Childless

 

How it started... 

I've never really used this space for politics before. If you know me, if you're friends with me on Facebook, Twitter (nobody calls it "X"), or in real life, you know there is NO doubt about which way I lean.

But when I became a teacher at a small private school, I was asktold to tone down my rhetoric. I had pretty much blocked and deleted everyone who called me a "Libtard" by then anyway, and it was about the time there was a change in office, so there were fewer arguments to be had. 

But now we're in another election cycle. I still haven't missed some of those rude people, but, sadly, there are new rude ones to take their place. And more politicians who are being stupid out loud.

And they really pissed me off this time.

According to them, I am a childless woman.

More than that, I am a hopeless childless woman destined to be a weird, lonely old cat lady with no stake in the future of America. And I don't count as much as women who actually gave birth.

If you're a regular reader of this blog, or know me in real life, you know that I have poodles. I also have two awesome stepchildren. In 1994, I became a Bonus Mom, Semi Mom, Extra Mom, Stepmom -- whatever you want to call me -- to Daniel and Courtney when they were 8 and 6, respectively.

Then, in 2001, Marty and I were extraordinarily blessed to be asked to adopt a baby girl, Lora Leigh. She came to us after six years of trying, bouncing from doctor to doctor in search of answers, and a couple of science experiments. We stopped short of IVF because it is an outrageously expensive procedure that our insurances did not cover. I wrote a book about the whole experience, too.

We also had more than one heartbreak when we were not the chosen couple, and another in which we were chosen but had to say no. It's a long story for another blog post.

Thanks to those three human beings and my husband, I have spent the last 29 3/4 years doing all the things parents do:

• diapers, burps, and bottles 
• nightmares and ghosts in the closet
• stomach aches and sore throats (both real and fake ones)
• trying to get the car seat in and out of the damn back seat of the car
• carrying all the baby gear like a pack mule 
• plays, practices, concerts, games, birthday parties and school Parent Nights
• one season as a Brownie leader
• homework and last-minute science and social studies projects
• nearly 1,000 mornings and afternoons waiting for the bus
• 12 epic Pinterest-worthy birthday parties
• Halloween costumes, an annual Boofets for family and friends, and hundreds of miles walked while Trick-or-Treating
• thousands of hours watching Pocahontas, The Wizard of Oz, The Little Mermaid and Grease
• countless pediatrician visits with nice doctors, mean nurses and all those shots
• one terrifying 7 1/2-hour surgery
• one nasty case of head lice
• countless hours of rocking, reading and Linda Ronstadt 
• a small fortune spent at Disney World (not including the anniversary one just for us)
• SIX graduations
• I don't know how many dorm move-ins and outs
• so many tears ... and laughs .. and memorable moments... 
• one daughter-in-law
• one future son-in-law
• two beautiful granddaughters
• one grandbaby born sleeping

But, according to the man who is trying to be the next Vice President of the United States and the woman governor of the state just north of Louisiana, none of that matters. They say I'm not a "real" mother. The Governor of Arkansas even said I have nothing to keep me "humble."

Well, Sarah, I do have children. And I want you to know, that my children do not keep me humble. My body humbled me by failing at its major biological function and I have no idea why. Being a stepparent humbled me. Praying for and asking another woman to allow me to raise the baby in her arms humbled me, as did understanding the enormity of it all. 

My children, Mrs. Sanders, have made me incredibly proud. They are good, kind, nice people who care about their family, each other and me. They have a wonderful mother, whom I consider a friend, and a terrific father, whom I love dearly. They are smart and successful, make more money than I do on Social Security and are wonderful humans with successful lives and careers.

And I would die before I let anything happen to them. That makes me a parent -- and a real mom.

Because they are mine. They belong to me even though all three have another mother. They are the people I root for, cheer for, cry for, and brag about on my Facebook and Twitter pages. And even though they are now grown and on their own and don't need me like they used to, they are still and always will be my children. And they have brought me their in-laws and their siblings and stepbrothers, and we all are a great big happily blended family. And I absolutely am invested in the futures of my children and my grandchildren -- especially my granddaughters. And I will fight for their rights, not sit idly by while they lose them.

