This Is What Some Hair Gel Started

Owen went to school looking decidedly like Alfalfa, sans cowlick, this morning. He did his own hair and proudly came downstairs with his (too) long bangs parted slightly off-center and gelled enthusiastically straight down. How was I to tell him that he looked, well, a little goofy?

After all, I want to encourage his newly emerging interest in grooming; his ability to get himself ready in the morning without our hands-on help; and above all, his self-esteem and confidence. I quickly decided that to say anything other than "thank you for brushing your hair buddy!" would be contrary to the things Bob and I are trying to develop and so I kissed him on his (fully on display) forehead and wished him a great day in school.

But here's the thing: I knew there was a pretty good chance one of Owen's friends or schoolmates would say something about his hair that would be less than complimentary. Indeed, he told me when he got off the bus that a girl in his class greeted him this morning with "oh my gosh, WHAT did you do to your hair?". I still believe letting Owen do his own "do" today was the right call; he was happy with it and after all it was only hair (and a heck of a lot of product), but there are other bigger answers I don't have yet.

If your kid does things that make them easy targets for teasing, do you step in? If your daughter acts or speaks in a manner that causes peers to call her weird, do you attempt to modify her behavior? If your son makes clothing or grooming choices that invite mean comments, do you take him shopping and dictate wardrobe options? In other words, do you take the chance while they are young to attempt to shape your offspring into a person who finds it easy to navigate the mores that our society has set and escapes teasing and/or bullying? Or do you adhere to the principal that people should and will be accepted exactly as they are and any difficulties they may face from being "different" are character building opportunities?

I don't know. I will tell you that with every bit of my heart and soul I wish our world accepted people without judgment or prejudices. Each of us should be free to talk, dress, act, LIVE, in whatever manner or style (providing, of course, that we do no harm to others) feels most true to our soul. But let's be real ... that isn't how things go, especially in the sink or swim waters of middle and high school.

Owen is a quirky kid. Bob and I have long known that and we love each and every bit of his goofy self. During his recent evaluation for ADD (that is, perhaps, another post) his teacher reported that he often exhibited strange behaviors in class. Not disruptive, or mean, or harmful; just small actions that she said she and the other kids noticed. But she also wrote that he adjusted smoothly to his new school, made friends easily, and was well liked by everyone. Owen self reported that he is happy, smart, has friends, and likes himself except for sometimes wishing his appearance was different (which, when I chatted with him about afterward, turned out to be his desire to change his hair. Ah, that hair).

Please know I am not and would never suggest trying to erase a child's personality. I always want to celebrate Owen's uniqueness; what makes each of us different is also what makes us special. Yet perhaps explaining to a kid that barking in response to a question won't help others understand them; and if people don't understand you, they might not want to get to know you. Perhaps guiding your child in that way may save him/her from a lot of pain and lonely school lunches.  

And so I find myself seeking to find a balance. Trying in gentle ways to smooth Owen's transition into young adulthood while respecting his unique personality and choices. Fortifying his self-esteem by showing in my words and actions that he is loved unconditionally by us, while doing what I can to give him social tools to succeed and be happy. Sounds hard. It is hard.

Or maybe it's really as easy as taking my boy for a (slightly) better haircut, tonight, and then spending the evening together talking and laughing and cherishing him.

The Stage's The Thing!

I think one of the most important lessons in parenting is fully embracing (and I mean acknowledging, accepting and celebrating) that your child is not you. His or her tastes, personality, and interests will be uniquely their own. Sure, nurture plays a part and maybe your offspring will be your mini me in many ways big and small. But in the end, nature always wins, and that's a wonderful and glorious thing. Sounds pretty simple and easy doesn't it? But as evidenced by pushy stage moms and hard-driving dad coaches (or, in the bigger picture, by parents not accepting of their kids' life choices), if we're being honest, it can be a challenge.

Owen played baseball for 5 years. I loved it. Although never much of an athlete myself, I am super competitive and love watching sports, so I was more than happy sitting in the bleachers cheering, and then being the Diamondback team mom. Bob was an excellent athlete growing up and I know he really enjoyed the experience too. And while he liked playing, this year when I asked Owen about signing up, he said "no thanks". I guess I could have registered him anyway and he would have been okay with it, but the truth is that Owen is not a natural athlete. He doesn't have the inclination nor desire to practice throwing, catching or batting for hours each week, and I think he recognizes it's not one of his strengths. To me, making him play wouldn't be respecting and honoring Owen. 

But, while I do listen to what Owen wants, I also think it's important that kids are involved in some activities besides school (and video games). Enter stage right ... acting. Why? Well, Owen has always seemed to enjoy making up scenarios where he's taking on another role. When we watched "Storage Wars" a few years ago, he liked to stand in front of us and be the auctioneer. Anyone who's been around him in the last year or so knows his penchant for pretending to be a WWE wrestler - complete with choreographed moves and voice overs. Once he started to write a play, and the boy does love to dress in costume. So, while not exactly overwhelming evidence of a budding Oscar winner, I decided maybe theater might be his "thing", or at least something he didn't hate doing.

So I signed him up for the local Arts Center's children's production of "Sleeping Beauty" and took a somewhat hesitant Owen to his first practice in the beginning of March. He didn't audition for a speaking role, so I was quite surprised when after practice one night I learned the director had asked him if he wanted to play Young Prince Phillip and have three lines (well, two lines and an "accckkkk") and Owen had accepted. He was pretty nonchalant about his new role, but liked knowing he'd be wearing a cape and crown.

Fast forward to last Friday night. I think Bob and I were far more nervous than Owen for his stage debut. Would he freeze up when he looked out and saw a packed house? Would he remember his lines and would anyone actually be able to hear him? On the car ride to the theater Owen wondered aloud if he should say his lines in a different voice each show; I crossed my fingers and told him to use his best judgment as an actor (and thought to myself, yep, this could be very, um, entertaining).

My friend Missy and I had volunteered to be backstage moms, which meant we got to goof around with the props before the show and then stand in the wings to watch the production. And when the cast finally made it's first appearance on stage, I had a great view of Owen.

I watched with a bursting-with-joy heart as our Young Prince Phillip joined the Royal Family on it's dais, singing the opening number with a huge smile on his face. Owen looked absolutely thrilled! He nailed his lines then ran off stage for a costume change and to wait to rejoin the cast for the final number and take a bow.  

