"He Ate The Whole Biscuit!"

I received this picture as a text message this morning from my son's daycare teacher with the text "He ate the whole biscuit!" I was sitting at my desk at work when I opened the text and I actually started to cry. 

Tears of Joy.

My boy is so much like other three year olds in so many ways, that sometimes it's difficult for others to see how much he has struggled in his short little life.

Eating is one of those struggles.

For various reasons, my son did not really start eating solid foods until he was almost 19 months old. For those of you who have raised children or are in the throes of raising little ones now, just think about that.  

Actually, just think about what it takes to eat in general: how your mouth has to move so that your teeth grind the food; how you have to keep your lips closed (for the most part, anyway) to keep from making a mess; how you have to get used to textures and tastes; how to keep the food from sliding and hiding in your cheeks; how to know when you've chewed the food enough so that you can swallow it without choking; how its feels to swallow food; this list can go on, but the mechanics of eating are quite complex which is why babies are introduced to soft solids early in life.  It's a learning process.  One that my son was not introduced to at a developmentally appropriate age.  

So my husband and I began our parenting journey with some unique challenges, one of which was teaching our son how to eat.  We had the help of doctors and specialists.  We had a nutritionist come to the house every other week for weigh-ins and discuss strategies.  We went to a feeding clinic for feeding therapy.  We spent months with our little guy strapped into a high-chair (long past the age that most kids want to sit in a booster seat or real chair). We spent meal after meal eating with our mouths open so that he could actually see the process of chewing. Throughout meals, we would periodically open our mouths (yes, with chewed food) so he could see what it looked like.  We would say "Ah!" really loudly after swallowing and again open our mouths so he could see that the food was gone. His wonderful daycare providers would sit and spoon feed him baby food while the rest of his peers were eating their lunches of regular leftovers.  Needless to say, eating has been a huge challenge.  

And while most parents know the frustration at one time or another of cooking a hot meal, only to have it thrown on the floor or across the table or fed to the dog, I know that frustration too, but I also know the pain watching my child choke or think he's choking with almost every bite because of a sensitive gag reflex.  I know the pain of having a roll of paper towels handy at every meal because vomiting was a pretty common occurrence (yes, at almost every meal).  But mostly, I know the pain of severe anxiety that if he didn't make enough progress we would be facing some pretty serious medical interventions like an NG tube placed down his nose or a feeding tube surgically placed in his stomach.

However, with perseverance, help from professionals, and good luck, we have avoided medical intervention and my son has started making progress.  He's still not quite on the chart and he still has a medical diagnosis of failure to thrive, but he's making progress. 

He has foods he likes, he tries new foods, and he will open our pantry to pick out his own snacks.  Our pantry which is stocked with all the snacks I know to be unhealthy - the sugar and high fructose corn syrup abound in our "food closet."  It is filled with all sorts of snack foods right at eye level. Snack foods that I know many parents raising health-conscious kids would balk at - off-brand Doritos, cheesy poofs, crackers, gummy snacks, granola bars - but snacks that my son will eat.  He will eat!

So, I don't talk meals or food choices with other parents because others are pretty quick to judge about eating patterns and routines.  I was raised by a health/family and consumer science teacher.  I knew about proteins, trans-fats, and carbs long before the general public assumed those words in our societal vocabulary.  Every time I open a new bag of chips, I feel the weight of the phrase "poor food choices," but I open the bag of chips that I know he will eat and my heart is happy, because he is eating, actually eating.  Feeding himself, chewing, swallowing (without gagging or vomiting), and reaching in the bowl for more.  For more! These are victories in my house, not poor food choices, but victories. 

So today, my son ate a biscuit...and I cried happy tears because "He ate the whole biscuit!"

My Son's New Shoes

I went shoe shopping with my 3 and a half year old son last week.  In an attempt to let him practice some autonomy, I let him pick out his shoes.  

He quickly bypassed Batman, Lightning McQueen, and all other "boy" shoes because his eyes were caught by a pair of pink sparkly shoes, decorated with the faces of the the queen and princess from Frozen.  My son LOVES Frozen (and even that is an understatement), so of course he would LOVE those shoes.  He shouted "Anna! Elsa!" and then grabbed the box and held it to his chest.  

I really didn't hesitate.  I asked him simply, "Are you going to wear those shoes?"  He responded with a resounding, "Yes!"  (Plus they were on sale, so that was great.)

For the record, my boy has never liked shoes that much, he wears them out of necessity, but he's never had a fondness for footwear in general.  These shoes, though, he was practically begging to wear out of the store. 

