I AM adopted

I am an introvert by nature, and as a blogger I am also an oversharer. It's interesting to be the kind of person who would rather write something personal for potentially hundreds of people --- many of whom I don't know ---- to read on the internet than to actually pick up the phone and call someone I really love and tell them something I truly want them to know. I wrote about it a while ago here. It sort of amuses me in theory but in practice it’s pretty damn uncomfortable and I know I end up alienating people because a lot of the time I squirm at the thought of having a heart-to-heart. I read in a book about introverts that this is not uncommon behavior but I still think it’s weird and ultimately, it sucks. I never felt that close to any one person in my whole life but I always wanted to be. I wanted to have a best friend I was inseparable from, the kind I could tell everything to, or a twin sister who spoke the same secret language I did. I wanted to find my people, the ones I could kythe with like Meg, Calvin and Charles Wallace in the Madeleine L'Engle books I treasured as a kid. When I was little my friends and I would talk about how we’d be best friends forever, go to the same college, be in each others’ weddings and be aunts to each others’ kids. I still want that super close sister like the Braverman siblings on Parenthood or a bestie who lives down the hall from me. But then I would have to TALK to them all the time, wouldn't I? 

One of the things I have written a lot about is my adoption. I talk a lot about it too, now that I am comfortable with it. I wasn’t always; I was raised to think of adoption as a private family matter. And in some ways it is. When I was a child I suppose talking about my adoption would have raised more questions about my parents than it did me. People should know better than to ask others about their fertility and conception issues but they do anyway. When it comes to questions about how I ended up surrendered at birth and becoming a part of my family, those are not mine to answer here; how my parents came to be my parents is not my story to tell. But as an adult adoptee, I don't necessarily agree with adoption being a private family matter anymore because it is a huge part of my identity as a human being, as a daughter and now also as a mother.

I remember once reading in a book about adoption that there is a difference between saying “I was adopted” and “I am adopted.” The book advocated for use of the former because, the author said, it identified the adoption as a singular event. Using the latter instead made adoption part of one’s identity. At the time I bought into that and I still say most of the time that “I was adopted as a baby.” But the truth is that I am adopted. Adoption is not an isolated, singular incident. It’s something I am every single day. I recently read this article and was surprised to see so much of my secret self in this woman’s words. Many adoptees live with a pain that other people can’t understand. As an adult, sharing and writing about my experiences helps me to heal.

Though I was able to "pass" when I was growing up, the truth is that I don't look like my parents at all and I don't act like them either. When I was growing up, we struggled hard to understand each other. It was not easy. I love my mother and father very, very much. They are my parents. I get defensive of them when well-intentioned people ask me if I know my “real” parents; of course I do. And as I get older I appreciate my mom and dad more and more and have a great deal of respect for their journey as parents. Best of all, we have a better relationship now than we ever did. But it wasn’t easy for any of us for a long, long time.

My parents may not have wanted to talk about adoption, but they were always as open with me about it and answered my questions as best they could. They told me that the adoption agency said that honesty and openness was the best way to approach things, and they took that to heart. So there was no finding papers hidden away in a drawer, no hushed conversation I accidentally overheard. I always knew that I was adopted, and I always knew everything they knew. Unfortunately, they knew very little, because my adoption, like most in New York in the 1970s, was completely closed. So really, there wasn't a whole lot to talk about. And that suited them – and me – for a long time.

Even though I have internalized and still grapple with the concept of my adoption being a private family matter, I have written publicly here and here and elsewhere about my experience as an adoptee, especially after my birth mother died three and a half years ago. The love I have for her is unique for me. Hugging her was unlike hugging anyone else in the world. She smelled familiar in a way no one else has. I felt like I fit into her arms in a way I’ve never fit anywhere else in the whole world. It blew my mind that I was developing a relationship with the person I grew inside of, the person who birthed me, saw me, held me before anyone else ever did. She became special to me in a way that was totally separate and apart from the way in which my adoptive mother -- or anyone else -- is special to me, and I was absolutely devastated when she died. 

I am used to a standard set of nosy questions about finding my "real" mother, what I knew, how I felt, my search and so on. I don’t mind the questions. I am so happy that it is commonplace nowadays for families to come in all different configurations and I teach my children that adoption is just another way that parents and children are brought together. My girls know that parents can be of any gender or sexual orientation and that children come into the world and into their families in many different ways. I want to normalize adoption for them because I want adoption to be normal. I want people not to shy away from the tough stuff about adoption. I want them to know that it's hard even when you love your parents, even when you look enough like them that you can "pass." I want them to know what I once heard: that adoption is like grafting a tree. It's uprooting. And it requires a lot of love and work to take. It's a big fucking deal and people who are part of the adoption triad as birth parent, adoptee or adoptive parent carry adoption with them long after the actual event and it’s a part of who they are.

