Count the loss

NEW to Mumfullness - At the bottom of this story, you will see a link to the same story, in audio format.  I have done this specifically so that my father-in-law can now "see" my stories.  :)

My counselor, Kimberly said, “Count the losses, and grieve them.” 
But, I don’t understand how I can count the loss of something that is so ever-present. 

Conflict.

Daily, hourly, moment-by-moment conflict.

It arrives, unbidden, like indigestion.

I know I have to do something, or my spirit will weaken in battle, and separate off, leaving only a protective shell. The daily insults and harsh words, the constant professing of a life that she hates, as if by some twist of fate, it is my fault.  As if . . . well, it doesn’t matter.  Her happiness does not solely rest with me.  I can only carry the burden for so long before I sag under the weight of its contents.  Contents collected through early years of hardship and loss. Not my burden and yet I have some responsibility to her, my daughter. 

The blessings and the burdens of parenting, under these circumstances, collide and explode so frequently, it is hard to recognize the blessing amidst the debris.  And yet, I am blessed – for no greater “teacher” have I had in these forty-seven years.  I am however, a reluctant student, for the mirror reflects too honestly what is mine alone. 

I am simultaneously student, teacher, coach and mother. A difficult set of skills to pull off.  It is a bit like trying to “score a goal” from the sidelines.  There, on the sidelines, it appears easy, infinitely possible.  But it is not.  On the sidelines there is no pressure, there is no risk of injury – or failure.  Oh that I could complete this task from the sidelines – I most certainly would! 

So, what are the losses I am supposed to stop and grieve?  Loss of a dream? Loss of self?  Loss of faith? Loss of relationship? Loss…loss…loss…

My greatest sadness comes from realizing that despite loving action and positive intention, I cannot remove the pain and suffering of another.  Moreover, I can become a source of pain in the midst of my own suffering.  Even when I feel her pain, through her actions and behavior; and even though I feel great compassion for the circumstances that brought her into our lives; and even though I desire, more than anything, for her to know peace, happiness and love; I cannot craft her healing. Not, on my own. 

It turns out that love does not conquer all; it is simply the footing for the journey.

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For Audio version, click below:

http://snd.sc/12ipois

In the Rear View Mirror

I pulled up to the curb, alongside the elementary school, with two minutes to spare.  My kids flung open their doors, grabbed the straps on their backpacks and leaped towards their day with wild abandon.  Occasionally there was a perfunctory wave or word of goodbye.  As I readied myself to pull away, I glanced into the rearview mirror and saw a mom kiss each of her daughters as they prepared to leave the vehicle.  The girls walked on, and I watched their mother as she waved and blew more kisses, with a big smile on her face.  They were not, as one might think, little girls; they were around ten and twelve years old.  As I pulled out into traffic, my heart lurched and my eyes sputtered as I longed for a tender, goodbye kiss.

When had my kids last accepted a kiss goodbye from me?  I had to search back in my memory banks, and I was beginning to wonder – had I ever kissed them?   

For reasons I don’t understand, at the age of about six, Laurèn began to turn her face whenever I went to kiss her on the lips; a habit she continues to this day.  For Yohannes, on the first day of Kindergarten he made it pretty clear that he did not want any (more) gooey-love from me; he thrust his hands in his pockets and created enough distance between us to give the impression that we were not together.  And when a stranger called out his name from her clipboard, he left me standing alone, waiting for a goodbye that wasn’t going to come.  With Faven, our memories began when she was already ten years old.  There were no wet and sticky baby smooches or tender toddler moments to recall.  Now, she continues to cherish her goodnight kiss, but when we are in public she is at her unpredictable best; she is at times affectionate and warm and at others, distant and cold. 

On this day, although I cherished the glimpse back in the rear view mirror, I felt a simultaneous heaviness at the realization that some things have passed beyond memory and reach.

All by myself...