 

In typical Owen fashion, he wasn't bouncing off the walls like many of the actors post performance; in fact, I was probably more hyped up than him. But he seemed pretty pleased with the fact that two girls from school had come up to him in the lobby afterward and told him he did a good job, and he was happy - just calmly, "this feels right, this feels good" - happy. 

I don't know how much further the acting bug will take him. He did tell me that for his next play he thinks he wants more lines, and when asked he rated the whole thing a 9 out of 10 on a scale of how much he enjoyed it. I've found a theater group in Charlotte and he's said he'd like to go to one of their summer camps. I'll obviously have to learn more about this whole theater thing; it's a whole new language for me and it's certainly different than youth sports. Luckily I have my cousin Brenda and dear friend Amanda (who both have incredibly talented actors in their family) to help me get the lay of the land.

Yes, I still miss baseball. But, seeing Owen shine this weekend in something I think he truly enjoys is a million times better - for all of us. Challenge accepted, lesson learned, and Bravo!

Poor Sportsmanship Part II

I hope that what I'm about to tell dismays you. If you are a parent (particularly of a young child), I hope your reaction is one of disbelief and disgust. I sincerely hope you all share the anger and disappointment I'm feeling right now ... 

Webster's defines "forfeit" as "To lose or lose the right to as a punishment for an error, offense, or crime".

Last night, after our game, the league commissioner reluctantly approached our head coach and told him that some of the remaining teams on our schedule had decided to forfeit rather than play us. You read that correctly. At least two other teams have decided to take a lose, to quit, to give up, to not permit their children to play a game they love, because, well, I guess because they figure our Diamondbacks will beat them, and, honestly ... I just don't understand in the least how they came to this decision.

What error, offense or crime have the kids on those teams (or ours) made to deserve this punishment? How are the coaches and parents going to explain to their players there's no need to put on their uniform and head to the field, because the adults have decided to forfeit?

By the way, I've watched the other teams all season. They have fun on the bench. They try their hardest. After the game they line up and perform the traditional "good game" hand slap with smiles on their faces before heading off to enjoy snacks. I'm guessing none of them felt unworthy or lacking. At least not until their coaches and parents tell them they can't play us, because they think it's better to give up. 

But what if the kids themselves have said they don't want to face the Diamondbacks again? Well, that seems like a perfect teaching moment to me.

Forfeiting is not, as the WBA mission statement reads, "using the sport of baseball as an instrument ... to help all the young players develop positive character traits and values that will aid success in the rest of their lives." 

Quitting is not "working with parents to provide a proper environment for learning the game of baseball, the WBA program also strives to assist in developing the qualities of citizenship, discipline, teamwork and physical well-being by advocating the virtues of character, courage, sportsmanship and loyalty."

Now some of you may think their decision is a little thing to get worked up over. After all, it's just a bunch of 7-8 year old kids playing baseball, and to a small degree I understand that (although I'm very sad for our boys who may be deprived of playing out the season). Yet I can't help but think how this attitude from parents is shaping the next generation. I mean, nothing says success like being a quitter, right? And certainly nothing builds those character traits quite like walking away when things don't go your way.

I believe these parents are doing a huge disservice to their kids. I shudder to think of the other life lessons that are being "taught" in their households. What life skills are these kids learning?

My sister and I were raised to never, ever quit. Not on ourselves, our family, or our team. Since we are talking sports, allow me to share this memory. We were at the 1986 Orange Bowl where my beloved Penn State football team got walloped by the Oklahoma Sooners. Hearing the cheers of the Sooner fans and knowing there was no chance of a win made me want to leave the game early. But my parents refused. They told me that you always support your team, you never give up. There were many other lessons during my childhood that reinforced the same message, illustrated by their words and actions, and I credit my upbringing - and my determination to endure many challenges throughout my adulthood - to my parent's teachings. 

I feel for the players on these teams. They have parents who don't believe in their ability to persevere. They have coaches who aren't showing them the fundamentals of success in athletics or life. I wonder to what extent their futures will be negatively impacted by that lack, and how our society will fare when these same youngsters are adults. I suppose, that in a few years, our Diamondback boys will again be leading the way, and for that at least, I'm grateful.

#Dbacks4life

We heard it again last night. We hear it a lot.

"Your team is too good". "No one wants to play the Diamondbacks". "Oh, we know all about your team". "It's not right that their players can throw out a runner from the outfield". "But they make double plays!". "Well, we have mostly 1st graders on our team". "They hit too well". "It's not fair". "They shouldn't be allowed to play together". 

I've tried to let the season-long comments roll off my back. Sure, the moms might gather briefly and blow off steam talking about it, but we put smiles on our faces in front of our players and get ready for the next game.

But you know what? I'm mad. Really disappointed. And sad.

Why is it OK for these parents to talk this way about a bunch of kids who work hard, play fair, and win? We always play by the rules, our coaching staff makes sure each player gets a chance at every position, and as a group we support the league in all of it's efforts.

We practice several times a week as a team ... throwing drills, batting practice, and outfield work for two hours or more.  When it's cold we bundle up and practice. When it's raining, we chip in and rent a batting cage. When it's misty or muggy or muddy, we don't complain - we practice. And each of these kids practice a good amount at home; some also participate in clinics or Fall Ball. They work hard to be good ball players, and they are.

As current members of the Diamondbacks, we are very lucky that at some point in our time in Little League we were each placed on a team with Sean Moran, our head coach. For us, it was Owen's second year of t-ball on the White Sox. Our league bylaws allow parents to request a certain coach up to the Minor League level, and we have all done so. The majority of players on the 2015 Diamondback team have been together for three years now. I applaud the commissioners for upholding the rules and permitting that to happen (of course, they got complaints about it).

Bob and I chose to stay with Sean because he is an excellent coach and leader. He teaches baseball fundamentals and he teaches them well. In addition, he stresses healthy competition, sportsmanship and personal responsibility - all values we teach at home too. Plus he cares for our kids as individuals; he likes them, he encourages them. Sean expects a lot from his parents and his players, and though there have been times I've grumbled when I've heard his familiar call "parents, grab your gloves and line up" during practice, I appreciate it. He works hard to be a great coach, and he is. I'm forever grateful our paths crossed.