Contrary to the way I was raised, my birth mother encouraged me to talk about my adoption. In fact, the day she and I met for the first time in person at a restaurant we both loved, she told every single person at the restaurant that I was the daughter she gave up 26 years before. She told the maitre d', the waitstaff, the other diners, anyone who would listen. She couldn't stop hugging me and asking them if they thought we looked alike. I was shocked -- and I loved it. She was so open. I wanted to be like her. I was like her. For the first time in my life, there was someone in the world that I was related to.  

Growing up, I didn't know that many domestic adoptees of my generation but those I did know were a lot like me: adopted within the same race and even religion, able to "pass" with their families, all records sealed. Some of them searched, but always for their birth mother. Just like me. Of all the wackadoo questions I was asked, very few people asked me about my birth father. If they had, I wouldn't have had much to say. Until this year, that is.

If my parents knew next to nothing about my birth mother, they knew absolutely nothing about my birth father. When I was 18, I wrote to the adoption agency to ask for my "non-identifying information," which was basically the only thing New York adoptees could legally do to satisfy their curiosity about where they came from. This was supposed to be enough but it wasn’t. How could it be? In the letter, I learned very little about my birth father; it seemed that my birth mother wanted it that way. I read that she refused to give the adoption agency any information about him at all. I didn't know why, but that was enough for me to put him -- and her -- out of my mind for another eight years.

When I was in my mid-twenties, someone told me that adoptees discover something critical about themselves when they reconnect with their birth mothers. This person, an adoptee himself and a former adoption counselor, explained that adoptees often grown up feeling somewhat lost.They're born and then immediately abandoned, after all. Maybe they lack a sense of true belonging. Maybe their identities are somewhat splintered. Maybe it's such a deeply subconscious feeling that they can't ever name it, but they know that something is just... off. He said that when they meet their birth mothers it's like fitting that last piece into the puzzle. And I believed him. But he never said anything about adoptees and their birth fathers and I never thought to ask.

I had never thought seriously about searching for either of them before that conversation. My birth father I’d written off as nothing more than a sperm donor. If my birth mother didn’t want him involved then I didn’t either. I fantasized about seeing my birth mother through a glass window, recognizing my face in hers, seeing her move from afar. In my mind, we never spoke. And yet, we made our ways back to each other and it was easier than I think either of us ever expected.  Some people hear the story and say I found her and others hear it and say she found me. Maybe someday I will write more about how it all happened. One way or another, we found each other and after a decade of trying to figure out who we were to each other, I had a baby and suddenly, she was Grandma and we became very close.

The relationship was and had always been, however, more or less on her terms. She was amazingly generous with me at times, and was the best and most thoughtful gift-giver I ever met. She drove hundreds of miles on a regular basis to spend just a few hours with me. She gave me books when she finished them because they made her think of me. She bought me cookbooks she thought I might like and we made the recipes together. She took me to museums, restaurants and shows she knew I would love. She was always willing to try new things, visit new places and have new experiences with me. She called me regularly no matter where on the planet I was living and no matter what our relationship was like at the time. And I loved her for all of that and more. But there were a couple of things she refused to do.

One of those things was to connect me with my birth father. When we first met, she gave me her high school yearbook and showed me his pictures. She told me everything she could remember about him. She answered every question I had and when I asked the inevitable one about whether she was going to tell him we were in touch, she grew vague and distant. Let’s think about that, she said. If you want to meet him, tell me. I am not sure I know how to find him, but let’s talk more when it’s important to you. I want to be the one to connect you, but not now. I was unsure and afraid, so I tucked that away. I figured we had plenty of time, and I didn’t think I could handle another reunion like that just yet. And what if it was worse? What if he didn’t want to hear from me? So I didn’t push. And then, decades too soon, she was gone.

A little more than a year ago, I got a call from a childhood friend of my birth mother’s. She left me a very cryptic voicemail in which she mentioned my birth father by name, saying she’d had a conversation with him that she wanted to fill me in on. It took three or four agonizing days of phone tag for me to catch up with her. When I did, she explained that she was not only a childhood friend and classmate of my birth mother’s, but also my father’s, and that year their high school class was holding their 40^th reunion. There he learned for the first time of my birth mother’s passing and that she and I had been in touch. He wanted to meet me; did I want to meet him? I was excited but afraid. I said I didn’t want to be the one to reach out first, so I gave her my contact information to pass on to him. And when I checked my email the next morning, there was a letter from my birth father in my inbox.