There are days when I truly believe that I am done.  I am 100 % sure that I cannot get up another day and face the debris and clutter that epitomizes my life.  I honestly don’t know where this stuff comes from.  It seems to multiply while I sleep. The number of lone socks lying forlorn amidst the dust and tufts of dog hair adds up to more feet than we actually have living in our house!  No matter how hard, how diligently or how fast I work, I cannot keep up.  Moreover, no one else even seems to notice.

On one of those days, right in the middle of my personal pity-party, my daughter Laurèn walked into the kitchen.  I was frantically fumbling with the tasks of cleaning up, putting away, and organizing our stuff – while muttering incoherently to myself. 

“Mom… I want to tell you something,” Laurèn said.

“Ohh?” I replied.

“It’s just that you work so hard around here, and I just want you to know that I really appreciate it.”  (she gave me a big hug)

“Thank you,” I said, my eyes misting up – they do notice, I thought.

Laurèn continued, “I keep thinking that I should help you, but then I realize I don’t like it, and I give up on it.”

Off she went, without a care in the world – and without socks, I couldn’t help but notice.

Jinx-ed

This is my first cat.

I had no idea.

I love this cat.

But…

I have to kick her out of my bedroom.

She is interfering with my latest obsession – sleep.

In the early morning, she gives a light and throaty Meow, as if to say Hey – you awake?

I am now, I yowl back.

I look at the clock – 5:33 – I roll over.

She gently places her paw on my bare shoulder - a light caress.  I’m hungry, she implies.  When I don’t immediately respond, her claws extend and she drags her paw slowly across my skin.

I roll over – “JINX – stop it!” I say.

She stares at me with her big, green eyes – feigning innocence.

I close my eyes and ignore her.

Then she leaps off the bed like a stunt double in “Puss ‘N Boots” – and lands with a thud, skidding towards the door.

I know she is hoping that I will follow her down the hall to her food dish.  I won’t.  She meows sweetly.

I ask myself the ridiculous question, that I feel cat owners everywhere are asking, “Why did I let her in here last night?” 

(If you are a cat owner – you know why.  If not, I will tell you.  At bedtime cats are incredibly endearing.  My cat tucks herself around the curve of my body purring and gently vibrating at the same time.  It is super cute, and sooooo relaxing.)

With a resolute Meow, Jinx projects herself onto the bed beside me, again. She steps onto my torso, and kneads her way across my chest – like a baker working dough. I groan as she hits a few tender spots.  She circles around and executes a perfect ‘downward dog’ pose – with her butt right in my face!  I roughly push her off while simultaneously sitting up.

“Okay, I'm up,” I say.  I shuffle to the doorway and pull the door swiftly open.  Jinx runs through the doorway and down the hallway with untethered excitement.  I watch her (with just a twinge of guilt) and I close the door and go back to bed. 

Sleep

Just a note.... I don't usually do poetry.  However, I am taking a class right now on Creative Writing, and am therefore forced out of my norm.  This was a 'stream of consciousness' exercise that I did ......(unedited).

Sleep, why sleep?

If there was one guarantee in life

I would choose sleep

blissful

unending

replenishing

sleep.

Lay down, softness,

pillows in a row,

arms bewildered as they flail

and then settle into position.

Kids crawling in, lying down,

settling between the dust and the air,

just there.

Sleep, precious and tenacious

probable yet elusive.

Sleep, I behoove you

lay with me.

“This is not a hike!” protested Lauren, “This is not what I was looking for - a 90 year-old could do this!” 

“A 90 year-old, really?” I bemused.

“YES!”

“Okay” I said, “What were you looking for?”

“You know, like climbing through the trees and rocks sticking out and picking your way down the cliff - NOT walking!”

“Hmmm,” I said, “I guess this is not like that.”

“Duh!”

