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.

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.

Responsibility

Yesterday I uttered the words, "You are going to thank me for this someday" to my eight year old. I have officially become a curmudgeon.

Seriously though, I am hoping to teach the boy a little responsibility so that he can take the next necessary step toward adulthood. He is becoming increasingly independent, and while the thought of him not being my sweet baby boy and actually becoming a (gulp) grown man someday scares me gray, I know it is inevitable. And I need to do my best to facilitate the transition. Starting with school. He is generally pretty good about getting his daily homework done, but things start to get hairy when it comes to longer assignments. Each month the students are required to do a book report. Reading is not the issue, but choosing an appropriate book and finishing it with enough time to complete the report is. Last month he decided, with a week before the due date, that he would read a rather lengthy book for the report. Okay, I told him, then you need to set a reading schedule for yourself. Translation: Mom is going to nag you every day until you finish reading the book. He's also required to do outside reading for his enrichment class. The teacher assigns large chunks to read over a seven day period. The reading is challenging and not something you can complete the night before it is due. Especially not when that night is the busiest one of the week. Again, I helped him set up a reading schedule. And then I nagged. Believe me, I don't want to nag, but I worry that if I don't the work won't get done. Do I leave him to his own devices and let him experience the natural consequences of procrastination? I tell myself, yes, yes, he should learn the hard way. But then I give one more gentle reminder. Maybe two. Or three.

Then there's the homework folder. He has a daily behavior/assignment sheet that needs to be signed. On the back is a chart, and he is required to keep track of the minutes he reads each day (which must also be signed). He does his reading at night, which is fine, and then fills out the chart in the morning. Then I sign it and stick his homework folder into his backpack. Yesterday I asked him three times if he filled out his chart. He ignored me and was prepared to walk out the door with no homework folder (a relatively serious offense in the classroom). I reminded him, then told him it was the last time I was going to make sure he had his sheet signed and folder in backpack - that he needed to be more responsible. Gave him this whole speech (see opening quote) that probably sounded like the teacher in Peanuts . This morning, he remembered to fill out the sheet, but neglected to put the folder in his backpack. I cleared the counter and placed the folder in the dead middle. Impossible to miss. Asked, "You sure you have everything?" Kicked myself for being a softy.

In less than two months, second grade will be over. Each school year the work gets more difficult and I know he will be expected to read more, manage larger assignments, and study for tests. I want him to be successful, to be a good student, to be independent and responsible. But it's hard to know when to push and when to let go. When to allow the pain of forgetfulness, laziness, or plain 'ol something-else-was-more-interesting-ness to sink in. Hopefully we'll figure it all out and he really will thank me someday.

Setting It Aside

Last Friday I finished the first draft of my novel. It was a momentous occasion on several fronts. First of all, it is not very often that I actually finish something as evidenced by my half-completed cross-stitch projects and other adventures that I dive into but then quickly set aside. Secondly, and probably most important: I WROTE A BOOK. How many people out there say, "I think I'll write a book someday" or "I have this great idea for a book"? Hint: LOTS. I was one of them. Writing has always been a passion and while I never imagined I would have the attention span to complete an actual novel (see above) it was always in the back of my mind as something I wanted to accomplish. Several years ago when I was teaching seventh graders, the students had to create a timeline of their lives that extended into the future. My co-teacher and I each made our own timeline as well to serve as a model. "Wrote a Book" was on there (although I should have sold it and be touring morning talk shows by now) and it feels good to think that I have actually accomplished a life goal. No, it doesn't feel good. It feels AWESOME.

Which brings me to the topic of this post. Several writing books instruct that upon completion of draft one, the author should set the story aside and let it stew for a while before beginning revisions. It makes sense in theory - that way when you approach draft two your mind is fresh and clear. That was totally my plan. But after two days I started re-reading. It wasn't as if I hadn't already done some major revisions thus far - the introductory chapters have been re-written several times - but it was the first time I would be reading the whole thing from start to finish. I couldn't help myself. I wanted to hear how everything flowed and do a quick proofread before sending it off to critique partners. When I finished reading, the cat nearly jumped out of her fur at my loud proclamation. "THE WORLD NEEDS THIS BOOK!"

