This Reminds Me

Archive for the ‘Way Back Machine’ Category

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.”

We’ve had a chaotic couple of weeks with basketball, choir, Latin competitions, trading germs, etc.   Today’s been the first day in many that I haven’t sounded like a emphysemic sailor hacking up a lung.   When I feel cruddy, everything either wears me out (makes me sad) or riles me up (makes me mad.)  I got to thinking about what my mom used to squint and bark at me whenever I expressed these emotions:  “”Well you just better turn that ‘mad’ or ‘sad’ to ‘glad,’ Missy.”  Mom was never big on dispensing gushy buckets of sympathy.

So here goes – tuning to Channel Glad now…..

The sad news from a Sea World last week made me glad Shamu didn’t see us as bathtub toys in 1998.  Though maybe Rachel had a few doubts at the time.

I know many friends really enjoy the Olympics – more power to you.  But personally – I’m glad they’re soon to be over.  They’re preempting “The Office,”  and that’s a show the girls and I watch together.  The last time I watched the Olympics was the 1972 night the Russians stole the basketball game via repeated do-overs.  I vowed I’d never watch again – and forgiving soul that I am – I haven’t.   U-verse – btw – has had a terrific application for the Olympics.

My continuing rancor at that travesty of a game is kind of funny since my favorite basketball player now is Russian.

There is little that makes me more glad than to hear my girls sing.  Tonight was Hannah’s pre-UIL concert.  That’s her – top row, far left.

“Walking in Jerusalem” really made me smile.  I just finished the book of John in “Faith by Hearing” yesterday.  I wonder about John.  What made him so beloved?

About two years ago, Julia caught a snippet of “Ben Hur” on TV and has pestered me ever since about seeing the whole movie.  “Mom, when are we going to watch that Jesus movie?”  I really didn’t think she was ready for it until recently.  I bought it last week (if I’d just waited one more week, I could have recorded it for free on U-verse – sigh.)   She and I are watching 30 – 45 minutes every few days.  Well, we probably watch 30 minutes, and have 15 minutes of questions.  She’s gotten the concept down – Judah Ben-Hur was a man whose life intersected with Jesus’ at different times, but Judah didn’t know who Jesus really was in those early meetings.  Last night, she told me, “Mom, that’s like us.  Everybody knows Jesus’ name but they don’t know who he really is.”   I was very glad to hear her say that.

From sad and mad to glad. 

Thanks, Mom.  I’m feeling better already.

We’ve had a tough couple of weeks here.  Judy’s husband of 44 years – my brother-in-law Carl – died early Tuesday morning.   I was a nine-year-old bridesmaid in their wedding (to which my dad was late, btw, because he was watching “Divorce Court.”)

David and me with Carl in 1965.

Judy and Sarah have been blanketed with comforting calls and cards, each offering condolences and offers of support.  But to a grief-shocked wife and daughter – at least for now – they’re just words.    And right now, words just aren’t enough.

We lost Carl as the tragedy unfolded Haiti, with more than 100,000 killed.   Every news report – every K-Love special announcement – as I traveled to and from Houston ladled on more buckets of Haitian misery – thousands of falling buildings.  No food, clean water or medical supplies for the hundreds of thousands injured.  And while a still-reasoning reservoir in my mind processed the magnitude of those numbers – I felt no desire to “do something.”   Except pull into my sister’s driveway.

Who and what  matters most are those in your heart.   So as incredible as were those Haitian numbers, they impacted me far less than the one.  Because just like words are sometimes not enough – neither are numbers.

Count your blessings.  Name them one by one.  And go give them big hugs.