So, whether you like it or not, J.D. and Sarah, I am not a childless woman. And I don't have a cat.

Our BIG blended family. 

My children

No matter what

One Saturday night a few years ago, my little girl and I snuggled up together to watch the movie, "Despicable Me."

Because of our busy lives and bustling schedules back then (even before the MIL came to stay), we hadn't been able to go to the theater to see it, so we had to wait until it came on On Demand.

Ready with our popcorn and sodas and all the lights turned off to make it look like we were at the movies, Lora Leigh and I were enjoying the movie about an evil genius who plots to steal a giant ray gun to shrink the moon so he can steal it. And to further along his plot, he decides he needs some cute young children to penetrate his adversary's lair. So, he heads on over to the local orphanage to get him some.

Eventually Dr. Evil accomplishes his goal of obtaining the weapon. But then, no longer in need of his adorable little orphans, he takes them back to the orphanage and the mean old woman who runs it.

And at this point, my adorable, impressionable, ultra-sensitive and oh-so-perceptive adopted  daughter became hysterical.

"He's bringing them back?" she screamed. I mean she literally, screamed. "He can't take them back!"

I quickly paused the movie and wrapped her in my arms as she cried -- sobbed -- hysterically, her heart broken for the little characters.  I tried to soothe her as best I could, and assured her that he was likely, probably (hopefully?) going to have a change of heart and keep the girls he "borrowed."

"No. He can't take them back," I told her.

No. You can't.

As much as you might joke about it or think about it or maybe even wish it sometimes in those moments of despair, you can't take them back. Not when they're crying and hungry at 2 a.m. Not when they explode a diaper right after you've handed your cherub to the Sheriff to hold. Not when they draw on your walls with lipstick. Not when they dump a milkshake in your car. Not when they refuse to eat anything but macaroni and cheese. Not when you find a stack of paper plates and empty soda bottles under their bed. Not when they borrow your favorite necklace and break it. Not when they look you in the eye and lie about not having homework. Not when you think they're lying to you. Not when they puke on you or shit on you. Not when they embarrass you in the grocery store. And not when they grow up and do something so stupid you want to strangle them.

In case you don't know, my stepkid is one of the coaches involved in the recent high school football cheating scandal in Louisiana. He admitted his involvement, he told the truth, and he is suffering the consequences. He is embarrassed, mortified and truly apologetic. His parents are duly disappointed and mortified too.

But what are you gonna do?

You can't just give them back. Your kids are your kids, whether they sprung from your loins or from someone else's. Whether they had you in labor for an hour or 26. Whether they came to you or were sent to you. Whether they look like you or your spouse or your mother-in-law or the mailman. Whether they're smart or funny or cranky or mean or not much fun to be around. Whether they talk too much or not at all. Whether they're weak or strong.

Because parenthood is a privilege. Motherhood is a honor. And you are lucky if you get the chance to do it. Not everyone gets to. Believe me. And some have to work harder than others to achieve it. Believe me.

I may not have been lucky enough to conceive my own biological child, but I am lucky enough. Through fate or fortune or God's will,  I was allowed to parent this most extraordinary child who is the light of my life -- a smart, funny, sarcastic, exasperating, annoying, sharp-tongued, brutally honest tweenager who can draw beautiful pictures, sing like an angel (but won't because it makes me cry), write better than me, and devour cases of macaroni and cheese in a week's time.

Through my fortunate marriage, I also inherited two step children. I have had the privilege of watching them grow up into beautiful, fine young adults. My stepson, the jock, followed his father's footsteps and is a wonderful, bright teacher and coach who specializes in special education. He teaches mild-to-moderate challenged children history and horticulture. He and his students have planted and tend to a large vegetable garden on campus where they grow and harvest a wide assortment of fruits and vegetables. He also is a bright young coach whose players look up to him.

I have shared parenting duties with his father and with his mother. I was invited to sit beside her at his wedding. And, at the reception, his mother danced the first half of the Mother-Groom dance, then oh-so-graciously yielded to me so I could have a turn.