The parents of this team are also outstanding people that I genuinely like and respect. They support all the kids and the Diamondbacks one hundred percent. They show up for each and every practice, ready to help. They drill with their kids at home. They come to games - 45 minutes early so the kids can stretch and take batting practice - and cheer for every player. They applaud good plays by the opposing team and make sure their kids do the same. I'm so thankful I've become friends with all of them and I'll cherish that always.

I was thinking of all these things last night as I tried to sleep, upset that I was allowing other parent's negative words to crowd out the happiness of another solid Diamondback win. So, here's what I'd like to say to the five mothers and fathers who wrote some of the above comments to the league commission after our game last Saturday; and to the many others who have been complaining about us from the beginning of the season:

Do you realize how hard our kids work? Have you even considered that? Hours of hitting, fielding and throwing. Our coaches teach game situations every single practice; so yes, we are going to catch pop-ups and make double plays, and throw your runners out at second and home.

Next time you want to whine about the Diamondbacks, ask yourself if you take a glove to practice, if you've manned a hitting station for an hour, if you toss your kids pop-ups over and over. If your coaches seem overwhelmed or unorganized, try to help. Almost every dad on our team does.

Your team plays us twice a season. Yep, we will most likely beat you. We are that good. We work at it and our kids have earned every single win. And, by the way, last year, when we were also undefeated, our entire team was 1st graders, two of whom had to try-out for the commissioners because they were actually younger than the age usually allowed.

Instead of putting our kids down, why don't you lift your kids up? Rather than writing a nasty email, why don't you go outside and play catch with your kid? At the Instructional Level, every hitter should be able to make contact with a soft toss pitch. If your child can't - or doesn't even know which side of the plate to stand on - whose responsibility is that?

At Saturday's game, when our players give your team a "Good Game cheer" at the end (but never get one in return), or take a knee when someone is injured, or shout encouragement to their teammates, take a look at your dugout. Do you have team moms or other parents helping the kids with batting helmets? Keeping them focused on the game? Applauding for good plays on the field?

Most importantly, how about teaching your children that the way to succeed in baseball - and life - is to work hard. That sitting around saying things are unfair doesn't change anything, and makes you a loser in more ways than one. That even if you get knocked down, you get back up and try again. Those are the lessons that will last far beyond little league baseball and ones that I'm proud our kids are learning. 

I'm a Diamondback Mom. And I'm proud of our players, our coaches, and our parents.

Happy Mothers Day 2015

A few weeks ago Owen and I were snuggling before bedtime. Having just read an article about the kinds of questions adopted kids might be pondering at his age, I decided to do a "check-in", and casually asked him if there was anything about his adoption he wanted to talk about. He thought a minute or two, and then said, "No, but I'd like to see that picture of my birth mom now" (you might want to reread here).

So I found the key and combo and opened the safe. I pulled out the familiar navy blue folder and brought it back to bed. First I showed Owen his Kazakh passport (which he thought was pretty cool and wondered if could double as a driver's license), then some of the other records we have of his birth.

"OK Mom, but where's that picture?"

I'm not going to pretend I wasn't a little nervous. I wasn't sure what other questions Owen might ask, or how I'd answer them. I wasn't even sure how I'd feel watching my baby look at his first mom's face. But it was time.

I handed him the single sheet containing a photocopy of his mother's country ID. He peered at it, turned to look at me, then gazed at it again.

"What are you thinking Owen?".

Silence.

"Hmmm. Not what I was expecting". And with that he handed the paper back to me and curled into my arms.

We talked a bit more about her. Her name, her age, the tiny village that was her home. We talked about her eyes and hair, and how Owen must look more like his bio father. We talked a little more about things that are Owen's to share - or not. He was fine, ready for sleep, my little boy. And as I exhaled and carefully tucked everything back in the safe, I renewed my silent promise to his first mom.

I will always praise her to Owen. I will make sure he knows about her, and respects her. I will always answer any question as best I can, and if the day comes that he wants to seek her out, I will help him do that. After all, having a first mother doesn't make me any less his mom.

Happy Mother's Day to ALL moms, all the world over.

Musings on What Matters

Tuesday night at Owen's baseball game. Two on, two out with one of our best hitters at bat and Owen on deck. Floating over the cheers of the spectators, the instructions of the coaches, I hear one of our players say, "Hey guys, what happens if Owen gets up with bases loaded?".

This boy is young. He may not have meant his words to sound, as they did, mocking or cruel. Owen is not one of the best hitters on the team, and everyone realizes that. Luckily I don't think Owen heard the comment, preoccupied as he was taking practice swings. If he did, he shrugged it off; he's a pretty tough kid. But my heart twisted as I looked across at the player's laughing face.

The Dali Lama said, "My religion is very simple. My religion is kindness".  Proverbs 3.3 reads "Do not let kindness and truth leave you, bind them around your neck, write them on the tablet of your heart" and Ephesians 4.32 commands "Be kind to one another". "Be kind, for whenever kindness becomes part of something, it beautifies it", wrote Mohammad. Mother Theresa had a few wise words to say about kindness too.

Being kind is my personal creed, and I'm obviously not the first (or kindest) to feel this way. It really encompasses all the good stuff  - love, respect, faith, gratitude. I hope that at the end of my life, people will remember me as kind.

Up until the snows of winter faded and cracked it, I had a magnet (a sweet gift from my friend Le Anne) on my car that read "Kindness Matters". I put it on Owen's door, and we often repeated it while loading up, and talked about how to be kind as we drove about town. Kindness - to everyone, to everything - is the biggest lesson I try to teach Owen.

Practicing kindness doesn't take money, or special talent, or hours of time. You don't have to agree with someone to be kind; you don't even have to like someone to be kind. Being kind can build a bridge between all races and religions.

For Owen, I make kindness simple: it's helping a classmate, or feeding a stray cat. It's listening to your grandparent tell a story - even if you've heard it already. Kindness is donating food or clothing to those who need it, writing thank you notes, and allowing Avery to sit next to the window on the bus (we are still working on that one). Kindness is making the choice not to say mean things about others; and being nice to the neighborhood "bully", because maybe he just needs some extra love. Kindness is trying to put a smile on someone's face.

