Grief and Family

This is the year of the baby. Four of my friends have given birth to healthy children, each a celebrated bundle of joy, a miracle of life, something that people coo over as I try to find a three year old to play with.

Almost all of the babies came after years of trying, years of an emotional rollercoaster that wears you down. One of the celebrated babies is a sibling to a child they’ll never meet, a brother who died during birth. Another baby is a miracle that came after thousands of dollars of fertility treatments. Our babies – not babies any more – came after hundreds of pages of forms and hours of phone calls and interviews.

Kate tried to get pregnant for a year. She wanted her body to perform the magic of creation, developing a human being from almost nothing. She wanted to feel the growth of her stomach as she nourished her body, nourishing a new soul. There was no reason for the lack of pregnancy – her only fertility issue being lesbianism – but it just didn’t happen. One could say that she didn’t get pregnant so that two years later E and S would come into our lives, but to say that would also imply that my friend’s baby died just so her new little girl could come to be in their lives. I cannot believe in that sort of G-d, that sort of cruel pre-destiny. Sometimes things just happen, and that’s all you can say about them.

Today, someone died on BART. As we past Powell station, I saw the stretcher waiting to accept the lifeless body, police guarding death in a way they can’t guard life. I worry that the BART patron’s death will expose his family, ignoring their grief in favor of explosive headlines and gossip-ridden paragraphs. I cannot imagine the horror of losing your child, made greater by trying to combat misleading and uninformed headlines.

Grief is intertwined with pregnancy and adoption for so many. Miscarriages, stillbirths, infertility. For those of us who chose adoption (Kate and I always knew we wanted to adopt), we accept into our home children who must grieve for a biological family that could not fulfill their needs. One hopes to never grieve for the death of your child too. 

In times of grief, it's best to be with others. Their presence helps guide us to comfort, or at least a semblance of comfort. Sometimes we feel powerless facing another person's grief, but our mere presence, our love, is what can help sustain the traumatized mourners. At least, I hope that's true, as I help S and E navigate their loss. I hope to never have to confront what it feels like to lose a child. I do not think I am strong enough to bear that burden, and in awe of those parents who are able to continue life after their child's death.

May the BART patron’s family find blessing in his/her memory, and may we all come together to help each other during times of grief.

Parenting children who lost their parents

After two weeks together as a family, the days are getting harder. The daily routine grinds against our family as we try to find enough time for homework, bath time, dinner, and reading. Each daily task is prolonged by tantrums, fights with sisters, and the emotional turmoil associated with the loss of your biological family. It’s exhausting.

It’s also rewarding. Their hearts are full of loss, surely, but are also full of love. Their resilience is awe-inspiring, and their giggles are magical.

There was a particularly hard day this weekend, as the girls each emotionally confronted the loss of their mommy and daddy. I cried in the face of their devastation, repeating the only three things I could think of: I’m so sorry; I’m here for you now; I love you.

Later that night, they were too giddy to go to sleep. The conversation of loss transformed into a conversation of gain, as Ima Kate introduced the idea of their eventual adoption. I had written our last name on one of E’s things earlier in the evening, and they wanted to know if they would share our last name some day. They were thrilled when they learned that their last names would likely change and that they would be adopted by us in the next year. Another moment of loss, another moment of celebration. The girls celebrated with excited laughter, and fifteen minutes after bedtime Ima had to remind them to at least pretend to be asleep.

The next day was met with the typical tantrums and squabbles of two emotionally drained second graders, not yet versed in adequate language to express their feelings. They look over the feelings chart we printed in anticipation of these moments, but they’re clueless to most of the nuances of feelings. Right now they can articulate only two things: “My heart hurts” and “I can’t listen right now.” This is great progress in twelve days, more progress than most adults can make in such a short time. I’m amazed by them, by their great capacity for love during these hard transitions, and their excitement and openness to being part of our family.

Growing Watermelons

Hair that smells faintly of watermelon snuggles against my side. E isn’t feeling well. She sits on my lap as I sing to her, Ima Kate in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Her legs are still, a certain sign that she is ill. Even in her sleep E’s energy is endless, tossing and turning, as her dreams take her on adventures.

In her waking hours, she also goes on adventures. The first is waking up in a new home with adults who are committed to her, long-term. Yesterday at the dinner table she said, “I don’t want to go to another house after this.” She has been shuffled through many different homes in her eight years, and she understandably fears that ours will be another temporary safe haven.

Then there are the new foods on the table, the new moral requirements she must adhere to (sharing with her sister, being kind, telling someone when you break something), the new perspective on life (there’s no bad/good dichotomy, but better/worse choices), and new love and laughter. This morning S came in to wake us up. “Why were you guys laughing?” she asked. “We always laugh. We love each other.” She responded with one of her patented “You’re crazy” looks and said, “Oh” before asking for a wakeup hug.

