegetables or tofu, he devours meat in all forms. Regularly proclaims his love for it and that he is a "meat-eater!" in case I wasn't paying attention. His favorite food? Hamburgers. (The irony is not lost on me.)
J loves to push my buttons, and my diet is prime for the poking - like the other day when he was sampling chicken noodle soup at the store and said, "Mom, I really wish you ate meat. This is really really yummy." But I am supremely confident in my choices. My body is healthy and my conscience is clean. Our kids make choices about food with open minds; they know where it comes from and that different people make different decisions about what to eat/not eat. And if at some point in their lives a girlfriend tells them she is thinking about giving up red meat, I will suggest they offer up more supportive advice. Unless of course that girl is like me, and the little piece of criticism could launch a life-altering decision.
Food for thought.
"That's the stupidest idea I've ever heard" he said.
The gauntlet was thrown.
My reasons at the time were warm and fuzzy and fueled by teenage angst. I no longer wanted to be the cause of animal suffering and death. My bedroom door was covered in animal rights quotes and the Smith's "Meat is Murder" became my personal anthem. After watching a documentary on how chickens are processed for meat, I was ready to go full veg. The parents weren't exactly thrilled, especially my mother who announced that she would not be cooking separate meals (she still makes me a meat-free sauce, so I guess she was bluffing). During the summer of 1991 we hosted two English soccer coaches, one of whom was vegetarian. He convinced me that athletes could survive without meat and gave me the confidence to go forward with my new lifestyle. That November I ate my last turkey dinner on Thanksgiving, and as part of my New Year's resolutions vowed never to let anything past my lips that once had feet and a face. (There is still the occasional piece of fish in my diet, technically making me a "pescetarian".)
Shortly after my commitment to go veg, my mom suffered her first of two near fatal heart attacks. Suddenly it was more about taking care of my health than protecting innocent creatures, although I like to believe that it is a little bit of both, plus a conscientious way to reduce my environmental footprint. But I won't get preachy. Everyone has a right to make their own lifestyle choices. Which leads me to the meat of this post. (Sorry, can't resist a good pun.) My husband eats meat. Not frequently - we only have it at home if he cooks it, which isn't very often. That was our compromise. And when we had children, I agreed to expose them to both diets and let them choose. P started out veg, and he's lactose intolerant so we avoid dairy. Or try to anyway. His favorite food is pizza. Slowly he's trying more and more foods and has discovered that he does want to eat meat. J is a different story. Not a huge fan of vegetables or tofu, he devours meat in all forms. Regularly proclaims his love for it and that he is a "meat-eater!" in case I wasn't paying attention. His favorite food? Hamburgers. (The irony is not lost on me.)
J loves to push my buttons, and my diet is prime for the poking - like the other day when he was sampling chicken noodle soup at the store and said, "Mom, I really wish you ate meat. This is really really yummy." But I am supremely confident in my choices. My body is healthy and my conscience is clean. Our kids make choices about food with open minds; they know where it comes from and that different people make different decisions about what to eat/not eat. And if at some point in their lives a girlfriend tells them she is thinking about giving up red meat, I will suggest they offer up more supportive advice. Unless of course that girl is like me, and the little piece of criticism could launch a life-altering decision.
Food for thought.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Feeling Naked
I have a lot of anxiety. There's the garden variety kind, like being anxious when I go on an interview or walk into a roomful of strangers (that happens to everyone else, right?), and then there's the totally irrational stuff. Like freaking out at the mere presence of bees or being terrified to make phone calls. Or the fact that I routinely go to the darkest of places whenever something is not exactly as expected. Example: hubby is ten minutes late coming home from work. He's surely in a ditch somewhere, bleeding internally, unable to call for help. The boss wants to speak to me? It's obvious she thinks I'm the worst employee in the history of ever and I should just leave my keys in the slot and walk away quietly.
You get the idea.
So now that I am finally beginning to "go public" with my writing, anxiety is hitting an all time high. It feels a bit like one of those dreams when you're standing naked in front of a crowd and they're all laughing and pointing at you. (That happens to everyone else, right?) Sometimes the writing world is this safe cozy place where you can snuggle up with your critique partner and dream about a future when your books will graze the shelves of every store in town. People say they like your work. The encouragement is amazing. You feel fabulous, like the words that leave your fingertips are magical and will change the world.
