Bittersweet Birthday

Today is my Medicare-eligible birthday, and I’m feeling a little blue. Not because I’ve reached the Golden Girls age, but because today we said farewell to the baby of the family as she makes her way to Italy to study for the winter and spring semester.

For months we have been planning this exciting chapter in my daughter’s life. I’ve stressed myself out over documentation for the student visa, securing medication for a four-month stint in a foreign country, and helping my less than organized child pack for the duration. There have been tears, a fair amount of shouting and haranguing, and some sleepless nights as I’ve worried over every difficulty and danger that could befall my beloved child. So you’d think I’d be relieved. Finally all our planning and packing have come to an end, and she’s on her way.

It’s true that I breathed a sigh of relief when her luggage met the weight requirements and she was able to check in to her flight. And it is a little easier here at home with one less person to attend to. But it’s a little too quiet. When my husband and I arrived home after the trip to the airport, I saw our daughter’s shoes standing in the middle of the kitchen and began to miss her.

It’s the paradox of parenthood that we go from too much togetherness (“Please, can I have just one moment to myself?”) to too much distance. We long for our kids to grow up and become independent. And then, damn it, they do! Although I wouldn’t have it any other way, I must confess that there is a comfort level to having the chicks home in the nest. They may be driving you crazy, but they are there, safe and warm, eating all the pasta and occasionally making you laugh.

The hubby and I had an early bird special birthday dinner at our favorite restaurant. It was lovely to gaze out at the bay while sipping a delicious glass of chardonnay. I’ve talked to each of my four children during the course of the day, all of whom made the point to wish me a happy birthday. In spite of this little touch of sadness, I have had a wonderful day counting my blessings.

I sincerely hope I have many more birthdays on which I can reflect on the contradictory joys and tribulations of family life.

End of an Era

The boxes are piled up and closets empty. No pictures hang on the walls, and soon no signs will remain that my family and I lived in our house for the past 19 years.

I distinctly remember moving into this place just before Christmas of 2002. We had been living in a cramped little rental while building our dream home for our four children to grow up in. Our adopted daughter from China had her days and nights mixed up and would howl disconsolately every night around 1 am, waking my oldest, with whom she was sharing a bedroom.

We managed to get our earthly belongings moved in, beds made, and kitchen unpacked with the help of two of my sisters, who kindly dropped everything in the middle of the Christmas bustle to assist me. We even managed to put up and decorate a real Christmas tree, which shone proudly in our living room window. After Christmas, my husband and I hosted both of our families for a party celebrating the baptism of our one-year-old daughter. The granite for our kitchen hadn’t yet been installed, so everyone gamely gathered around the plywood countertop to enjoy a meal and some family togetherness. Our families were excited to get a tour of our new home, and despite the unpacked boxes and disarray of Christmas that remained, we were proud to do so. At some point during all the frenzy of that hectic time, I sighed and declared, “The only way I’m moving out of this house is in a box!” Ah, the best laid plans.

Come Monday, our home of almost 20 years will turn back into a house. Its empty rooms and corridors will show no sign of all the laughter, tears, rambunctiousness and drama that constituted our family life for so long. With any luck, soon a new family will be packing and moving into this beloved place and making their own memories here.

I’ll miss the home we painstakingly designed and lovingly furnished not just with things, but with our love, hopes, and dreams. Luckily, those latter three still exist and will still shine no matter our location. But it is truly the end of an era, and I know I’ll shed more than a few tears when we leave this place for good.

Persistence

In Julie Ryan McGue’s wonderful memoir Twice a Daughter: A Search for Identity, Family, and Belonging, she describes the arduous process to find her birth parents, a process that took many years, substantial financial investment, and most importantly, courage. Stymied by the laws surrounding closed adoptions, McGue and her twin sister grow up with the unknowns that all adopted people face. So many doors are shut in Julie’s face as she seeks answers to her background. A lesser mortal might have given up.

But Julie persists. At one point in her memoir she says, “Never give up trying to find the right key to a locked door.” That sentence stuck with me long after I finished the emotional and satisfying conclusion of Julie McGue’s adoption saga.

Persistence is a quality that comes naturally to babies and young children. Everything is a learning experience for them, and they develop their skills with dogged determination. Picture a baby on its tummy rocking and pushing and trying with all its might to roll over. Or a child taking those first tentative steps and falling right on its diapered bottom. But somewhere along the way, we lose that tenacity. We are too busy, or it takes too much mental, physical, or emotional energy. That same tot who spent hours figuring out how to fit the blocks into the shape sorter now melts in a puddle of tears when trying to complete the assigned math homework.