Oh, that baseball game? Owen did get up with the bases loaded. He hit a single and drove in two runs. And his teammates were kind.

Little Flashes

"Mom, I'm not adopted".

These last few months, I've heard those words a lot. The first few times, I attempted to engage in careful, considerate conversation (not for nothing did we read all those adoptive parenting books and articles), only to have Owen move quickly on to another topic, usually Minecraft or a snack. And so, after a while, I started responding with a nonchalant, "OK".

I figured that this was just part of Owen working through his feelings about being adopted, about being "different" than his friends at school, about making sense of his world in his own way.

We've always been open with him and did all the things we are "supposed" to do. Owen knows he didn't grow in my body, and that another mother, halfway around the world, gave him the gift of life. I created a glossy life story book for him complete with pictures of his hometown, the doctor who delivered him, the first time we met him. His room is decorated with mementos of Kazakhstan and we never miss a chance to point out if a Kazakh is in the news, or cheer like crazy when their Olympic team takes the podium.  And beyond the fact that we are truly friends with many adoptive families, we make it a point to vacation together so all of our kids develop a bond and connect with others who share similar journeys. So while Owen has never asked a lot of questions, or brought up adoption for lengthy discussion, we thought we were doing well.

"Mom, you know I'm not adopted", he said again last week as we played a game.

"Well Owen, we did adopt you. It's perfectly OK to have been adopted".

"No, I'm not adopted".

A flash of wisdom finally makes it to this mama's brain

"Do you know what it really means to be adopted Owen?"

"Yeah (pause). Um, what?"

"It simply means that you have another mother - you could call her your first mommy, or your tummy mommy, or your birth mother, or just mom. It just means someone else gave birth to you, but Dad and I are your parents because we love you and raise you and take care of you, and we always will. That's all."

"Oh. I wonder what my other mom looks like".

"We have a picture of her if you'd like to see it".

"She better not be weird looking".

"Oh, she's not. She's beautiful. Do you want me to get her picture for you?"

"Maybe some other time. Can we play the game again now?"

"Sure. I love you buddy".

"I love you too mom".

And that was it. For then, for now.

I'm sure one day soon we'll have a similar conversation, and I'm equally sure one day he will want to see his birth mom's picture. We are so very lucky to have a black and white photocopy of Owen's birth mother's country ID tucked in our safe for just that time. That will be an interesting time, for Owen does not look like his birth mom, and I do wonder how he will process that. But we'll take it one step at a time, and pray for guidance and grace.

And more little flashes of wisdom along the way.

How Not To Be One Of Those Parents

Owen's first soccer game was last weekend. Go Team USA!

He was thrilled and had a great time; first because of his enjoyment in playing the game; and second, because for the only time in his athletic stint his uniform number is not 1 or 2 (he got 4).

Meanwhile, I sat on the sidelines and remembered that I have to try not to be one of "those" parents.

It's a bit embarrassing to admit, really, that I have to actually think about not being one of the adults who constantly yell directions to their child or play coach from the bleachers. But it's true. While not particularly athletic myself, I am very competitive. I like to win. And although Owen is not a natural athlete, I love to see him do well (and it hurts my heart when I overhear other kids commenting on his lack of skills or not passing him the ball).

So sometimes I find myself offering "helpful" suggestions to him from the sidelines, like "Owen, move up the field", or "Owen, go get it!", or "Shoot, shoot!".

No, not as bad as the mom who told her child on a water break that her play was absolutely unacceptable, or the dad who screamed at his son that if he continued to kick "around" the ball instead of "through" it he might as well quit soccer. Yet these voices remind of who I don't want to be; what I don't want for Owen.

The point of athletics and team sports, especially at this age, is to have fun, to learn skills, to be fit. That's what I hope Owen gets to experience. The thrill of victory, yes, but also the lesson of losing. They aren't, after all, playing for gold medals, national championships, or college scholarships.

Next game, the only words Owen will hear from me are "Great job!". It's just one of the ways motherhood, and Owen, make me a better person. And I'm so thankful for that.

Beauty is in The Eye of the Parents

Many years ago, Bob and I took a seat inside a photo booth at Dave & Busters in Norfolk, Virginia, smiled at a blank screen, pushed a few buttons and waited, giggling, to see what "Junior" would look like. I remember thinking with some relief that our computer generated son was cute - a mop of dark hair, big eyes, and, thankfully, Bob's pert nose.

Cearra was a beautiful child who looked just like her Daddy, so in the times when such thoughts even crossed my mind, I figured Bob and I would eventually produce fairly attractive offspring (and no ego on my part there, I was banking heavily on Bob's good looks coming through).

That made me happy. Yes, perhaps it's shallow but let's be honest, after praying for good health, what parent doesn't secretly also wish, at least a little, for a cutie pie?

Of course, as you all know, God's plans didn't include a Bob-Jodi gene mix. That was hard at first. But as I looked through online adoption photo listings, I found myself strongly drawn to pictures of babies with dark hair, chubby cheeks, almond shaped eyes. And to my surprise (we had initially been researching a Russian adoption), all those sweet faces came from one place: Kazakhstan.

Our agency's referral process at the time allowed parents to specify gender and race, but you had no idea what your child would look like until the much anticipated day they sent you that magic email and perhaps a grainy, black and white video tape. By the time we got that far along in the journey I no longer thought much about how our future son would look - I just wanted him home!

Still, the video we received with our referral was somewhat surprising; the little guy didn't "look" like the son I had pictured in my head. It didn't matter, we were just to happy to finally be on our way to meet him.

That first trip to Kaz and the ensuing days were long, faith-trying, and heartbreaking, but ultimately oh so right. I've talked about it before here. So when I first gazed down at Owen in his crib, I did think he was adorable, but more than that, I felt in every molecular of my being that he was our son.

Now I look at Owen every single day and am blown away by his cuteness. His skin, his pillow lips, his gorgeous melted chocolate eyes. In fact, I can't look at him and not think he is so, so beautiful.

But here's what I've also realized: every child is beautiful to their parents. It has nothing to do with face shape, eye color, skin tone. Nothing to do with whether or not you see your own features reflected back at you. Nor with symmetry or scars. Instead, it has everything to do with love.