He and I made our way to the cashier and he just kept babbling about Anna and Elsa.  I was actually pretty proud of the whole shopping trip in general - he had listened well, held my hand the whole time, was engaging in conversation, and was really happy - so I was happy.  

I was happy to pay for the new shoes. 

I was happy to let him hold his shoes all the way home (we didn't put them on in the store). 

I was happy when he asked to hear his songs in the car - U2's album, Songs of Innocence. 

I was happy...until I thought about how pink those shoes were.  Really pink.  And really sparkly. 

As we drove home, my heart went from joyful over the whole positive shopping experience, to just plain fearful.  Those shoes in a matter of 20 minutes went from being a great chance for my son to make his own choices, to everything that I will not be able to protect my son from - teasing, mean people, accidents - all of it. 

Those shoes would probably not result in much teasing at his age (though we have had some neighborhood boys ask why he's wearing "girl shoes") but those shoes are just the first of many choices that I know my son will make in his life that will result in having to deal with mean and misguided people.  Mean and misguided people that I will not be able to protect him from.  Mean and misguided people that he's going to have to figure out a way to deal with in the moment, hopefully by standing up for his beliefs with grace and courage.  And I fear, because of those shoes, he will be dealing with mean and misguided people a lot sooner than I think I was ready for.  

However, I know that my son is strong.  I know most parents say this about their children, but my child has been through more in his short little life than anyone should ever have to...and he not only fought through and survived, he came through it being compassionate and sensitive, loving and willing to be loved.  This says a lot about the strength I know he has to stand up to the mean and misguided people he will encounter.  It also helps me to know that he will be ok. 

For now, he has been joyfully showing off his shoes to almost everyone and he hasn't heard the negative comments or seemed to have noticed the snickering as much as I have.  For now, we will celebrate the fact that he loves (LOVES) his new shoes despite what others may think.  For now, and for always, I will love my son and will do my best to be supportive...for all of the "new shoes" that we encounter in the future.

Mother's Day Anxiety

Mother’s Day is fast approaching.  It’s a little less than three weeks away. 

I have been keeping a count-down of sorts to this holiday.

It’s a holiday that was started in the United States in 1908 by Anna Jarvis to honor her mother, who was a peace activist who cared for wounded soldiers on both sides of the Civil War, and to honor all mothers, “the person who has done more for you than anyone in the world.”  Which is actually very cool, if you think about how it started.  

Of course, now it’s more of holiday that seems to exist more for commercial purposes.

When I was growing up, Mother’s Day, was typically celebrated by spending time in the flower garden with my mother.  That’s all she ever wanted on Mother’s Day, that my sister and I help her plant, weed, and water.  I know at times, I was reluctant to participate in this family activity, but for the record, I always looked forward to it.

Early in my married life, Mother’s Day became a day that I quietly celebrated that I didn’t have children.  My husband and I were still very free from the responsibility of children and we loved it.  

About six years into our marriage, Mother’s Day became something that I secretly despised, because I wanted to be a mother and I wasn’t.  I was tired of being questioned on that day (and many other days throughout the year) about when I would have children. It made me feel sad and isolated and alone.

And now...I’m a mother.  

I’m a mother of a beautiful, sensitive, funny, strong three year old boy.  He is amazing!  He fills my heart with joy and love every single day.  I couldn’t imagine my life, or our family, without him.  He is my son.  I am his mother. 

He is also my son through adoption.  Which means that another woman carried him and gave birth to him.  

And here is where I struggle with Mother’s Day anxiety.

I have a lot of feelings about my son’s birth mother which will remain buried deep in my heart and never shared for all of eternity.  

My son’s adoption process, began almost a year and a half ago.  He was living with a foster family for several months as a two year old, before coming home to us. 

Read into that what you will, but it comes down to the fact that my son was taken from his birth mother by the state and was not returned to her. 

So, I count down to Mother’s Day...the day that I struggle deeply with a whole host of emotions for the woman who gave birth to my son.  

My heart and my head just cannot process and recognize Mother’s Day as a day to personally celebrate.  I celebrate every day that my son is who he is and that he is mine. However, Mother’s Day will never be a day that I proudly proclaim as “my holiday.” 

Maybe I’ll just go work in a flower garden and insist that my family help me.

Why I Hate Disney's Tarzan

My son has decided that Disney's Tarzan (1999) is a new favorite...and frankly, though I am not a super crazy fanatic, I love most things Disney.

Tarzan, however, is not my favorite...actually I think I hate it.