Obstacles are opportunities to grow. No one develops muscle strength without encountering resistance, after all. So too with the roadblocks in our lives. My husband is constantly exhorting our kids to look at rejection and resistance as gifts. In his own career, he took impediments as challenges to overcome. When others doubted him in his work life, he would take an “I’ll show them” kind of attitude. He didn’t coin the expression “Success is the best revenge,” but he lived by it.

In Julie McGue’s case, her need for medical information to help herself and her children propelled her to find answers no matter how hard it was. She kept pursuing different avenues – agencies, DNA tests, even the advice of a private detective – all in her quest to find her birth family. There were so many disappointments, and they played havoc with Julie’s natural optimism and happy nature. Yet in her quest, Julie also found people to help and guide her along the way. Her story is as much about love and compassion as it is about rejection and heartache.

Julie’s persistence paid off. She was able to find her biological parents and siblings and to discover so much about the origins of her identity. And she enriched the life of her own family in the process. If you need a spellbinding story of determination and the ties that bind, I cannot recommend Twice a Daughter highly enough.

Florida Man

Florida Man forgets hat

The phenomenon of the Florida Man has entered the public consciousness since the advent of social media. The internet is the ideal place to disseminate photos and headlines about the shenanigans of Sunshine State denizens, the preponderance of whom are men. Such headlines can’t help but grab your attention: “Florida man beats ATM: says it gave him too much cash;” “Florida Man Arrested for Calling 911 After His Cat Was Denied Entry Into Strip Club;” “Florida man arrested for trying to rob Waffle House with finger guns.” Although there are far more deadly and disturbing acts perpetrated by Florida men, it’s fun to laugh at some of these hapless ne’er-do-wells and their encounters with local law enforcement, not to mention wildlife in the form of alligators and crocodiles. (“Florida man wearing ‘Crocs’ jumps into crocodile pit, gets bitten”)

Since my husband and I moved to Florida last year, my kids and I have taken to viewing their dad affectionately as a Florida Man in training. The kids already love to tease my husband about his myriad eccentricities: his penchant for wearing “groutfits,” i.e. dressing head to toe in gray; his clumsiness, as exemplified by his recent fall into the dishwasher; his strange expressions in photos (“Dad looks like he had a couple tequila shots”); and his habit of using a family texting chain as his own personal social media account.

Now, to the kids’ ultimate annoyance, my husband sends dozens of photographs of us in various sunny Florida locales enjoying ourselves. Or he sends screen shots of the weather here. Then he waits with bated breath for their responses, which have become fewer and fewer as his postings have become more frequent. While I can’t say that my husband has yet performed any Florida Man feats worthy of making headlines or internet memes, I do find Florida the perfect setting for his lovable quirks. For instance, he constantly comments on and takes pictures of local birds. Each time we cross a bridge, he gazes out on the water and says, “What’s not to love about Florida?” And every so often, I’ll be driving home from the grocery store and see him sweating in his groutfit as he strolls along in the summery heat.

My husband has a birthday this week. He may not be getting any younger, but he could not be happier than he has been in Florida, his happy place. No doubt his eccentricities will only increase over the years, giving the kids fodder for more mockery in family texts. But we dearly love our Florida Man and wish him many more years in the Sunshine State.

Don’t Trip Down Memory Lane

Cleaning out closets has a way of stirring up dust – and memories. Among the possessions I have been going through lately has been the repository of old family photos extending back to my own parents’ childhoods and beyond. For years these photos had been haphazardly dumped into boxes and moved from place to place as members of my large family took turns with the responsibility of storing them.

Knowing that some day these photos would be completely lost to the ravages of time and imperfect storage, I purchased numerous acid-free boxes and set about moving the photos into safer containers. In doing so, I found some gems that I had not seen for many years, such as pictures of my maternal grandmother and grandfather when they were young. Photos of my dad and his brothers from their youth, their army portraits, wives and children, even ones of myself when I was very little and cranky-looking (as opposed to my current old and cranky look!). I found a poster of my cousin who had passed away some years ago. The poster had been made for his wake and funeral, and I marveled at the images: his prom, for instance, or the numerous shots of him and his army buddies enjoying a beer. I thought to myself that there must be some stories there that I had never thought to learn.