I think that's the most beautiful thing of all.

First/Last First (grade)

Last day of first grade, and Owen isn't the only one excited! I'll be honest, it's been a bumpy year. Figuratively ... and physically.

That's the bump Owen suffered from a tumble in gym class, which no one seemed to notice. Not the gym teacher, the music teacher who had him in class right after, or his homeroom teacher at the end of the day.

Of course I contacted the principal right away and to his credit, he responded with sincere apologies, not too many excuses (although he did suggest perhaps Owen's bangs covered it up in school) and spoke to each of Owen's teachers about the incident. Still, it took me a long time to get over it.

Yet Owen seemed unfazed - by the bump at least. His issues with school began with talk of a few of his classmates that were "mean" and got in trouble every day. We had many chats about bullies, appropriate behavior, and being a good friend and classmate.

He also struggled with lunch, and after going in to join him one day, I understood. The cafeteria of his elementary school is chaos. Loud. Hectic. Busy. As an introvert, Owen craves some time to be quiet and take things in. Between his class (more on that in a bit) and the environment at lunch, he just wasn't getting what he needed. We had a lot of talks about that too; I went in about once a week to provide him with comfort and I seriously considered having him moved to the "allergy" table, which always seemed a lot calmer.

We were still seeing his therapist at that time (we started shortly after Dennis' accident when Owen became anxious and was struggling with a lot of emotions) and she helped him come up with and practice strategies to make lunch a better experience. Slowly, things got better on that front.

And then one day Owen sat crying at breakfast, telling me he didn't want to go to school. It happened again the next day. And the next. But he couldn't, or wouldn't, put his reasons into words. At the same time I had befriended a classmate's mother, and she called one day to ask me if Owen was unhappy in class. Her daughter had recently come home crying about school too.

We reached out to his teacher (who up to this point had ignored all my offers to come in to volunteer in class and was adamant that I didn't need to come in for a parent conference because Owen was doing fine), and that's when she told us both in no uncertain terms that she didn't have the time to teach our "quiet, good" kids because some of the class was taking all her energy to discipline. She begged us to go to the principal, and by her voice I knew she was at the end of her rope.

Again, to his credit, the principal listened and made a few changes within the next few days that made a world of difference. Owen no longer cried before the school day, although he never exactly became enthusiastic to go unless there was a field trip or fun day planned.

Looking back I wish that I had become a lot more vocal, a lot earlier. I wish I had acted on my feelings that something wasn't quite right sooner, and advocated more for my child. I feel like I let Owen down. I wish I pushed for a conference, and although I did end up volunteering for another 1st grade teacher which showed me a lot, I wish I insisted on coming to at least sit in Owen's classroom one day.

And while in many ways I am disappointed in our experience this year, I can also say that we still learned and grew.

I'm grateful that riding the bus and being with the neighborhood kids everyday has opened up a whole new world of friendships to Owen, and I love seeing him happily play in the yard with his new buddies.

I'm really proud of Owen for the gains he's made socially and emotionally. He navigated his new school and some tough situations and learned what works best for him. I can see that he's become stronger. He developed a positive relationship with the class "bully" and built on a foundation of compassion for others (at Play Day, he was one of two kids to go over to an injured classmate and try to comfort her).

While he told me he was "bored" a lot this year, his report cards and test results show he did great work, especially in Math (brag moment: Owen scored 100% on both of the county wide math assessments). According to an assignment he brought home this week he also learned "meshuring", found that it was hard to get a soccer ball during recess, and was surprised that you weren't allowed to bring toys to first grade.

Through this challenging year I learned how to watch Owen climb up the stairs of bus 16 without crying, let my preppy fashion standards lapse (a little) and allowed Owen to wear athletic shorts and t-shirts to school every day, and realized it's not just OK but occasionally absolutely necessary to be the squeaky wheel. And I learned that if you buy your child ice cream when visiting for lunch you will also be buying all his buddies ice cream.

So we both head into summer a little braver, wiser, smarter. Time to enjoy our time together and make lots of great memories. Hope y'all have a fantastic summer too!

Not My Eyes or Smile, but My Whole Heart

November is ... Native American Heritage Month, Pancreatic Cancer Awareness Month, COPD Awareness Month, National Novel Writing Month, National Blog Posting Month, Alzheimer's Disease Month, American Diabetes Month, Lung Cancer Awareness Month, National Homeless Youth Awareness Month, Crohn's & Ulcerative Colitis Awareness Month, National Pomegranate Month, International Drum Month, National Stomach Cancer Awareness Month, National Prematurity Awareness Month, Sweet Potato Awareness Month, and (whew!) National Pulmonary Hypertension Awareness Month.

But to me, above all else, November is National Adoption Month; and today, November 11th, is the anniversary of the first day we met Owen. 

All month, proud parents in the Kazakhstan facebook group have been posting pictures. "Then" snapshots from the sometimes dizzying days of meeting their soon-to-be sons and daughters in the baby houses and maternity wards, and "Now" photos of beautiful, beaming, clearly loved children; often tagged with the line "look what love can do". Each new post makes me smile, makes my heart swell. I adore seeing the shining faces of these Kazakh kids and even more so delight in the joy I know they bring their parents.

Often times, well meaning folks will comment that Owen is "so lucky we adopted him". And I guess from a purely statistical standpoint, they're correct. Human Rights Watch recently reported that in Russia, of the roughly 15,000 children released from orphanages annually (because they were not adopted and "aged out"), some 10% commit suicide, 30% commit crimes and 40% are unemployed and homeless. I can't imagine the numbers from Kazakhstan are any better. It's heartbreaking.

But the truth that any adoptive parent holds close is that WE are the truly lucky ones. I believe that all children are a gift, and to those of us especially who chased paper and waited for years, who withstood delays and disappointments, who emptied bank accounts and took a flight of faith ... well, there is not a day that goes by that we don't feel blessed by our kids.

Yes, we've given Owen a warm home, nourishing food, a wide network of loving family and friends. But Owen has given me the ultimate gift. He made me a mom. And even as I dreamed and prayed for him, I had no way of really understanding what that meant, how very much that would mean, until that day I finally held him in my arms.