We were hiking at Torrey Pines State Reserve, on the Southern California coastline.  It was remarkable in its ragged beauty.  We were about half way down the 2 mile trail which would drop 350 feet towards the beach.  For my almost 11-year-old climbing enthusiast, there were inviting red clay cliffs and sandstone formations leading into a glorious gorge filled with lush yet parched Chapparal and Torrey pines (not to mention snakes, coyote and cacti).  Her wistful look towards the exciting part of the park alongside her disparaging comments left me feeling disheartened, despite the sunny warm day.  Pointing out the Stay on Trails signs was pointless, as was reading about the “sensitive ecological environment” from the trail map I was carrying.  Normally she was very sensitive to protecting the environment and ‘following the rules’, but today she was particularly restless and agitated.

Once we got down to the beach, everything changed.  There was a large flat rock partially immersed in the ocean, which she could scramble on top of, and - well, walk around.  Moreover, the beach was protected by the bluff from which we had just descended.  There were some natural areas where Lauren could climb upwards and then simply slide back down onto the beach.  And there was the rolling and consistent surf which was a draw for children of all ages.  

When it was time to leave, I gave Lauren the choice of walking back to the parking lot along the beach, or going back up the trail, and down the service road to the parking lot.  I secretly wanted to walk the 3/4 mile back along the beach.  Lauren wanted to take the trail up and then down, she was feeling like getting some exercise, she said.  You’ll be sorry, I smugly thought.  She was not sorry, in fact, she asked if we could jog up the trail.  I stared at her, no longer able to recall the energy or brain of youth.  She bounded off with palpable joy, and I sauntered along behind, using the back pack I was carrying as my excuse not to run.  

As I enjoyed my solitary walk, I imagined what it would have been like to have started our family ten years earlier.  I would be a 37 year old, with a blossoming 11-year-old.  Just the thought of it made me feel fresh and adventurous.  Just then Lauren veered off the main path onto a narrow path canopied by the rare Torrey pine.  “Come on” she shouted, while waving me in.  It was dark and narrow, and I did not want to take this detour - I liked to stay the course, I liked predictability. 

In that moment, I realized that I had become somewhat humorless in the past number of years; my tolerance had taken a dive.  I did follow Lauren down the dark, cool tunnel through the trees, and it eventually led up a dusty sandstone path to a cliff overlooking the endless expanse of blue-grey ocean.  My eyes scanned the rippling surface as my daughter’s hand came to rest on my shoulder.  

“You all right mom?” she asked.

“Just perfect.” I answered.

In the Shadow of an Angel

I first felt the shadow while rocking quietly with my son, just weeks after his delivery into our family.  The stork brought us to him, in the hardened courtyard of an Ethiopian foster home.  He was slight in stature, playful by nature and very curious.  We were enamored.  Our journey together began.

Within our first month together, as we snuggled in the rocking chair one night before bed, I was overcome by feelings of sadness and uncertainty.  How could he come through such big losses?  How could I truly become a mother to this complete stranger? Is it okay to change the backdrop of a child’s life so vastly?  I could feel his losses as if they were my own; my heart ached.  As the tears freely flowed down my cheeks, I wondered if I was actually ‘up’ to becoming his mom. On paper, and in pictures it seemed doable, but more than that, the process felt like a joining with the divine, that some might call fate. But now, with the weight of his two-year-old body in my lap, I wasn’t so sure. 

In that moment of weeping and wondering, I felt something else in the room.  My skin prickled and my breath simply hung, expectantly.  It was a presence without form; a being without breath. It was as subtle as a morning breeze, sweeping in, almost unnoticed.  I felt awe. I was sure that it was his birth mom.  Her presence created a fleeting moment of kinship.  She was gone, but not absent.  There was a moment of shared desire; I felt the glory of grace.

Through the years that I have parented my adopted children, first our son and then (later) his ten-year-old birth sister, I have felt the shadow of their mother many times.  Whenever my children ask me a question that I cannot possibly know the answer to, such as – What was it like on the day I was born? – I pause and pray.  Then with calm confidence, the words and descriptions appear to me, and I am able to honor that truly special moment in my child’s life even though I was not there.