When we’re young, we imagine our future as almost limitless, endless. We doubt we can learn much of anything from the past, especially from our own ancestors. I remember the endless parade of aunts at family gatherings when I was a kid. Sure, they had some unique qualities, but it never occurred to me to sit at their feet and listen to their stories. My grandparents were similarly fossilized in my mind. Now I wish I had some knowledge of what their lives had been like. Youth is truly wasted on the young.

My siblings and I discussed some of my finds at dinner last weekend out on my screened-in porch. It had been a while since we had gotten together, what with COVID and busy lives intervening. But over pizza, we shared memories and stories. My brother explained how he had spent quite a bit of time with that cousin from the posters. Our cousin was much older, more like an uncle to us. In his later years, he had a pizza joint he would hang out at with his friends, his adopted family, if you will. My brother would join them and get to know my cousin. In doing so, he confirmed that cousin Jack was quirky and curmudgeonly, things I’d certainly guessed from his life-long bachelorhood – but also that he was unfailingly kind and generous, buying books for his neighbors’ children, giving away cash to people who needed it, even feeding the neighborhood squirrels!

We moved on to our own lives and memories. My brothers regaled us with stories about a local cemetery where they had both worked for a number of years. Their tales could provide fodder for numerous seasons of a dark comedy on HBO or Showtime. One brother had even had his life threatened while working there. My sisters recalled the aftermath of our mother’s death and how insecure they were to leave my dad’s side. I learned that my father had had tuberculosis for many more years than I had initially believed growing up. As we sat there on a waning summer night, I realized that we too are repositories of many memories that our children may some day want to hear. I hope that, unlike me, they discover the urge to learn their history earlier in life – before many of the people they could ask are gone.

It took some doing getting the photos off of that poster of my cousin. The pictures had been glued on, so my husband helped me peel off a thin strip of the paper without damaging the images. Then I literally took scissors and cut around the photos so that these snapshots of an earlier time could be preserved for the future. Wherever my cousin Jack is, I hope he is having a beer with his brother and his brothers-in-arms.

Taking a trip down memory lane can be a bit like falling into a rabbit hole. Many twists and turns can lead you to some dark paths. But I’m grateful for the memories and stories I have – and for family, who can keep those stories alive for the generations to come.

Down-Sizing

The giant stuffed Mickey Mouse sat forlornly on the curb outside our house. We’d hung a sign around his neck offering, “Free to a good home.” We had won the mammoth stuffed toy at a charity auction more than 20 years ago. I can still remember the look on the valet’s face as my husband and I worked at stuffing Mickey into the back seat of our sedan before bringing it home to our delighted 2-year-old. But we are downsizing, so it’s time to offload some of our unneeded possessions.

It is a bittersweet process going through your things to determine what you will keep and what you can bear to part with. Sure, there are a lot of household objects without any sentimentality attached to them. I had no trouble getting rid of old coffee mugs or my duplicate cookie press. But going through memorabilia is a lot harder. All the pictures and cards my kids made for me, their little handprint clay creations, awards and ribbons from my previous life: Sifting through these made me smile and even get a little teary-eyed.

The other day I found a box of college papers I’d saved as well as my high school yearbooks. I was actually impressed at my intellectual abilities from back in the day. For instance, I’d written a Freudian interpretation of the novel Jaws that was fairly impressive, if a little far-fetched at times. The shark as a stand-in for the libido? But the yearbook signings were my favorites. Kids wrote the most inane things. And good friends made all kinds of references to funny experiences that I’ve since forgotten. I looked up my photo in each yearbook and remembered how awkward and out of place I always felt. Yet most of the students who wrote in my book said genuinely nice things to me. In hindsight, I probably was not the total dork I thought I was.

Having our kids go through their own things has also been a little stressful. The boys were fairly easy. It took only a couple of hours for each of them to make piles marked, “Keep” and “Give away.” My daughter was another story. She not only has way more clothing than my other kids, but she has also amassed a collection of home decor that could stock a small resale shop. It literally took days for us to go through her things, and we are not quite finished. I knew we were in trouble when she insisted on keeping all the little scraps of paper with meaningful sayings on them that she had taped to her closet door.

Despite the hard work and sadness at parting with some of our things, I have a feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction as my house becomes more streamlined and less cluttered. It’s a good thing to relinquish some of our material possessions. It helps put them in their proper perspective. As long as my children and my husband are happy and in good health, I consider myself the richest of women.

It took about half a day for someone to come by and pick up Mickey. I didn’t see the person stop and load him into their car or truck. But I hope wherever he lands, Mickey brings pleasure to someone else’s young children. It’s nice to think of our possessions getting a new life with a new family.