But then the clouds roll in. You learn to don your thickest suit of armor before trudging out into the world where every person you meet has written this amazingly fabulous book that is much, much better than yours. Where everyone has a different idea about what works or doesn't work in your story. Where you feel like a goldfish swimming in a pond with millions of other goldfish hoping some cute five year old kid will bring you home and put you in a glass bowl with plastic seaweed because your colors are exactly what he's been looking for in a goldfish.
It is really hard to keep pushing forward. And I'm pretty sure if it wasn't for my rationally thinking husband and cheer-leading friends I would have given up a long time ago.
Sometimes anxiety gets the best of me. I uncover a pile of dead bees in the wall of my parents' house that sends me into a full blow panic attack. Night after night I have that dream where I need to use the bathroom but there are no doors on any of the stalls.
Sometimes, I let it fuel my passion. Channel it into crafting a scene or bringing a character's quirks to life.
Recognize it's part of who I am as a human being and that's okay.
Take a deep breath and enjoy the journey.
Sip my tea, dig into revisions, and pretend like I'm still wearing clothes.
You get the idea.
So now that I am finally beginning to "go public" with my writing, anxiety is hitting an all time high. It feels a bit like one of those dreams when you're standing naked in front of a crowd and they're all laughing and pointing at you. (That happens to everyone else, right?) Sometimes the writing world is this safe cozy place where you can snuggle up with your critique partner and dream about a future when your books will graze the shelves of every store in town. People say they like your work. The encouragement is amazing. You feel fabulous, like the words that leave your fingertips are magical and will change the world.
But then the clouds roll in. You learn to don your thickest suit of armor before trudging out into the world where every person you meet has written this amazingly fabulous book that is much, much better than yours. Where everyone has a different idea about what works or doesn't work in your story. Where you feel like a goldfish swimming in a pond with millions of other goldfish hoping some cute five year old kid will bring you home and put you in a glass bowl with plastic seaweed because your colors are exactly what he's been looking for in a goldfish.
It is really hard to keep pushing forward. And I'm pretty sure if it wasn't for my rationally thinking husband and cheer-leading friends I would have given up a long time ago.
Sometimes anxiety gets the best of me. I uncover a pile of dead bees in the wall of my parents' house that sends me into a full blow panic attack. Night after night I have that dream where I need to use the bathroom but there are no doors on any of the stalls.
Sometimes, I let it fuel my passion. Channel it into crafting a scene or bringing a character's quirks to life.
Recognize it's part of who I am as a human being and that's okay.
Take a deep breath and enjoy the journey.
Sip my tea, dig into revisions, and pretend like I'm still wearing clothes.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
The Green Book
Do you ever have that moment where your significant other asks, "Hey - do you remember the name of that [restaurant, winery, hotel] we went to three years ago last Sunday?" And you stare blankly at them because you're lucky you remembered to eat breakfast and brush your teeth that morning?
That's me. All the time.
My short term memory is pretty poor, and my long term memory seems intent on remembering insignificant and often uncomfortable details like that time I was at a baseball game in 8th grade and spilled mustard on my shorts and my friend teased me for weeks about needing a diaper, (which may explain why I hate mustard.) while important dates, milestones, and significant events often slip through the cracks of my brain. I am thankful that:
A) My phone number has a lot of zeros in it
B) Both my children have easy to remember birthdays and KTA days
C) My husband is always there to fix my story when I recall something incorrectly
Okay, maybe not that last one. In fact, I usually just tell him that I was trying to make the story more interesting.
But I was starting to get frustrated by the fact that I could never remember which hotel we stayed in that has the good swimming pool, or which highway exit on the way to my sister-in-law's house has vegetarian options.
Enter: The Green Book
It's a handy little thing, really. Every time we travel anywhere or do a wine tasting (our region has a lot of wine trails), I log it in the book along with a silly memory or two. Of course, as I look back through it sometimes I've completely forgotten what my little comment refers to - kind of like re-reading the inside jokes in your high school yearbook. But I try to write cute things that the boys did or said, or mistakes we made like when I forgot to check the drawers in a hotel in California and left half of my husband's wardrobe behind. Or "Nice wait staff - they didn't mind when J dumped his entire glass of water all over himself, the table, the bench." I started the book in 2012, but it has already started to come in handy. My brother and sister-in-law are visiting a local wine trail, and I was able to give them recommendations based on my notes. And it makes me smile to look back and see the fun things we did, especially because I'm generally a ball of stress in the planning/executing stage. It's good to know that my stress is worth it.