And two years ago he faced a darkness harder than this when his baby girl, Parker, was stillborn. Last year he and his wife became parents to another baby girl, Robi, and he is a doting dad.

My stepdaughter is a beautiful, smart, witty young woman. She spent two years working as a photographer at DisneyWorld and now is carving her niche in the hotel and tourism industry in New Orleans. An extremely talented photographer, she and her boyfriend also have formed their own photography business. On the same day her brother made national headlines, she received a fabulous job offer with a huge bump in salary.

But as fabulous as my children are, none of them is perfect.

Neither am I. I'm a human parent. And parenthood is hard. It's messy, it's ugly, it's dirty, it's stressful, it's painful, it's demanding, it's not always fun and we all -- all -- will make mistakes while doing it. It doesn't make us bad people, just imperfect ones. And your kids will be imperfect too. But when you had them -- or in my case, got her -- you are promising to love them no matter what, no matter what mistakes they make. There is a reason adoption folks call it a "Forever Family."

You can't give them back. Ever.

When the heart says yes

It's 10 years later.

We have a nice life, the Coach and me. We have a nice house with a nice pool.

We have established careers.  Good paying jobs. We have our routines (well, sort of).

We have two grown children (Marty's kids), who have graduated from college and begun their own careers.  One of them has a baby on the way.

And we have the child we prayed for, hoped for, wished for. The one we believe we were destined to have all along. A beautiful, funny, witty, charming, oh-so-talented 10-year-old who is everything we ever could have wished for. (OK. She could be a little neater, but ...)

Sure we could use a winning lottery ticket, but, for the most part, life is good.

So why then, when I got the Facebook message yesterday afternoon, did the back of my neck get all hot and prickly and my stomach do a little flip? Just like it did every damn time all those years ago?

"Did you ever think about adopting again?"

Wow. What a question.

Only every second of every minute of every day.  I'm an infertile woman. An unexplained infertile woman. No one could ever tell me why my female plumbing didn't work the way it was designed to. And it really didn't matter. All I knew is, I can't have children. Not the "normal" way.

I had to find mine. Literally. Or, she had to find me. We put the word out to our friends and family, sent letters, marketed ourselves -- before blogs and Facebook and MySpace.

One day, we got a phone call out of the blue from a woman named Gail, who asked, "Are you the couple looking to adopt a baby?" And less than 30 minutes later, she said, "I've made up my mind. Y'all are it."

After holding my breath for the next three months -- including the three days after she was born -- we brought her home with us. And all our dreams came true.

But, even though I was deliriously happy to have a baby in my arms at last, I was still an infertile woman. And I would have loved to have had more children. If I had not been an infertile woman, I would have. No questions about it.

But I am. And I couldn't.

So I went on with my life, being the most devoted mother I could. I have savored every second of every day, knowing this was the only chance I was ever going to get. I held too much. I cuddled too much. I hovered too much. I spoiled. So what?

Am I the best mother? Hell no. My kid doesn't eat enough fruits or vegetables, doesn't always have table manners, could really use better telephone manners and can't wash a dish or fold an article of clothing. She also stays up way too late on school nights and probably spends way too much time on the computer.

But she is a wonderful child with a sparkling personality, a beautiful singing voice, an amazing imagination, an incredible ability to write fiction and a budding little talent at drawing. An honor roll student.

And I love her with every breath in my body.

When Lora was born, I stole Rosie O'Donnell's line, likening motherhood to the movie, The Wizard of Oz, which goes from black and white to color: "Life is now in color."

It's true. And then they become a tween and lose interest in you and life kind of goes back to gray again.

Just like any other woman in the universe, I would love another one. A baby. Another round of burps and lullabies and rocking to Linda Ronstadt. Diapers and cute little outfits. Giggles and smiles and discovering the world. Oh how my heart says yes.

But my head says no. Diaper changes? Midnight feedings? Day care? Car seats? Putting up a crib? (I just got my room back!) I don't think my back or my hips can take another baby on them.

