This Reminds Me

Archive for the ‘Way Back Machine’ Category

We’ve just celebrated our fourth Sisters Day – the fourth anniversary of Julia coming home in May, 2006.  We know most adoptive families celebrate “Gotcha Day,” but we like “Sisters Day” better.  “Sisters Day” focuses on the four, not just the one.

Who was this timid child with the deer-in-the-headlights look in 2006?!

Because we are shameless heathens, we skipped church and started the morning with Dad’s waffles, and a sterling silver surprise for each sister.

A “Sisters” necklace for each, set at her place.  Rachel, Lois and Hannah were talking last night about how their places at the table haven’t changed since we’ve been in San Antonio.  I think there’s a certain comfort in that.  When someone plops down in someone else’s seat – chaos!

Weeks ago, the girls voted to eat lunch at Chili’s and see “Oceans” to celebrate Sisters Day – a neat choice, since Julia told us upon first meeting her that she loved dolphins.

Rachel – horrified at the baby turtles that are also known as “lunch” in “Oceans”

I was racking my brain for something else “aquatic” we could do (and afford!) when a great deal just fell into my lap at the last minute – heavily discounted tickets to Sea World good for one day only – the Sunday we were celebrating Sisters Day!  Talk about timing!

A quick family picture at Sea World while we were still fresh.  Humidity was high – our un-sweatiness didn’t last long.

Flipper, courtesy of Rachel’s iPhone

Shamu, also courtesy of Rachel’s iPhone.  Why, oh why are her i-pictures so much better than mine?

Hannah, Julia and I rode “The Journey to Atlantis. “  It was fuuuuuun all the way doooooooown.

All of us wanted to see Shamu in action.  Hannah and Julia coerced Keith (with my waterproof Olympus) into sitting in the Splash Zone.  Lois, Rachel and I had sense enough to sit higher up, away from what toddler Lois used to called “whale spit.”

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Sisters Day is supposed to be about the girls – what they want to do, how they want to celebrate our family.  It pleases me when there’s a bit’o'serious mixed in with the plenty’o'silly.

Rachel’s napkin doodle with Julia’s crayons – good thing I noticed it before wiping my Shiner Bock Burger lips

We all enjoyed Sisters Day.  I hope the girls continue to mark this special occasion after Keith and I are gone.  I want them to take care of each other when we can’t.

After all – sisters are pretty good to have.

When my mom died in August, 1998, about 200 friends and relatives sent me cards and notes.   At the time, I found them difficult and uncomfortable to read – the flat, static text failing to conjure the woman whose dying by inches cut me by layers.

On the middle left – my mom Wyoming, the high school yearbook editor and member of the Butler University yearbook staff.  Her college roommate sent one of the first notes I received.

But I kept those cards and notes.   I’ve reread them often, each time viewing another slivered reflection of who my mom really was.

“When my (own) mother died, Wy came over and cleaned my house.”    “Wy loaned us $100 when we really needed it.”   “When we bought her (the baby) home, Wy was the first one at our door with a good meal.” “Your mom could take anything and make it funny.” “There was never a better friend or neighbor.”  “Her ‘misplaced Baptist’ opinions in Sunday School always made me laugh.” “If  anybody had read the book – it was Wy.”

In some form or fashion, all of them said – “She’ll be missed.”

Yes.  And I miss her still.  Especially on Mother’s Day.

My dad’s mother and my mother – Bessie and Wy Hoffman. My cousin Clyde – with whom I recently reconnected on Facebook – shared this photo with me. When Rachel saw it, she exclaimed, “Grandma was a fox!”

I’d love to honor my mother on Mother’s Day but…  I can’t send her a card, or run by with a corsage.  She doesn’t have a headstone at which to lay flowers.  No university boasts a  “Wy Hoffman Chair for the Domestic Arts” wheedling donations.   The families of my sister and I don’t gather at her former home,  joining hands and harmonizing “Kumbaya.”

Mother’s Day 1983 – Judy, David, Sarah and me, with Mom in the background.  Yea baby, my ‘fro was hot.

So how to honor my mother on Mother’s Day?

I think I pay it forward.

If she could strap on David’s artificial limbs morning after morning – I suppose I can remember to reorder Julia’s asthma inhaler.

If she could mop the church floor – I figure I can attend a committee meeting or two.

If she could bring sick kids to our house from (her employer) daycare when their working moms were delayed – I guess I can make our home available to those who might need to escape an advancing hurricane.

That’s the best I can do.

Which is what she did all the time.

So tomorrow’s hon-or is on-her.

Paid forward.

After three years of bands, brackets and blisters , Hannah got her braces off today.

And she’s never had a cavity!

Rachel started our family’s Sojourn to Straightness on December 20, 2003.

In April, 2004, Rachel chose “Fiesta Colors” for her bands.    Talk about a party in your mouth!