I've been surprisingly good about maintaining The Green Book. Which reminds me, I need to enter in the last few details from our most recent family vacation before I forget the name of that place where we saw the thing.
Drat.
That's me. All the time.
My short term memory is pretty poor, and my long term memory seems intent on remembering insignificant and often uncomfortable details like that time I was at a baseball game in 8th grade and spilled mustard on my shorts and my friend teased me for weeks about needing a diaper, (which may explain why I hate mustard.) while important dates, milestones, and significant events often slip through the cracks of my brain. I am thankful that:
A) My phone number has a lot of zeros in it
B) Both my children have easy to remember birthdays and KTA days
C) My husband is always there to fix my story when I recall something incorrectly
Okay, maybe not that last one. In fact, I usually just tell him that I was trying to make the story more interesting.
But I was starting to get frustrated by the fact that I could never remember which hotel we stayed in that has the good swimming pool, or which highway exit on the way to my sister-in-law's house has vegetarian options.
Enter: The Green Book
It's a handy little thing, really. Every time we travel anywhere or do a wine tasting (our region has a lot of wine trails), I log it in the book along with a silly memory or two. Of course, as I look back through it sometimes I've completely forgotten what my little comment refers to - kind of like re-reading the inside jokes in your high school yearbook. But I try to write cute things that the boys did or said, or mistakes we made like when I forgot to check the drawers in a hotel in California and left half of my husband's wardrobe behind. Or "Nice wait staff - they didn't mind when J dumped his entire glass of water all over himself, the table, the bench." I started the book in 2012, but it has already started to come in handy. My brother and sister-in-law are visiting a local wine trail, and I was able to give them recommendations based on my notes. And it makes me smile to look back and see the fun things we did, especially because I'm generally a ball of stress in the planning/executing stage. It's good to know that my stress is worth it.
I've been surprisingly good about maintaining The Green Book. Which reminds me, I need to enter in the last few details from our most recent family vacation before I forget the name of that place where we saw the thing.
Drat.
Friday, July 11, 2014
Falling off the wagon
I've fallen off the writing wagon. Not completely, I still attend my weekly Wednesday night writer's group (I love those ladies!) and participate in the occasional write club sprint on Friday, but my productivity has dropped tremendously in the past month or so. Basically I started to fall off the wagon and am currently holding on to the bumper (do wagons even have bumpers?) with one hand, knees scraping the ground, dirt in my face. You get the idea. The problem is [INSERT EXCUSE HERE] that I started working for the first time in nearly a year, the kids finished school and are home full time, and it feels like a million other things landed on my plate, demanding my attention like a colicky baby. Oh, and the World Cup. A girl's gotta have her soccer.
June came and went with not a single writing goal met. Not. One. Single. Goal. Granted I am working on revisions, which makes keeping up with my intended word count a bit difficult, but the other stuff? It just didn't happen. And here we are, nearly halfway through July, and I am still trailing behind the wagon. Thankfully I have people in my life who are helping me get back on. My crit partner (whom I have woefully neglected lately) encourages me with emails and twitter posts. The Wednesday ladies help with story planning and talking me off the ledge when I'm deep in revision. But during all the times in between, my notebook sits on the counter, slowly getting covered in day to day clutter. It makes me sad. Writing takes me to a place in my mind where I can run away from reality, create a world and have complete control. Maybe that's the problem. The story is done, and now it's time to go in with scissors, cutting out the parts that don't flow, stuffing in news ones and hoping they fit. It's hard. Sure, I complained about stuff being hard before, but it feels like each step in steeper, and I know the true mountain is still ahead of me. There is no way I can hold on to the wagon bumper and make it to the top. I need to get back on. I need to climb up onto the hay covered seats, push the driver out of the way and take the reins. Get control. It is the only way to survive the ride.
We are all teamsters on our journey, whether it be writing or some other pursuit. Life tosses boulders into our path and we choose to either fall off or maneuver around them. I haven't quite figured out how to maneuver around my current situation, but I am determined to get a handle on time management and carve out time to sit and write. Like right now; it's Friday night and I am sprinting along with the write clubbers, rocking to dance music in my headphones while hubby watches TV. A large chunk of my book was written this way. Scenes started out slow, then grew as the world opened up in front of me. There is nothing that replaces that feeling.