In case you have missed the basic plot-line of any Tarzan movie, it's pretty straight forward - A man raised by gorillas must decide where he really belongs when he discovers he's human (tag-line straight from Internet Movie Database).

Did you catch it?  Right there in the brief description of this beautifully produced, award winning movie?

"...when he discovers that he is human."

I know, I know, this may not seem like much, but I have been in a deep emotional and philosophical struggle with this movie for the past couple of months as my toddler is enthralled with it and we watch it with him up to five times a week.

In the words of Phil Collins song, You'll Be In My Heart, my son is "one so small" who "seems so strong."  And my son, much like Tarzan, was adopted...no, not by gorillas (though I'm sure some days he sees me as one) and no, his birth parents didn't get eaten by a leopard.

(And side note here: Seriously, can this movie be any more depressing and/or emotional?!? In the opening scene, baby Tarzan and his parents are shipwrecked, they build an amazing tree house to start a new life, only to have his parents eaten by a leopard, the same leopard who eats the baby of the mama gorilla.  Then mama gorilla finds abandoned baby Tarzan. All scored by a super moving Phil Collin's song.  Way to set the scene, Disney.)

However, the fact that my son is adopted is the reason why I hate this movie so much.

The mama gorilla, Kala, finds baby Tarzan and brings him back to the band of gorillas and claims, amidst questioning by the others, that she's his mother now.  In this scene I am cheering for her - good job, Kala!  Way to claim your child!  Even though he is clearly not your biological offspring, there is no question in your heart that he is yours.  Way to go!

And then...

Kala raises her son to be one of the band of gorillas, which in and of itself is not a bad thing...but Kala NEVER tells her son the truth about who he is.  There are scenes throughout the movie where Tarzan notices how he is physically different, but Kala never addresses the why of those differences.  It is left up to strangers (Jane and her Father) to help Tarzan discover and claim his human identity when he is a grown man.  I repeat, it is not until Tarzan is an ADULT that STRANGERS help him figure out HIS STORY.  This is something his mother should have been doing all along. 

Now I realize that this is a movie about action, adventure, tree swinging, and the discovery of self.  Disney did not intend this to be a commentary about families formed through adoption and best practices to care for children who are adopted.  However, I tend to take it very personally and be very emotional when adopted children (even fictional adopted children) are lied to/not told the truth about their biological past.

Every family who has come together through adoption is different.  Every family will choose to share details differently and will choose to answer questions differently, but most families, these days, are pretty honest and open with their children about their adoption.

Kala did none of this.  She, at one point in the movie, helps Tarzan to see how they are the same (they both have eyes, ears, hands, and beating hearts), but she never affirms that "yes, you are different, because...(story however Kala wants to tell it)...but you're still my son and I will love you forever."

My son, physically looks a lot like me and my husband, but we have never hidden from him that he was adopted.  We tell him about the day we met and we tell him about his adoption day.  We also tell him that any time he has questions or wants to know more about his biological past, we will do our best to answer those questions.  

My son is three years old, but I want him growing up knowing that his adoption story is one for him to embrace.  My son also knows that his daddy and I love him "forever and ever and ever and always" and nothing will change that.

For now, I will deal with my anger and frustration over the poor parenting choices by a fictional gorilla mother by crying silently while we watch the movie together and over-eating chocolate while hiding in the kitchen...and I'm breathing a sigh of relief that I think we have moved onto Finding Nemo.

My Son Reached Out His Hand

I am a Lutheran Pastor.  The congregation where I serve celebrates communion every week, which I think is wonderful.  I am a strong advocate of children receiving communion and in the few short years that I have served with this congregation, I have guided many families to the decision to have even their youngest children commune.  (The youngest child receiving communion in our congregation is four years old, though he started receiving when he was three and a half.)  

My theological explanation to invite, encourage, and welcome children to the Table is simple: 
To me, communion is not mine to give or withhold, it is God's gift of himself, that God freely offers to all for the forgiveness of sins, the strengthening of faith, and most importantly (and the one I stress almost every week), because God loves us.  Despite proclaiming this, we know that communion is a complete mystery.  It is something that God does for us, not something we will ever comprehend, because it is God's gift.  We also know that when everyone else would shun them, Jesus welcomed children with open arms.  He included them. 

As much as I would like to commune all of the children who come forward, I always leave the decision to their parents, grandparents, or guardians.  Even as it is not mine to withhold, it also not mine to force onto a family who does not feel ready, regardless of how much a child reaches to receive. 

Yesterday, during communion, my two and a half year old son, who is not baptized, reached out his hand to receive the Body of Christ. 