We had two in braces at once with Rachel and Lois, then later with Lois and Hannah.  Because we could see this coming, we joined a DMO when we moved here.  Belonging to a DMO means you don’t have to cruise as many dimly-lit convenience stores to fund those grins.

I had two “Full Metal Daughters” in February, 2005.

So today marks the end of seven years and four months of making the orthodontist’s office our second home.

Three kids in braces spread over seven years plus Rachel’s 17 broken brackets necessitating an extra year of treatment  – I estimate we’ve parked here about 150 times since December 20, 2004.

I’d like to say we’re finished but…..

I suspect we’ll be back in two or three years.

So – what the heck – we might as well smile!

In the context of disagreeing about child discipline, someone recently told me, “You really don’t understand adoption because you already had children (when you adopted).”

Really?  Hmmm.  This reminds me of people who have told me I’m not a real mother because I work outside the home, or aren’t a real Texan because I was born in Indianapolis.

There’s plenty I understand about adoption.

I understand that all kids have behavior problems.  That’s because they’re kids.  It’s our job as parents to correct them.  Not every behavior problem is adoption-related.  A three-year-old who tantrums in a public place needs to have his attention re-focused on his parent so that parent can correct – whether by words, or forcible removal, or perhaps warming the child’s bottom.   He doesn’t need an ooey-gooey, “Oh, Mommy knows you have problems because you’re adopted!  Mommy is here for you.  Let Mommy make sure you don’t hurt yourself as you annoy everyone within earshot and totally destroy what could be a pleasant experience for everyone else here.”

My first picture with minutes-old Rachel.  Easy baby – at least compared to those to come (preemie Lois, then 11 lb., 6 oz. Hannah).  I boiled the water used to mix Rachel’s formula for her first year.

I understand that all adopted kids have attachment issues to some degree or another.  We’ve dealt with some ourselves.  More may emerge later during those delightful teen years.   It’s just part of the package of nurturing a child you didn’t birth.   Attachment issues, though, can’t be allowed to define a child.  Neither can height, weight, birth order, intelligence, physical abilities or whatever crazy aunt that child resembles.   You can’t throw your hands in the air and whine, “Well what can I do?  He’s adopted.”  It’s just part of the package.  Put on your big girl panties and deal with it.

My first picture with Lois – and the first time I was allowed to hold her.  She was two weeks old and had just come off the ventilator.  I used bottled water to mix Lois’ formula for her first five months.

I understand that you cannot love adopted kids and bio kids “the same.” But really – you can’t love bio kids “the same” either.  They’re all different, born to you at different stages in your life with different appearances, and talents and characteristics of their own.  I throw up in my mouth when I read of some nanny-laden celebrity blithely quoted as, “Oh, I don’t even remember which of my kids are adopted and which are bio.”   That’s not cute, or touching.  It’s just silly.  And to me – it gives adoption a tinge of shame, like there’s something disgraceful about an adopted child that must be hidden.  I don’t see anything wrong with responding to invasive inquiries with, “I’m not sure why you’re asking,” or “If you my kids want you to know that, they’ll tell you.”   But to place bio and adopted kids in some murky, ill-defined stew of “sameness”  is as foolish as trying to force Child A to be a great artist because Child B is, or telling Child C that she has to dye her hair the same color as Child D.  Kids are different.  And – at different stages in our lives – so are we parents.

My first picture with Hannah, who was five months old.  By the time the third one comes along, you say things like, “Honey, didn’t we used to have a camera?”  and “I rubbed her pacifier on my jeans, so it’s clean.”  Hannah started off on tap water.

I understand that many adopted kids have gaping holes in their history – and that stinks.  I hate writing “unknown” on Julia’s medical history forms.  It’s irritating to respond, “I don’t know” to a doctor’s questions.   Mostly it worries me to be ignorant of what might be lurking in her genes.  Is that stray “my tummy hurts” comment just the result of too many malted milk candies, or should I worry about a family history of stomach cancer?  Were bio mom and dad in glasses by age 12 so I better be watching for vision issues?   I often tell Rachel, Lois and Hannah – “Aunt Judy and I each had our high blood pressure diagnosed at age 42, and high blood pressure killed your Uncle David at age 42.  Have yours checked – especially in your 40′s!”   What can I tell Julia like that?  Nothing.  I want so badly to protect her, and to teach her to keep herself safe.  The lack of a birth history is painful.

My first picture with six-year-old Julia, who chose us as well as our choosing her.   That’s a lot like marriage – and a whole lot different than giving birth.

I understand that adoption comes with its own birthing process.  Instead of watching a test strip for a color change that may or may not ever happen, you’re watching a phone that may or may not ever ring.  Instead of  feeling kicks, you’re feeling anxiety.  Instead of labor pains, you have bureaucratic pains.   Instead of stretch marks, you get stretched finances.  Instead of  “She’s got your dad’s nose” comments, you get…..well, you get other comments.  Some make you smile.  And some….well, some like “you don’t understand adoption”  – those comments make you lift an eyebrow and retort, “I do understand.”