Being Owen's mom has given me a new role - one that I think is the most important on earth - new responsibilities and challenges (and yes, new worries and anxieties)! I've marveled in new experiences and met life long friends through both the journey and in this season of raising him.

Parenting Owen has allowed me to fully understand how much my own mom and dad love me. How their each and every decision was made in my best interest, and how very much they want the best for me.

Owen makes me laugh louder, try harder, believe more. He's such a joy to be around! So many times this year he has made me smile and begin again, even when the pain of the tragedy we face threatens to swallow the light.

Everyday, my son (oh, how I still love to write that word!) makes me see wonder, delight in small things, and cherish the moments. With him I get to relive cherished traditions of my own childhood, and create new ones that I hope he will one day treasure with his children.

Each time he hugs me, or reaches his small hand up to mine on the walk to the bus stop, I am grateful for my blessings. Every night I still gaze in wonder at his sweet sleeping face as I thank God for him. Owen has given me his heart; and I have gladly, joyfully, given him mine. Forever.

So you see, how could anyone ever think that I'm not the lucky one?

Learning To Be Brave

Last night I went to bed secure in the knowledge that I wasn't sending Owen to school today.

Not with all the rumors and threats flying around cyberspace, the increased police presence at area schools, and the Mayan end of the world prediction (which, to someone with mental illness, could be a "call to action"). I peacefully drifted off, alarm clock not set, with thoughts of a lazy day ahead, building gingerbread houses and reading Christmas books with Owen.

At 8:25 Owen wakes, looking at the clock with a puzzled expression.

My response to his unspoken question "We're going to stay home today buddy!" earns me a big hug, and  moments later, "I'm not going to school?"

"Nope!" I say cheerfully, still feeling happy with my decision.

"But Mom," as his little face starts to crinkle, "I have to go to school today. Mrs. Shrader said we have one more Friday. Everyone else will be there. And it's gym day!".

I try to convince him we'll have fun; he is equally committed to going to school. I ask him many times if he is sure he wants to go ... does he really want to go?

He does.

I pull on a sweatshirt, hand him his clothes. Quick breakfast, make lunch, brush teeth and hair. And then we are in the car heading for school. I want to turn the van around, but Owen is humming happily in the back seat, sure of where he is meant to be at 9:00 on a weekday.

I walk him in, signing in tardy and asking if I can write "Mom is crazy" as the reason. Owen is happy to be here, telling his class that I wanted us to stay home but he had to come in for gym. My friend Karen is in the classroom today helping with a special project; another new friend is class mom. They are both kind and gentle, telling me to stay if it makes me feel better.

It's warm and peaceful in the front office, where staff members Amy and June greet me and give hugs and tissues as the tears embarrassingly break free. They tell me they understand; they are moms; their hearts are within these walls too.

I peak in on the class once more. The kids are wearing red and green - a change in their usual uniforms and a treat before break. Owen is sitting next to MacKenzie on the carpet, gathered round Mrs. Shrader as they go through their morning routine.  I say a silent prayer, and walk back out the front doors to my car.

It's going to be a long day. My eyes are already puffy and a headache is creeping in. My heart is still bleeding for the lives that were lost in Connecticut a week ago today; my tears for those parents as well.

But Karen sent me the above picture as I wrote this, and I smiled to see my baby sitting with his chapel buddy, participating in a special sing-a-long and prayer service. I know he is happy to be there, and he will have stories to tell me when he gets home - especially what they did in gym.

And maybe, just maybe, today will make us both a little braver.

I Might Be A Horrible Mother

A recent post in a Facebook Kazakhstan adoptive parents group went something like this:

"Any suggestions on getting a 4.5 year old who has sucked her thumb since the baby house to stop?"

"Mavala Stop. Worked in one day."
"I tried bribing and the yucky stuff"
"Put socks on his hands at bedtime. When that stopped working I sewed the ends of his PJ arms shut."
"My daughter has a metal "habit-breaking" appliance in her mouth"

And then there's my response:

 "My son still sucks him thumb when he is tired; he's 6. I guess I'll pay for it later, but as he's been doing it since we met him and I know it's a soothing ritual for him, I'm not worried about trying to make him stop. I figure he will when he's ready."

Yes, I know thumb sucking can be ruinous for teeth, bite and palette (there are plenty of reminders of that in the thread). We have spoken to Owen about it; I tell him what it might do to his mouth, that he might need lots of dental work in the future, that it might be a good idea to think about quitting. He understands and says he will "cut back" (and indeed he has in the last few months).

It's no big mystery as to why kids suck their thumbs (or a pacifier or their fingers). It's soothing, relaxing, comforting. It helps them sleep, it helps them feel safe. Nor is it a great surprise that when laying in a crib night after night, alone in the dark, without anyone or thing to soothe and cuddle, that Owen - like so many children in orphanages - developed the habit of sucking his thumb.

Of course he is reticent to give that up, and because I do understand a bit about early childhood development (and am forever slightly haunted by Harlow's baby monkeys) I am firmly against what I consider harsh methods of breaking that habit. I'm not going to coat his thumb in liquid whose first ingredient is a flammable chemical that causes throat, nose, mouth, eye and lung irritation and is used as an additive in cigarettes. I'm not going to trap his hands inside his clothing.

Perhaps I am overly sensitive to the circumstances of Owen's first six months. Perhaps I am too emotional, too soft. Or perhaps I am a horrible, lax mother who is dooming her child to years of orthodontia.

But this is what I know as a mama - I will not force my child to give up something which gives him comfort and is not a threat to his life or the safety of others. I will always do everything I can to make my sweet boy feel loved, safe, secure and happy all the days of his life; and for today, that will include the freedom to suck his thumb at will.

ResuME

I'm updating my resume.

No, not due to any overwhelming desire on my part to rejoin the formal workforce; in fact, in the 3 weeks Owen has been in school I've found a somewhat peaceful rhythm of spending time with my fellow kindergarten mom Karen, running errands with ease, volunteering to be lunch and classroom mom, puttering about the house (including steam cleaning 6 rooms worth of carpet, which I've found to be oddly satisfying), and baking batch upon batch of oatmeal GORP cookies.