Everything is new here, including having a mommy to snuggle when you don’t feel well. And a mommy to hate when you’re angry.

Yesterday – before she felt crummy – we had a hard morning. After failing to share during a game with her sister, she flung herself on her bed. A few minutes later – after giving her time to calm down - I came in to talk about what happened. She was a total mess, crying and screaming. I told her that it’s okay if she can’t hear me right now, but she needs to tell me that with her words. Instead she put her fingers in her ears and yelled, “I’m not listening to you. I don’t love you anymore. You’re mean.”

The consequence for not listening to me was role-playing how to properly share. Two hours later, she was finally ready to practice. Four hours after that – during another tantrum – she told Ima Kate that she wasn’t ready to listen. We were so proud of her for learning to use her words to communicate her feelings and needs. Both E and S are learning so quickly. It amazes us.

As E yells, “I don’t love you anymore!” and “You’re being mean!” I smile inside. She adores us and we adore her – and she knows it. This may be the first time she’s felt secure enough in parental love that she can push against it, see if we really do love her no matter what.

The tantrums generally last only a few minutes, and soon they are followed by giggling and games. Even E’s sick sluggishness is temporary. Soon, we are on a walk around the neighborhood and talking excitedly about gardening. E wants her own garden to tend, and I think that’s a marvelous idea. My own mother, MK, taught me that gardens can heal wounds. Plants can listen to untold sorrows as you care for them…and they care for you. This summer, my watermelon-scented child might harvest her first watermelon, honoring the way things grow and change, how a seed planted with love can turn into sustenance that forever sustains you.

Turning 27: Babies, abortions, and elementary school

Walking away from the kids’ elementary school, I cried and jumped for joy. I had just registered the girls for second grade at my top pick elementary school, and I couldn’t believe how lucky we were. I was also anxious, fearful of my first long separation from the girls since their placement a week before, but excited for some much-needed alone time.

Shortly I will turn 27 and it is incredible to me that I now am a parent to two elementary-school-aged children. As my friends are getting married and having babies, I am encouraging reading to two budding bookworms, teaching a love of arts and crafts, and trying to get them to talk about their feelings.

I came into my mother’s life as a screaming baby when she was 28 years old. I was not a planned addition to my parents’ life, unlike my brother who appeared six years later. They have since divorced, since children cannot hold together a relationship forever.

I had an on-again, off-again boyfriend and I too became accidentally pregnant. He wanted to have the baby, get married, and buy a house. I have always had a gift for knowing myself and knowing what I wanted, and I knew that I didn’t want that baby and I didn’t want to marry him. We stayed on-again, off-again after the abortion – him still wanting to marry me, me still refusing – until we were really off-again a year later.

If I had had that baby, that fetus would turn seven this year. Fetus would be a first grader. I would be a mother of an elementary-school-aged child.

But I wouldn’t be a mother to S and E, and I wouldn’t be with Kate, and I wouldn’t own a house in Berkeley. My life wouldn’t be this magical oasis it is today. I worked hard for this oasis, but I am still incredulous at the success of my hard work. I am incredulous at how wonderful E and S are, how much I adore Kate, how happy I am every day as we fulfill our daily routines – grocery shopping, cooking, reading.

Life works out in funny ways. Seven years ago I knew I was not ready for motherhood. Now I am ready for it, and I have a 7 and 8 year old to care for. Parenthood is amazing – I really love it so far – and it’s exhausting and constricting. I am ready for all aspects of it, and I am so excited for the year to come, what the future offers, and how we’ll tackle things as a family. I am so grateful for my parents’ guidance – my dad, mom, and bonus mom – and the loving household I was raised in. This is the first year of many (G-d willing) that we are parents, and I’m thrilled to see what is in store.

The prayers of a new foster/adopt parent…

May my children sleep through the night tonight, restful and quiet, without interrupting the only quiet time I have during my day. 

May my children find solace in my love, as they cry over who is closer to the heater, who gets what seat at dinner time, that their sister said they could have what they wanted, that their sister said “I know that,” that the cat doesn’t want to be pet, that they didn’t win the game, that it’s time for bed, that it's not yet time for bed.

May my children always be excited by the newness, and continue to find sweeping, laundry, and animal feeding fun and may we forever be able to trick them into doing chores.

May their giggles always fill our home, and may they always ask for hugs and love, even when they’re too old for them, because one is never really too old for hugs and love.

May the magic of them calling me “Mama Margee” or my wife “Ima Kate” never wear off, and may it always make my heart glow as they terrorize each other and our home.

May their tears and laughter always remind me to slow down, and prioritize what is really important in this world – relationships and family.

May we build our lives together forever, and may we soon (within the next year) officially become a permanent family.