Besides, people will think we are absolutely nuts. I can hear the tsk tsk'ing now, the tongues and fingers wagging, the eyes rolling, the hands wringing.

I'm 49. He's 54. We have a 10 year old. When she graduates from high school I'll be 57. He'll be 62. By the time a newborn baby graduates I'll be 67. He'll be 72.

At least we'll be retired.

We have a little house. A little bank account.

We have a grandchild on the way!

But is it fair to deny me, a woman who has so much love in my heart, a woman who initially wanted a huge family to make up for my tiny one, a child? One that I could not give myself on my own? Am I really expected to say, "No. But thanks for asking!"?

And is it fair to deny Lora, who loves children and who is so wonderful with all of her little cousins, a little brother or sister? She would love that.

Want to know the most amazing part of this story? The person who messaged me? It was Lora's birthmother. She has a friend, who has a son, who has a girlfriend, who is having a baby. It was she, the grandmother-to-be, who asked Gail to ask us. She has heard the stories about Lora, about how cool she is, about how we stay in touch with her birth family and have frequent visits. She has seen, almost first-hand, the kind of parents we are.

And wants us anyway.

And that just amazes me.

So, as I write this, there is this possibility. No certainty. The family has a decision to make. And once they make it, we may have one too.

And my heart is already saying yes.


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Adoptive

My 10-year old child has informed me that she does not like it when I call her my adopted daughter.

"I'm just your daughter," she said to me in the car as I drove her home from school.

And she doesn't like it when I refer to myself as an adoptive mom either.

"You're just a regular mom," she said.

And I just don't know how to explain to her that, no. I'm not.

Everyone tells me that it takes a special person to adopt a child. And they are right.

Sometimes it takes a person with an exceptionally big heart, who is willing to open their home and their soul to a child, often one with a lifetime's worth of baggage and heartache sitting on their shoulder.

But sometimes it takes a person like me -- a heartbroken woman with a faulty reproductive system, who is a little bit desperate and a whole lot determined.

For six years we tried to make a baby the old-fashioned way, making our way through six doctors, a few science experiments and a million tears -- not to mention a dozen suggestions from helpful friends and family members who had their own ideas about how this all works.

Finally, convinced there was no other way, we turned to thoughts of adoption. Or should I say, fantasies? Sure, everyone thinks its so easy to adopt a child. "There's plenty of kids out there that need homes," everyone says.

And there are.

And there are plenty of folks out there who would be willing to love them. If it were easy.

But adoption is hard.

Very hard.

First there is the sticker shock. Agencies cost upward of $20,000 or more. Up front. Catholic Charities was $40,000. Up front. Just to get on a list. And, as far as I know, there still is no adoption loan at the local bank.

Then there are the hoops. Paperwork, fingerprints, background checks, home studies, life books, letters of reference -- all must declare that we are, indeed, fit people to take in one of those many parent-less children that are out there waiting.

And then there are the minefields -- hearts ripe for the breaking, hopes ready to be dashed, dreams ready to be blown away. Not to mention state agencies whose first priority is to return children to their natural born parents first, no matter what they did to them.

Or women who aren't absolutely sure about what they are doing, who will wait until you're invested emotionally and financially, wait until your nursery is all ready and piled with baby booties and shower gifts to say, "Um. It was always my intention to keep this baby."

But people like me are willing to endure it all, jump through every hoop, step over every minefield, overcome every obstacle and endure every heartbreak because, at the end is a child that is destined to be ours.

In the first months after my baby girl was put into my arms, I couldn't help but blurt out "She's adopted!" to every stranger we met. Other family members did it too.

And it wasn't a qualifier. I wasn't telling the world, "This is not my kid."

Rather, I wanted the world to know, "Look what we did! We did it! We stayed the course! We fought the fight! And look at our prize! Yay us!!!!"

We said it with a sense of accomplishment, of pride, of achievement.

"We adopted," to us means, "We did it."

And, "thank God."

But how can I explain all of that to a 10-year old?

I guess I can't.