Yet understandably - and largely due to the fact that we are still paying for Cearra's private college education while sending Owen to another private school - Bob would like some help with the household income. A bit of relief after shouldering the sole burden of making our finances work for the past 6 years. I get that, I really do.

It's easy enough to do a quick Google search and wrangle my professional experience into the format hiring managers are preferring these days, and my career has been comprised of enough managerial titles and impressive sounding tidbits (ahem ... "managed a $20 million, multi-year contract", "renegotiated a $13 million contract", "oversaw national and regional marketing contracts to ensure all US offices adhered to company policy and promoted quality throughout the bidding and procurement process", etc.) to garner at least some attention.

But what occurs to me most during this exercise is that while I mainly enjoyed my past roles and I don't think it's off-base to say I was pretty good at what I did, the "position" that isn't bullet-pointed on my CV is far and away my favorite, and the one in which I take most pride. And while no one will expect me to spell it out as such on a resume, here's what I might add to explain what I've been up to since that last Manager title ...

Mother

Key Skills and Attributes:

Communication - proven story reader, knock-knock joke teller, and interpreter of toddler speak. Ability to listen to "mom, momma, mommy" all day, every day, without losing patience (or mind).  Accurately conveyed daily events, schedules and milestones through face to face interactions and social media including facebook and blogger. Conveyed love through words and actions 100% of the time.

Problem Solving - consistently demonstrated effective use of behavioral analysis to both teach positive responses and curtail undesirable behavior. Highly skilled in diversionary tactics and bargaining. Proven ability to multi-task; work late into the night; and determine the source of a child's cry within one to two wails.

Team Player - volunteered to bring expensive and therefore often avoided fruit trays to school events. Served as Team Mom for the (Westminster) White Sox. Increased number of play dates at home by 100%. Willingly sacrificed personal salon services and book store purchases for the greater good of the organization.

Budgeting - dressed members of family in high end clothing at savings of 95% over retail by shopping consignment and thrift. Uncanny ability to locate gently used Ralph Lauren Polo shirts and men's Chaps shorts with tags intact. Invented money saving trips to the SAHM's "zoo" (PetSmart) and "water park" (mall fountain). Founded and managed online store to resell gently used clothing.

Organization - managed sports, school, and social schedule with no missed appointments and reliable on-time performance while successfully avoiding the common pitfall of over scheduling. Executed memorable field trips and family outings with a minimum of melt-downs. Planned fun-for-all parties and events at home office as well as off-site locations.

Main Achievements: 

• Raising (so far, so good) a happy, healthy kid while having the time of my life. 
• Smiling and laughing and appreciating my blessings every single day.
• Knowing with 100% certainty that this is the job I was made for, and one that I want to stay in for the rest of my life.

The Other Man

Shhh ... don't tell Bob, but I've been seeing someone else.

Let's just call him "B2". I see him everyday. He makes my heart smile - big brown eyes, brown buzz cut. Others describe him as quiet and shy, but sweet. He loves music. He's on the shorter side, and younger than me.

And oh yeah, half a world away. Waiting for a family.

And despite the fact that we never planned to add another, and that we certainly do not have the money to walk that path again and currently have a full house, and that we are getting older, and that its scary even thinking of dealing with another adoption and the issues that can come up, or messing up our current family dynamic, and well, a million or so other reasons for me to just break off this relationship now ... I keep returning to his face.

Look, not for nothing did I get my Masters in Psychology. I realize this is most likely a reaction to Owen going to school full-time, or a way to feel useful again. Maybe I see Owen playing with his friends and wish he had a brother close in age (he tells me he wants a brother, but not a baby because he's "not so into them"). Could be that I am all too aware there are an estimated 40-50 million orphans in the world, and each one of them deserves a mom and dad and a chance. Perhaps I just want to get out of looking for a job (but I doubt that one). Or just maybe it's because my heart expanded 100 times over when we brought Owen home, and I like myself this way; I love being a mom; and I think I'm pretty good at it.

B2 is a waiting child. He has some minor health issues (hey, who doesn't) and he is not an infant, so he's considered special needs. Even if Bob goes for this (and that's a pretty big "if" because we haven't really even spoken of it except for me to ask for our net worth so I could complete a pre-application), even if we figure out a way to come up with the money and even if I could psych myself up to complete the mountains of paperwork again, it's possible B's birth country won't let us adopt him. Might be that they say "no" because of my darn (and in my mind, ancient) cancer history, or that I'm considered too fat (seriously).

Bringing him home is such a long shot on so many levels, and I know that realistically it most likely will not happen.

But oh, that little smiling face ...

25 Days

In early February of 1998, Bob and I drove a slightly panicky and in labor friend to the hospital in the middle of the night and waited there until her Navy Seal husband could be summoned to her side from a training exercise on the dark Atlantic ocean. 

A few days later, I whispered to Bob that I was finally ready - I wanted a baby. Not more than two weeks later, I got the call that changed our lives forever.

I remember that in the thick of it - after the doctor advised eight courses of chemotherapy to combat the fast-growing cells - I raged at God one night... "really? No child now, maybe no child ever? Really?"

Cut to almost six years later - a bit past that glorious five year mark - and we were ready to try again. But time and technology could not undo what was, and I knew I could not again withstand the daily injections and another call from a coldly unmoved doctor saying, "not this time, but we'll just increase the meds next round".

And yet the thing which I had once merely whispered had become something I now could not imagine living without, and so our final journey, in fits and starts and not without a great deal of trepidation, began. 

The first social worker I called flatly noted that with my cancer history, no agency would ever approve us to adopt. Thankfully (and obviously) that proved not to be true, and well, you all know the rest of the story.

I share this with you now in the hopes you will read the remainder of this post with understanding, and be gentle with this hurting mom.

***

"Owen, I love you more than chocolate!"

"Mommy, I love you more than vanilla!"

"Well, I love you more than all the stars in the sky and all the fish in the sea"

"Mommy, I love you more than anything"

***

In 25 days, I will wake Owen early, have him dress in new khaki shorts and powder blue polo, and send him into the care of the teachers at his new school. In doing so, he and I will begin a new season in our life together. For the first time since we brought him "home" to our Kokshetau apartment on February 13, 2007, Owen and I will spend more time apart than together.