I've made promises on this blog before, and I'm not foolish enough to believe that I won't fall off again. July goals are still quite far out of reach, and the remaining days of the month do not hold much promise. I'm heading to sleep away camp with my oldest next week, we have a family vacation coming, and I'm required to make up any hours I miss, which translates to a lot of time spent at work. But right now, in this moment, I am making progress. Both hands are gripped tightly on the wagon and I am using all my strength to pull myself up.
Watch out. Crazy writer on the road.
June came and went with not a single writing goal met. Not. One. Single. Goal. Granted I am working on revisions, which makes keeping up with my intended word count a bit difficult, but the other stuff? It just didn't happen. And here we are, nearly halfway through July, and I am still trailing behind the wagon. Thankfully I have people in my life who are helping me get back on. My crit partner (whom I have woefully neglected lately) encourages me with emails and twitter posts. The Wednesday ladies help with story planning and talking me off the ledge when I'm deep in revision. But during all the times in between, my notebook sits on the counter, slowly getting covered in day to day clutter. It makes me sad. Writing takes me to a place in my mind where I can run away from reality, create a world and have complete control. Maybe that's the problem. The story is done, and now it's time to go in with scissors, cutting out the parts that don't flow, stuffing in news ones and hoping they fit. It's hard. Sure, I complained about stuff being hard before, but it feels like each step in steeper, and I know the true mountain is still ahead of me. There is no way I can hold on to the wagon bumper and make it to the top. I need to get back on. I need to climb up onto the hay covered seats, push the driver out of the way and take the reins. Get control. It is the only way to survive the ride.
We are all teamsters on our journey, whether it be writing or some other pursuit. Life tosses boulders into our path and we choose to either fall off or maneuver around them. I haven't quite figured out how to maneuver around my current situation, but I am determined to get a handle on time management and carve out time to sit and write. Like right now; it's Friday night and I am sprinting along with the write clubbers, rocking to dance music in my headphones while hubby watches TV. A large chunk of my book was written this way. Scenes started out slow, then grew as the world opened up in front of me. There is nothing that replaces that feeling.
I've made promises on this blog before, and I'm not foolish enough to believe that I won't fall off again. July goals are still quite far out of reach, and the remaining days of the month do not hold much promise. I'm heading to sleep away camp with my oldest next week, we have a family vacation coming, and I'm required to make up any hours I miss, which translates to a lot of time spent at work. But right now, in this moment, I am making progress. Both hands are gripped tightly on the wagon and I am using all my strength to pull myself up.
Watch out. Crazy writer on the road.
Thursday, June 5, 2014
The Third Mother
A few years ago I pitched a column idea to a local parenting magazine. One of the regular columnist was retiring and I thought the community would benefit from a different perspective - the perspective of an adoptive mom. As part of my query, I wrote a short piece about my motherhood journey and titled it "The Third Mother". I thought it would be a clever name for my column, and even though the magazine went with a stay-at-home dad instead, the moniker stuck with me. When I joined Twitter I made it my handle, and while the title may seem strange, it's one I am rather proud of and thought my new readers would want to know the story behind it.
My sons each have three mothers: A biological mom who gave birth to them, a foster mom who raised them for the first several months of their lives, and me. I am their third mother. And while it may seem like I am second (or third) rate in comparison to the first two women in their lives, I am the one referred to as “Mommy”, a title I have earned with every runny nose wiped, boo-boo bandaged, and peanut butter and jelly sandwich served.
My oldest is five and thinks having three moms (and dads) is pretty cool. We have been open with him from the beginning, telling him the story of how he came into our family. He understands bits and pieces and has yet to ask any difficult questions about the identity of his birth parents and why they chose not to raise him. For now he exists happily with the understanding that no, he did not grow in my belly, but isn't it way cooler to have been born in one place and traveled halfway around the world to live in another? I am enjoying the fact that he is naive to the challenges that come with being adopted and instead chooses to fixate on the odd, fun parts of his story.
We had explained to him that he came to us on a plane when he was seven months old and had a lot of trouble sleeping during the first few weeks. In order to keep the peace and let the other person get some sleep, my husband and I took turns pacing the house with our son strapped to our chest in a baby sling. When it was my turn I sang endless rounds of “This Little Light of Mine” and “Jesus Loves Me” while walking circles around the pool table in our basement. They were the only songs I could sing in their entirety, and they have become anthems to soothe my son when he is upset as well as part of our nightly ritual. One night when it was my husband’s turn, he spotted a large black bear out our living room window. He thought it was a deer at first until it came closer to the house. The bear was by far our son’s favorite part of the story. “Tell me again what daddy saw,” he would ask over and over. The rest of the story became inconsequential.