I did not stop and think, I did not mentally seek to justify with doctrine, I did not worry about efficaciousness. I gave him the bread and proclaimed boldly, "Body of Christ given for you." 

My son, has been my son for six months. My husband and I expect that within the next two months the adoption will be finalized.  Our son isn't baptized yet for several reasons, but also because we're waiting so that he can be baptized with his forever family name.

It is very uncommon to commune one who is not baptized, and yet he so clearly reached.  He has been observing this practice for six months and he knows that something important is happening.  So when he reached, I responded, not as his mommy, but as the pastor (with the authority of his mother to make that decision). 

I know that in the years to come, my son will have questions about his faith and God.  I know that my son will get angry at God at one or more times in his life.  However, I never want my son to think that God is inaccessible, neglectful, or withholding (which are human reactions to God's free gifts of love and grace).  My son has already known such human behaviors in his short life.  I will not be the one to give a similar face to God and I will always advocate for him to be completely included in the community of Christ. 

Yesterday, my son reached out his hand, and yesterday he joyfully received God's love. 

A Prayer For Mother's Day

For mothers who gave birth to children, for mothers who adopted their children, for women who became mothers by marrying into a family with children…for women who have been mothers for a long time and women who are celebrating their first mothers day…we pray.

For mothers to be, for mothers with multiple children, for mothers in committed relationships, for single mothers…we pray.

For mothers who are super creative and come up with wonderful ways to spend rainy days indoors…we pray.

For mothers who kiss the same boo-boo twenty times in one hour because that’s what their child needs…we pray.

For mothers who courageously sit in the passenger seat and teach their teenager how to drive…we pray.

For mothers who endlessly entertain their children on long car trips with stories, toys, and songs…we pray. 

For mothers who don’t find the oatmeal on their shirt from breakfast until later in the afternoon and instead of get frustrated or embarrassed, they just laugh because breakfast actually went well this morning…we pray.

For mothers of screaming children in the grocery stores…we pray.

For mothers who are cheerleaders, sideline coaches, waiting in the wings-stage moms…we pray.

For mothers who sing “wheels on the bus” and “puff the magic dragon” and make up their own silly songs to sing to and with their little ones as they dance around the house together…we pray.

For mothers who have run to the grocery store forty times already this week and yet the teenager just won’t stop eating everything in the house…we pray.

For mothers who feel like unappreciated taxi drivers…we pray.

For mothers who rub backs and necks and play with hair at bed time and those who long for the days when their children still wanted them that close…we pray.

For mothers who stay up until well after midnight helping their children with the math homework or whatever the hell kind of homework it is and who cares because it’s too damn late for this…we pray.

For mothers who have already seen the movie Frozen twenty-two times this month…keeping in mind that the month isn’t even half over…we pray.

For mothers of children in away in foreign lands to study abroad, for mothers of children who live hundreds of miles away, for mothers of children who serve in the military…we pray.

For mothers who have just recently become empty-nesters and those whose children might live with them forever…we pray.

For mothers who sit quietly and anxiously in NICUs, by hospital beds, in emergency rooms, and in urgent care centers, who wish so desperately that the love in their heart could simply make their child well…we pray.

For mothers whose patience is running out and yet they still manage to take a deep breath before loosing their temper…we pray.

For mothers who are tired from working a full-time job or multiple jobs and then being up late at night with a sleepless child, but are mostly tired of being told they look tired…we pray.

For mothers who will do anything to help their children study for an AP Biology exam: including, but not limited to, dancing around the kitchen to act out the life cycle of malaria…we pray.

For mothers who are navigating the dating world following the death or divorce of a spouse or life-partner…we pray.

For Mothers who find themselves pregnant yet again and then endure the teasing of “don’t you know how it happens?” and the mothers who long to be pregnant again and for whatever reason it just isn’t happening…we pray.

For mothers who thought they were in a relationship where they would have support in their role as a parent and now find themselves in a one-sided relationship where there is no common support for children…we pray

For mothers who are working multiple jobs, worried about health-coverage, and just barely able to support their children through the help of family and friends and government assistance…we pray.

For mothers who are incarcerated or are on probation and for the mothers who work for justice and peace…we pray.

For mothers who have limited capacities, poor resources, and minimal support systems…we pray.

For mothers who make bad decisions; both large and small…we pray.

For mothers who struggle with addictions and mental health issues…we pray.

For those who were abused by their mothers…we pray.

For those who never knew or trusted their mothers…we pray.

For the birthmothers who have the courage and the wisdom to know that they cannot take care of another human being at this point in their lives so they give their child up for adoption…we pray.