He told me a few weeks ago that he didn't want to go to all-day school because he would miss me so much. Knowing that I had to, I slid on my happy face and hugged him tight and assured that while I would miss him too, he was going to have a wonderful time in school, learning new things and seeing his friends. Inside, my heart started to weep. 

In 25 days, the life I've lived and loved for the past five years - a life I dreamed of, fought for, and cherish - changes in ways I am dreading. What will I do without my little buddy?

Yes, it will be quieter, and the family room floor cleared of cars and toy tractors for more than three hours. I will be able to make and keep appointments with ease, and the grocery store trip will be much shorter without a stop to say hello to the lobsters and "helping hands" wanting to pick out the produce. Pet Smart will once again be just the place I buy cat food. I won't be spending my day squishing play-doh, choosing my favorite monster truck for a freestyle competition, helping a giggling little brother hide a rubber snake under his sister's pillow, or hitting a golf ball around the yard in our own version of mini golf. How very sad that makes me.

In 25 days, I will no longer get to wake slowly and snuggle with Owen each morning, planning our adventures for the day. I won't feel his little hand reach for mine as we stride across a parking lot. He won't be around to rub my forehead when I have a headache, to ask me to play a game of War or Connect Four, to laugh when I tickle him under the arm.

I know that like all moms before me, I will adjust. And I know that Owen will enjoy school. I will find new things to help pass my days, maybe a part-time job or volunteering, I will slowly learn to enjoy having "me" time again. I'll look forward to weekends and snow days with renewed joy.

But in 25 days, the heart that forever walks around outside my chest takes a big step away from me, and I will never stop missing him. 

"Dear Jodi (Mom)"

Back when I first started dating Bob, some wondered if I knew "what I was getting myself into"; a man who had been married, a father with a daughter. Honestly I didn't mull it over too much; I was in love, and Cearra was a three-year old bundle of sweetness and beauty added to my world.

Being a stepmother wasn't always easy. While I was very lucky that Cearra's mother always allowed me to play a role in C's life, I was also always conscientious of the fact that I wasn't Cearra's mom, and I never wanted to do or say anything to upset that balance. That can make a relationship tricky ... just how do you discipline, offer advice, console, etc., a child in the "right" way when you are in fact a bit of a third-wheel of a parent? There were times I was frustrated; times I was elated; moments that made my heart soar; and many times when I bit my tongue and just hung on.

I always tried to do my best, to put Cearra's happiness and well-being first in every decision. Over the years it got as easy as breathing - because after all I loved Cearra as "my own" from the very start.

It has been an amazing journey watching her grow up, and I don't know what my life would have been without her. The joy has always far outweighed any struggles. As she prepares to graduate from college and embark on the next stage of her life, I am thrilled to be by her side and look forward to experiencing how our relationship continues to grow through all the moments she has ahead.

This Mother's Day Cearra sent me a beautiful card, with a sentiment thanking me for my love and support, signing it from both her and Owen. And then she wrote that "a gift for you has been purchased from Bead for Life to help support other mothers in Uganda do for their child what you have done for Owen and I".

And that - the card and her thoughts, plus the compassion and awareness Cearra demonstrated by choosing that very special gift - well, that is more precious to me than any material thing. It means the world to me. Because while I might not have known all those years ago what I was getting myself into, I absolutely know now how I am blessed.

I love you Cearra and Owen. You both mean everything to me, and I am so proud and honored to be your mom, mommy, step mom, and bonus mom!

Big Win!

I am bursting-at-the-heart-seams proud of this kid!!

Today was Little League Day at Camden Yards. Before the Oriole's game thousands of players from all over Maryland and Virginia make a lap around the warning track, high-fiving players, and waving to the crowd. I'd been talking to Owen about it for the last few days, letting him know that Daddy and Mommy weren't allowed to be on the field with him, and in fact he wouldn't be able to see us for most of the parade. He said he wanted to do it (although his little brow would crease as he asked me several times if we could go with him).

This morning we arrived at our designated "green balloon spot" at the side of the stadium. Owen happily joined in with his fellow White Sox. I mentioned to his coach that I wasn't sure how this would play out once Bob and I were no longer in sight. I straightened Owen's hat and told him again that his coaches and teammates would be with him on the field and then would bring him to us in the stands. I hugged him and told him I loved him.

Too soon it was time to leave. Bob and I walked to the stadium gates as my eyes welled with tears. I was nervous for my baby. There was no way I'd be able to get to him once we were inside; I couldn't reach him once the parade started. An image of his panicked face floated in my mind. I said a prayer that he'd be OK; that he'd feel safe and have fun. I literally wrung my hands and fretted.

Bob and I hurried to a spot in the stands and waited for the Westminster Little League teams to emerge from the tunnel. Other youngsters came by, waving and laughing. We waited more. I smiled for the camera, but inside I'm only thinking of Owen.

Finally - the green balloons! There are the White Sox - and there's #3!

As best as I can tell from yards away he looks calm. Just kind of taking it all in. Going by the dugout now - slapping hands with some players. I can't see his face but I know he's OK, and I'm smiling like crazy! His team walks by the outfield wall and one of the bigger boys from a team behind them picks Owen up so he can high five someone in the stands (O will later tell me he didn't particularly like that part!). Round the bend and here they come!

I yell "Go White Sox" as Bob yells for Owen and we are rewarded by waves and smiles from his teammates; and from Owen, a look that says he is just fine, as if he did this every day of his life.

You can only see the top of his head,
right in front of the coach in orange

Then they are heading off, Owen moving to the edge of the track to trail his fingers along the fence before hustling to catch up to his team. For the first time in almost 2 hours I exhale. My eyes well up and I know my baby is doing well. That's he's happy. That he knows he is safe and loved.

Coach Sean brings him to our seats and I give him a huge hug, saying I am so very proud of him. We eat sausages, and hot dogs, and cinnamon and sugar pretzels as we cheer on the home team. Bob and Owen get new matching hats and we all relax and enjoy a gorgeous day together.

Oh yes ... my heart is as buoyant as those green balloons set free and floating off into a crystal clear blue sky.

If you don't know Owen well; if you haven't read this (or if you don't know about attachment and separation issues that can arise with adoption); I realize I may sound crazy right about now. But this day was huge for us, and I wanted to share it with you all. Please be kind to this admittedly very protective mother!