Down-sizing is not such a bad process. Change is good. And Marie Kondo would be proud!

Big Sis, Little Sis

It’s my little sister’s birthday today. With only 13 months between us, we have always been very close: best friends, playmates, antagonists, vyers for our parents’ attention.

The relationship between sisters is an especially precious one. Older sisters practice mothering the younger ones. I had seven of these “mothers” as I grew up, and I idolized them: their clothes, their hairstyles, their high-heeled shoes, their sophistication. I tried to be older than I was, bragging to anyone who would listen that “when I become a five-year-old teenager, I’m going to smoke.” I insisted that I could read long before I actually had the ability to do so. And being named one of the “little kids” in my family was a source of disgruntlement for me.

Yet my older sisters took me under their wings. They would spin elaborate fantasies when we played pretend. I remember secret meetings in little attic rooms in our house and twirling around into a world of fairy princesses and evil witches. My big sisters took me on adventures downtown in our suburban village and to the city beach on hot summer days. I even learned the basics about sex from them rather than my mom. When I was in junior high, one of them gave me a book that told me everything I needed to know, but was afraid to ask. Even when I entered the world of technical adulthood, my oldest sister was there to reassure me and help me out. She drove me down to move into college and would sometimes visit me there on weekends. I have relied on my older sisters, and my oldest in particular, to guide me through marriage and motherhood.

My two daughters have a very similar relationship. Eleven years apart, they are more like mother and daughter than sisters sometimes. In fact, I think I am a bit easier on my youngest than her big sister is. But they still share a sisterly bond that often unites them against their overbearing parents. They like to watch the same TV series filled with adolescent angst together. Now away at college, my younger daughter will often reach out to her older sister rather than to mom and dad for advice and moral support. The gift of an older sister is priceless.

My little sister and I, though, have a slightly different relationship born of our closeness in age. Little sis was the cuter and sweeter of the two of us, so she was my dad’s indisputable favorite. This made me jealous, and I would try to get her into trouble whenever I could. For instance, once I saw her sneak a candy from my mom’s prized box of chocolate-covered cherries, and I immediately tattled on her. For her part, she was often jealous of me because I got more grown-up clothes and privileges a little earlier than she did. We fought like the dickens as young children, and for years she sported a scar above her eye as a result of a scuffle near our bedroom radiator.

Yet little sis and I were and are also the best of friends. Being so close in age, we enjoyed the same activities: playing with dolls, swinging on the swingset and especially playing long games of pretend amidst the lilac bushes in our backyard. We looked so much alike that neighbors often couldn’t tell us apart. We have remained close throughout our lives, sharing college experiences and teaching stories. I was her maid of honor when she married. And we have seen each other through many times, good and bad. There is nothing I enjoy more in the world than a late night session drinking wine and gabbing with my little sister.

So little sis, I raise a glass of red to you on your birthday. May we always be best friends through the vicissitudes of life.

The Kindness of Strangers

I have noticed a phenomenon on social media that is interesting to me. I find that my friends on Facebook are generally very supportive of and positive with each other. I also follow a couple of groups on the site, and the members seem to go out of their way to build each other up, praising each other’s writing, complimenting each other on the decision to let our hair go gray, etc. It reminds me of the famous line by Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire: “I have always relied on the kindness of strangers.”

Indeed, compared to my immediate family members, people I know only casually or not at all are downright effusive with praise. Part of the reason for this, I’m sure, is that most of us are raised to be polite in public spaces. We say “please” and “thank you,” smile, hold open doors for others, and try to act as civilized as possible. Yet we don’t always extend the same courtesy to the ones we love most. Why?

People we are close to know us the best. They see all of our flaws along with our strengths. In some ways, it’s their responsibility to criticize those less than flattering aspects of our personality and behavior. They actually have a stake in our improving ourselves. With strangers or casual acquaintances, there is nothing to be gained by telling someone you hate their hairstyle or think their singing/writing/art/fashion sense needs work. We are also so comfortable with close friends and family members that we feel free to tease them or engage in passionate arguments. I used to quip that if my husband was too respectful to you, it meant he didn’t like you. A certain amount of good-natured banter can be a sign of closeness and even love.

Yet I think it would be beneficial for us to try being more generous and complimentary to the people we hold most dear. As a mom, for instance, I have sometimes felt harshly judged by my husband and children. I’m sure from their point of view, I can be mean and judgmental too. I sometimes remind myself to try to treat my family members the way I would their friends who come to visit.