After that first read-through, I am ready to follow directions and let my book rest for a week or two, maybe three and work on something else. Partly because I want to wait and see what my first round of readers think, but mostly because I want to revel in the glow of my current emotional state. I'm beginning to see why writing gurus recommend waiting. The feeling is hard to describe, but it is pretty darn incredible. As of this moment, I am the only person who has read my book, and I happen to think it is good. Really good. The fact that it all came out of my brain makes it even better. Maybe it is actually crap and I am being totally delusional. It may be my friends and family that burst my bubble, it may be the long string of rejection that are sure to pepper my future. My book could be downright terrible. (Hopefully it's not.) But I had an idea two years ago, then life got tired of me saying, "I'm writing a book" without actually writing it and yanked away my proverbial rug, forcing me to write it for real. I did. And I am going to enjoy this feeling of accomplishment for as long as I can.

Perhaps the same concept can apply to other things. How often do we beat ourselves up for bad things that have happened, mistakes made or friendships destroyed? When something good happens, when we do something right, something incredible, we should set it aside and dance around it. Blast the music. Toss confetti into the air. Celebrate it fully.

Please excuse me while I crank the stereo.

The Adoption Connection

Last summer was my twentieth high school reunion. The husband and I had a surprisingly good time at the party on Saturday night reconnecting with a few old friends and chatting up people who I never would have remembered if it wasn't for their handy yearbook photo name tag. Sunday there was a family friendly picnic that I went to with the boys (hubby was working). I spent the afternoon talking with a classmate who was a casual acquaintance in high school. We had similar friends, but other than a handful of random cafeteria conversations we didn't have much history. Twenty years later we discovered a different bond. My classmate was planning to adopt, and she and her husband had recently started the grueling, often heart-wrenching process. Being a veteran myself I was happy to lend an ear and share advice. They were taking the domestic route, which is an entirely different set of experiences, but one that shares a few common threads with international adoption: the homestudy - which everyone must endure, and the wait. A few months for some, years for others. We were lucky that our wait for P one was only a year from our first meeting to when he came home (almost to the day). J took a bit longer because of changing regulations in Korea; around two years. I have friends who have waited much, much longer.

After the picnic, I connected with my classmate on Facebook (honestly, what DID we do before social media?) and checked in on her every once and a while. This past week I noticed that she and her husband were traveling and wondered if it was THE trip. Sure enough, just moments ago they posted a picture of their new baby girl. There have been a handful of other baby arrivals on Facebook in the past few months - all with their own stories of excitement. My old boss recently remarried and welcomed a new baby boy to her blended family. A former colleague had a baby after years of struggling with infertility. I am happy for both of them, and for all the new moms in my social media circles. The constant cycle of ultrasound pictures and hospital bed posts have stopped stinging as much as they used to. But as an adoptive mom, nothing warms my heart more than seeing someone become, as we call it in the adoption world, part of a forever family. To become a mom through a series of amazing circumstances that lead you to the little person who will be your child. Not someone you created and can immediately fall in love with because they are a small piece of you. Someone who you waited for, who grew in your heart instead of your body. That is an amazing thing to celebrate.

Cheers to my classmate and her new baby. And cheers to all those who have adopted or are waiting to adopt.

The Levels of Rejection

Big news! My most recent submission got rejected! With a personal letter!! It was a pretty big deal really. It means that I am close. That someone out there who isn't a friend or family member obligated to like my work likes my work! The letter said that my piece was good but it needed a bit more development. That I should continue to submit as they were interested to read more of my stuff. WIN!!

Sometimes it's the little things, really. The baby steps.

I actually got rejected three times in one week. The first was for a flash fiction piece that I am really proud of but haven't found the right audience yet. The email came when we were visiting my sister-in-law, and I'll be honest here, it made me cry a little. But my husband, my sister-in-law and my best friend (via text) all told me I needed to keep pushing forward, that it took a lot of courage to get this far and I should be proud of that. The second rejection was the personal letter. It was for a short story I wrote back when I was teaching - as a model for the students. I've been tweaking it here and there and it is slowly taking on a more publishable shape. My writing group friends and critique partner agreed that the letter was good news, and I was reminded of Stephen King's advice in On Writing (if you haven't read the book - it's a great one!) that you need to take these sort of letters to heart. People in the publishing world know things. Listen to them. The third rejection was one I was already expecting, but came officially via form letter. Last fall I submitted a piece about our first adoption and how it changed my life. It was a real tear-jerker. Got both my parents to cry. But it didn't make the cut. It is a good piece, and I am hoping to find a home for it someplace else. The bottom line is that my writing will come across the desk of someone and if it doesn't speak to them, they will pass on it. But someday soon (and it has happened before - so I am hopeful) it will come across the desk of someone and it WILL speak to them.