For the birthmothers who don’t have that wisdom or the resources to care for another human being and have their children taken away…we pray.

For women who open their hearts and their lives time and time again to foster children who cannot be with their biological families…we pray.

For women who thought they would be married with at least one, maybe two, children by now, but none of that is the case and their hearts are filled with ache and disappointment…we pray.

For women who see that plus sign on a pregnancy test and now begin to freak out about how much life is going to change.

For women who long to be pregnant and go through years and years of heartbreak and other mothers baby showers and questions by strangers about their family plans…we pray.

For mothers who were only mothers for a brief amount of time – weeks or maybe months – before they find themselves without child…we pray.

For mothers who burry their children…we pray.

For spouses and life-partners who thought the woman they married was going to be the mother of their children forever and ever and now for whatever reason that is not the case…we pray.

For those who had to say good-bye to their mothers too soon…or just recently…we pray.

For the women who may not have children of their own and the women who do, but they are also mothers to so many others in various ways…we pray.

For those who know how difficult and nuanced Mother’s Day can be…we pray.

For those who feel Mothers Day in their hearts many times throughout the entire year…we pray.

Amen.

Labor And Delivery

Like most parents, I think my son is wonderful.  He’s two, so life with him isn’t always wonderful.  Actually, it can be down right frustrating, but the little person he is, is wonderful.  He loves to dance, laugh, snuggle, read books, chase the dog, run around in circles, make farm animal noises, pretend to be a dinosaur, splash in the bath, give his stuffed animals kisses…he’s wonderful.

Unlike most parents, I have known my son for only four months (he has been living with us for almost three months).

Like most new parents, my husband and I have been showered with cards, toys, games, clothes, hand-me-downs, gift-cards, and general excited well wishes. 

Unlike most new parents, my son did not gestate to full term in my body, nor did I give birth to him (natural or otherwise). 

Most people I have encountered in the brief time I have become a mom, have been very excited and supportive.  Most people share their excitement through hugs, laughter, and yes, tears (of joy).  I truly believe that all who have shared their joy and excitement have meant well in their jubilation, however there is one expression I have heard several times from well-intentioned individuals that has given me pause: “That was the easiest labor and delivery you ever had.”

Please know that the people who have said this phrase to me are wonderful people and I love them…but I don’t think they thought through their words before sharing in their excitement (which we are all apt to do).

It is true, I did not carry my son to term, I did not go through pregnancy with all its pain that accompanies its joy, my water did not break, and I did not go through hours upon hours of labor…I did not plan a caesarian birth, a water birth, a home birth, or a natural birth…I did not have complications with delivery, end up with an emergency C-section, a premature baby, massive tearing, or infection/illness following delivery…for the record all that shit scares me out of my wits, which is one of the reasons why we chose to adopt.

However, was it an easy labor and delivery? 

Ok, so I didn’t go through all the pain and more that I mentioned above, but my husband and I had to attend classes, we had to submit our financial information, we had to divulge all sorts of personal information, we had to have medical evaluations, we had to get background checks and fingerprints, we had interviews, and we had to have a home inspection…all prior to being told we were fit to be parents.  (I am not resentful about this process.  I fully understand it is place to protect the children that will be placed with prospective parents.)  However, was it easy and pain free?  Absolutely not.  Was it exhausting and very invasive?  Most definitely.

So, my labor was not easy…it was filled with more pain and heartache than anyone who has never done will never fully understand.

But there’s more…

Again, I reiterate that I have never given birth to a biological child, but my understanding from most women I have talked to about childbirth is that, though it is a pain beyond pain, it is also a pain that fades when a mother sees her child.  However, I have and will carry in my heart a pain for my son that is so deep, so immense, there is nothing that will make it go away, ever. 

It is the pain of knowing his past, as short as it was, before he was placed with us.  It is the pain of knowing there is nothing I can do to change his past.  It is the pain of knowing that at his most vulnerable, he was not taken care of.  It is a vast and immeasurable pain that I will forever carry in my heart for my son. 

My guess is that most women who have given birth to their children do not meditate regularly on the physical pain of childbirth.  I, on the other hand, will forever carry a heartache that will continue to stab me with pain throughout my son’s life. 

This does not mean that I dwell on my heartache everyday (although it certainly catches up with me at random and unforeseen times), it also doesn’t eclipse the joy in my heart that I feel for my son on a pretty continuous basis.  I am well aware that, like the pain childbirth, the pain in my heart will lessen over time, but I am also aware, it will never fully go away and will be with me always.

So, was it an easy labor and delivery?  No, not at all.