Everyone could use more positivity in their lives. I’m not talking about false admiration or unrealistic praise. It’s not fair to tell your child you think she’s the next Kelly Clarkson if she can’t carry a tune. However, it’s important to encourage others in our lives whether they are passing acquaintances or those near and dear to us. When people put themselves out there, they are generally looking, not for constructive criticism, but for acknowledgment and support.

The world is a better place when we build each other up instead of tearing each other down. And what better place to shower kindness than among those we hold most dear.

Who’s Zooming Who?

Say what you will about the evils of technology, access to a computer or smartphone during this crisis has been a godsend. I have become particularly fond of all the teleconferencing options that are available to regular people: Google Meet, Zoom, House Party, to name a few. What I love about these formats is that you can see and speak with a large group of people all at once.

The widespread access of these virtual meeting platforms has made it possible for large numbers of people to continue working from home while sheltering in place during the coronavirus pandemic. My three older kids are all still busy and gainfully employed thanks to the wonders of technology.

But what I love most is that I can see my entire family all at once even though we cannot be together. We have started holding nightly Zoom meetings to catch up and get a glimpse of each other’s beloved faces. It’s reassuring to see face to face that they are doing okay. In fact, I have spent more time talking to my adult children since the crisis started than I had when things were “normal.”

On Easter, my sister-in-law hosted a Zoom meeting for the extended family. I thought it would be pure chaos, but it was a lot of fun. We got to see our nephew’s children enjoy their Easter baskets. The kids were underwhelmed by the fact that they could see a bunch of aunts and uncles, not to mention their grandparents, on their home computer. This is the generation that will truly take technology for granted. It was also good to connect with each other and be able to express some of our fears and anxieties about the road ahead. If there is strength in numbers, then Zoom and its counterparts allow us to draw strength from each other.

People have creatively taken off on the ubiquity of this new way of connecting. A friend of mine posted a shot of the grid of boxes in which family member’s faces appeared with the quip, “We’re like the Brady Bunch!,” referencing the opening credits of that popular Seventies show. And last night I watched the season finale of a new show called Zoey’s Extraordinary Playlist. During commercial breaks, some of the show’s stars appeared in a virtual meeting format to discuss the season ending and tout the Good Girls episode to follow.

Having technology may not completely combat the isolation and stress people are feeling as they remain at home alone. Still, it is nice to know that reaching out to those we love is only a couple of clicks away.

 

Sharing DNA Does Not a Family Make

Lately I’ve been seeing stories about people seeking out others whose mothers were impregnated with sperm from the same donor – ostensibly looking for “siblings” they didn’t know they had. There’s even a new TV series called Almost Family, the premise of which is that a young woman discovers that her father, a renowned fertility doctor, used his own genetic material to impregnate many of his patients. This news sends her reeling and in search of biological half-sisters and other half-siblings running around unbeknownst to her.

I object to the idea that sharing DNA makes someone a part of one’s family. Aside from medical considerations such as the need for matching bone marrow or a kidney, there is no real family connection between people conceived in the sterile confines of a medical facility with sperm from the same donor. And the implication that somehow “blood is thicker than water” is a slap in the face to adoptive families such as my own.

I have three biological children conceived, luckily for me, the old-fashioned way. I loved the early bonding I was able to have with them, loved being able to nurse them and know them from even before they were born. I recognize the emotional pull of wanting to have one’s own biological children. And I truly understand why couples go through the rigors, expenses, and discomforts of fertility treatments.

But I also have a daughter adopted from China when she was eleven months old. I missed her very earliest days and the ability to breastfeed her. We had a short adjustment period during which we had to get to know each other, and she had to learn to trust us as her new mom and dad, brothers and sister. Yet today, my closeness with her, my sense of her as my own child is indistinguishable from my feelings for my other three children.

A family is made from shared love and experiences, from late nights comforting a colicky or sick child, from laughs shared at the dinner table, even from fights and defiance and setting boundaries. Families are made, not born, and a tenuous biological connection is fairly inconsequential.

I’m not dismissing the urge for adopted children to wonder about or search for their biological parents. Wondering why they were given away, wanting to know something about the mother, say, who carried them in her womb for nine months is perfectly normal.

But thinking that somehow you’re connected to someone because the same anonymous donor contributed his DNA to both of you? That reduces the idea of family to something mechanistic, impersonal, and ultimately meaningless.

In this day and age, families come to be in so many different ways. It’s unconditional love that makes a family, not the biological origins of one’s birth.