My novel is nearly done. Once the first draft is finished I'll need to go back and revise, and I hope to get the opinions of some trusted readers (if you are interested - let me know!) along the way. Then the querying will begin. The sending out of my baby into the world to see if the professionals think it has a chance. I am both excited and terrified about this step. People are always posting good news online - securing an agent, getting a book deal, successfully self-publishing. Of course they don't post the bad news. The piles of rejections. The heartbreak. It's there. And I guess my advice for today is to look for the levels of rejection and try to find the positive. Advice from someone who generally sees the glass as half-empty, but who is trying to shift her perspective ever so slightly.

Kate's New Book!!

Back in December, thanks to my PTA partner in crime, Dee, I hooked up with a great group of writers. We meet weekly to write and chat, and they have been a wonderful addition to my life. One of the members, Kate, has a new book coming out in June. She writes YA with a paranormal feel and names her books after famous songs (her first one was called Another Little Piece). My review is below - check out the book when it comes out in June. Or go to Goodreads  for a chance to win an advance copy!


(Don't You) Forget About Me by Kate Karyus Quinn
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

(Don't You) Forget About Me will be officially released in June, and I recommend it to anyone who enjoys a good story slightly outside the realms of reality. The town of Gardnerville exists as a sort of sanctuary for those who are sick and looking to improve their health and extend their life. Of course there is a flip-side - those coming of age have powers that turn typical teenage moodiness into destructive behavior and force a large part of the population into a soul-sucking reformatory. The story follows Skylar on a quest to find her sister Piper after a particularly disastrous event, alternating between the present and the past. Quinn does a wonderful job developing character relationships, building tension and making you desperate to find out what happens next.


View all my reviews

The Simpler Life

My eight year old and I are making our way through the Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I never read the books as a child but grew up watching The Little House on the Prairie on TV and thought it would be a fun series to read and discuss with the boy. Wilder's writing is sweet and memorable. She makes you feel like you are right there with the family, experiencing their joys and hardships. We are currently reading Farmer Boy, which tells the story of Almanzo Wilder (Laura's husband) as a young boy living in Northern New York. Both the Ingalls family and the Wilder family are incredibly hard working, and I love sharing these stories with my son as a way of demonstrating how easy life is now compared to then. Last night we read how Mrs. Wilder used beef tallow to make candles. It was a day long process, and they needed to make enough to last the entire year. Everything they did took time, a tremendous amount of energy, and careful planning. There was no running to the grocery store in the middle of winter to replenish the pantry with food and supplies. 

The other thing I love about the stories is the cyclical nature of everything. Each book (well, the three we've read so far) journeys through the seasons, explaining in detail how the families took advantage of what was available and learned how to preserve what they needed for the upcoming months. Barbara Kingsolver wrote a book called Animal, Vegetable, Miracle that describes how her family spent a year buying only locally grown or manufactured products. There is this wonderful part where they are gathered in the kitchen cleaning, cooking and pickling a mountain of produce, and I was reminded of it as we read through the harvest section of Farmer Boy. Both books serve as a metaphor for life. Be prepared. Seasons change, life becomes difficult. We need to preserve the good things to last us through the short, cold days.

I am amazed at how the stories are affecting me. While I don't envy Mrs. Ingalls and Mrs. Wilder their long hours cleaning, preparing food, and making clothing, I do wish things could be simpler. Simpler food, simpler living space, simpler responsibilities. As a mom, it can get tiresome doing the same activities over and over. Activities that often go completely unappreciated. But I am trying to shift my attitude to one of mindfulness - finding joy in things otherwise taken for granted.

If, like me, you only watched Laura Ingalls on television (the book is much, much different) or even if you read some or all of the books as a kid, I recommend [re]reading the series by yourself or with a member of the younger generation. We could all benefit from the lessons in those pages.

And go out and enjoy the springtime. We've earned it this year!