Our son was almost three when he joined our family; he did not appear to have any conscious memory of his birth mother.  However, since we did not initially share a language, it was difficult to tell.  He so quickly became ‘one of us’ that it was alarming.  Prior to his adoption, my husband and I had discussed the importance of keeping him connected to his Ethiopian-ness, but he was resistant to it, and eager to fit in to Canadian life.  However, when he returned to Ethiopia with us, to bring his older sister into our family, he was completely at home.  He embraced his ethnicity in a way that we could not have orchestrated for him – he simply breathed it in and lived it every day that we were there.

We were remarkably blessed on that trip when we were serendipitously connected to their remaining birth family, who were hundreds of miles away.  On our brief visit to the area of their birth, the indistinct shadow of their birth mother gradually took shape.  First we saw, what could have been her eyes in the weathered face of her mother (my children's maternal grandmother). Then we heard the possible pitch of her voice, in the melodic musings of her younger sister (my children's aunt). Eventually, a photo album appeared.  It seemed an unlikely object in this dusty courtyard, filled with manicured mud huts, clotheslines airing out the day’s laundry, and a fire pit surrounded by pots and utensils, which served as the community kitchen. 

This was a place without running water, or electricity; this was a place where the chickens and goats wandered freely in the courtyard; this was a place where working hard did not guarantee access to basic necessities. And yet, there was, at some point, a camera, and pictures.  We gathered eagerly around the album like birds to a feeder, wondering who had taken the pictures and how they could have been developed.  But there, before us, appeared baby pictures of our son, and also pictures of their birth mother, in Ethiopian dress, staring back at us – as if she too were interested in how it was that we came to be there.

Returning back to Canada after that trip, with our new 10-year-old daughter was difficult.  It felt more uncomfortable standing in the shadow of their birth mother now.  Before, she was an apparition; now, she had a face and a distinct shape.  Though I felt immense gratitude for having met the family, and filling in some of the blank spaces in my children’s family tree, now there was no denying her existence or the vast differences between her and I.  And for our daughter, the memories were so close, and the grief and injustice of such a loss was painfully present.  I felt an intense need to honor that initial relationship while simultaneously building my own bond to a daughter I didn’t know.  At times I felt crowded by her presence. 

I bumped into her shadow, when my daughter (in a moment of disharmony) painfully pointed out that I was not her mother – that she already had a mother.  I tripped on her shadow when I tried to soothe this child who was longing for something else.  I stepped on her shadow when I inadequately tried to describe the circumstances precipitating the (need for) adoption.  And occasionally I gracelessly shoved her shadow out of my way as I tried to get to know this child who had already had ten years of life, without me in it. 

Awhile back, my then twelve-year-old daughter asked me, “Mom, do you think an adoption mom can be the same as a birth mom?”

“No, not the same”, I logically answered, “No two people can be the same.”

“Well, do you think that an adoption mom can love the same as a birth mom?” she continued.

“Yes, I think so” I responded, “not in exactly the same way, but in how much they love you – I think that can be the same.”

She sat quietly, and then asked – “Well, do you love me as much as you love [your birth child]?”

“Yes, I love all of you very much, more than my arms can stretch” I answered.

She paused and sighed deeply, “I don’t think it is the same.”

I too paused; I took a deep breath before responding.  “Each child is made special.  And because you are all special, you are all different.  So my love might look different because I want to love each of you in the way that you need to be loved.”

“So, do you love me?” she finally asked.

“Yes, I love you very much.” I replied.

I still feel the shadow of an angel frequently as I parent these children that God called to me, and at times it provides comfort, support and direction while at others, it is a tremendous source of sadness, loss and anxiety.  Ultimately, nature has been interrupted, and the result is that we have children to parent that were not born to us.  We were not there when their lives began, or when their lives were so suddenly changed by loss.  We joined them part way on their journey, and vastly changed the path that ran before them.  But they continue to be supported by their birth parents, through us and through their own memories and visions.  I am deeply aware that there are things at play that I cannot see or control.  There are angels; they do have a role in our lives.  And what I have come to realize is that two mothers, one living, one not, can stand within the confines of the same shadow, and neither one has lost any part of themselves.