When he learned he was going to become a big brother, our oldest believed that all babies arrived on a plane from South Korea. You could not convince him otherwise, despite evidence of seeing my pregnant cousin before and after the birth of her baby. He insisted that babies arrive on a plane in New York City and mommies and daddies have to go to the airport to pick them up. Clear evidence that our reality is shaped by our experiences. His current favorite is the idea that God said, “BINGO!” when trying to find the perfect child to join our family. I tossed the phrase in one night while recounting his adoption story, and after explaining what the expression “BINGO!” meant, his face lit up at the thought of some higher power proudly announcing that He had won the big prize when forming our family.
I want it to stay this simple. But I know the questions will come soon, things he will want to know that are difficult for me to answer and things that other people will want to know that are difficult for him to answer. Perhaps they will start next year when he enters Kindergarten. An innocent classmate will inquire as to why my son doesn't look like his mommy and daddy. Or ask him what happened to his “real” mother. Hopefully he will tell them he has three mothers. All real, and all with a special place in his heart. As for me, I am happy being the third mother. While I do feel sadness for not carrying my beautiful boys in my womb for nine months and seeing them open their eyes and smile for the first time, I carried them in my heart for many years waiting for that BINGO! moment.
And that is way cooler.
The Third Mother
My sons each have three mothers: A biological mom who gave birth to them, a foster mom who raised them for the first several months of their lives, and me. I am their third mother. And while it may seem like I am second (or third) rate in comparison to the first two women in their lives, I am the one referred to as “Mommy”, a title I have earned with every runny nose wiped, boo-boo bandaged, and peanut butter and jelly sandwich served.
My oldest is five and thinks having three moms (and dads) is pretty cool. We have been open with him from the beginning, telling him the story of how he came into our family. He understands bits and pieces and has yet to ask any difficult questions about the identity of his birth parents and why they chose not to raise him. For now he exists happily with the understanding that no, he did not grow in my belly, but isn't it way cooler to have been born in one place and traveled halfway around the world to live in another? I am enjoying the fact that he is naive to the challenges that come with being adopted and instead chooses to fixate on the odd, fun parts of his story.
We had explained to him that he came to us on a plane when he was seven months old and had a lot of trouble sleeping during the first few weeks. In order to keep the peace and let the other person get some sleep, my husband and I took turns pacing the house with our son strapped to our chest in a baby sling. When it was my turn I sang endless rounds of “This Little Light of Mine” and “Jesus Loves Me” while walking circles around the pool table in our basement. They were the only songs I could sing in their entirety, and they have become anthems to soothe my son when he is upset as well as part of our nightly ritual. One night when it was my husband’s turn, he spotted a large black bear out our living room window. He thought it was a deer at first until it came closer to the house. The bear was by far our son’s favorite part of the story. “Tell me again what daddy saw,” he would ask over and over. The rest of the story became inconsequential.
When he learned he was going to become a big brother, our oldest believed that all babies arrived on a plane from South Korea. You could not convince him otherwise, despite evidence of seeing my pregnant cousin before and after the birth of her baby. He insisted that babies arrive on a plane in New York City and mommies and daddies have to go to the airport to pick them up. Clear evidence that our reality is shaped by our experiences. His current favorite is the idea that God said, “BINGO!” when trying to find the perfect child to join our family. I tossed the phrase in one night while recounting his adoption story, and after explaining what the expression “BINGO!” meant, his face lit up at the thought of some higher power proudly announcing that He had won the big prize when forming our family.
I want it to stay this simple. But I know the questions will come soon, things he will want to know that are difficult for me to answer and things that other people will want to know that are difficult for him to answer. Perhaps they will start next year when he enters Kindergarten. An innocent classmate will inquire as to why my son doesn't look like his mommy and daddy. Or ask him what happened to his “real” mother. Hopefully he will tell them he has three mothers. All real, and all with a special place in his heart. As for me, I am happy being the third mother. While I do feel sadness for not carrying my beautiful boys in my womb for nine months and seeing them open their eyes and smile for the first time, I carried them in my heart for many years waiting for that BINGO! moment.
And that is way cooler.
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