Maybe it’s that I’m older. Maybe it’s that I’ve been through this before. Maybe it’s that I have a better relationship with my parents now than I did in 1999, or maybe it’s that I have children of my own and have less to lose. Maybe it’s that I’ve had years of therapy about adoption, or maybe it’s that he lives 3000 miles away so I don't feel a ton of pressure. Maybe it’s a little of all of that, and maybe it’s that what little of me is easygoing and direct is the part I get from my birth father. Our connection worked right away. 

With him I feel like myself. It’s easy to be with him. He’s funny, kind, generous, emotional.  He cares deeply for me and always has, it seems. I liked him immediately, and couldn’t help but see myself in his face, in his behavior. I thought for so many years that I was my birth mother’s doppelganger and perhaps I am, but I am also clearly this man’s child as well, not only in looks but in personality, in spirit. We met exactly a year ago and we grew close quickly; I feel like I’ve known him my whole life. And in some ways, I guess I have.

It is amazing to me how much of me comes from two human beings I never knew growing up and who, apart from an intense and magical teenage romance, really didn’t know each other either. It’s almost scary. I have flip-flopped considerably when it comes to where I stand on nature vs. nurture, being staunchly pro-nurture as a young person, probably because I hadn’t yet seen any evidence of nature in my life at that point. Then I was essentially agnostic for years, since I felt alienated from my adoptive parents and everyone else. Nature and nurture could suck it, I thought then. I was very isolated. That’s when I started reading books on adoption and learned that many other adoptees felt as I did: lost and alone. Meeting my biological mother was eerie in some ways and made a naturist out of me. Watching her move, listening to her voice, just looking into her face often felt like looking into a mirror. We barely knew each other and yet we could finish each others' sentences. Even when we struggled it was like I was fighting with myself, and I found myself trying to remember all that I had read in philosophy class about predestination because it almost seemed pointless at times to try as hard as I was to pursue a life of my own when I was this much like this other human being. The difficulties we had I believe had less to do with us not understanding each other or being dissimilar and way more to do with how alike we were, both adoptees, both such strong personalities, both so afraid of losing one another, of losing in general. I clung to her as if knowing her gave my life meaning, and in some ways I guess it did.

It’s true that meeting a birth parent is an eye opening experience. Finding your face in the face of another human being you’ve never seen before is indescribable. Then there are phases to reconnection that go beyond the initial reunion. There’s the “coming out” stage, which happily I was spared. I was very touched to learn that both my biological parents had been open about my existence to their families just as my parents had been open about my adoption to me, so there were no secrets to be revealed on either side. Then, introduction. There was the meeting of spouses and half-siblings. Siblings! I am an only child and somehow, I also have four siblings, and two nephews and a niece! I suddenly have huge extended families and lots of people who knew my parents who now also want to know me. It’s all so beautiful and strange and sometimes it’s overwhelming. If it’s hard for a biological parent and child to reconnect later in life and sustain that connection, think about how many times harder it is for the biological parent’s family to sustain a relationship with her biological child long after her death. That’s one we are still working through. There’s no instruction manual there, and we’re all just figuring it out as we go.

I felt deprived of family for so many years and now I sometimes catch myself feeling guilty for having three times as much family now as most people ever do. I find it laborious and, frankly, like TMI to always to have to say “my birth father” so sometimes I just say “my father” and then I feel a wave of shame. What about my adoptive father, the man I still at the age of 42 call "Daddy" like the Daddy’s girl I have always been? How would he feel if he heard me call someone else my father, even if that man really is also my father? But don’t I, an adoptee, really truly have two dads and two moms? I do, and still I feel like I am saying something wrong or that someone’s feelings will be hurt. Oy, some days it makes my head spin. This last and longest phase is assimilation. What am I to these people? What are they to me? Are these people my family? What is family, really? And what if there aren’t words in the English language to accurately describe this experience and the feelings I feel? That this is still something I think about is why I choose to say that I am adopted instead of saying that I was adopted. It was more than a hand-off, more than a signature on a form, more than a heartbroken teenage girl walking away from her baby and more than a baby coming into the lives of a couple who had been waiting for years. It’s still my story.

 Maybe it is a story I need to write someday, so I can create the words and tell people what it’s like, but not today. Because the rest has yet to unfold. I don’t know what will happen and for today it doesn’t matter. I tell myself the more people there are in the world who love and support my children and me in whatever way they can, the better. We are all still learning each other, and with every interaction I also get to learn more about myself. How could that be a bad thing? 

In the Morning of the Magicians

I yelled at my daughter today. I mean, I really yelled.

Generally speaking, I am a pretty gentle disciplinarian and it takes a lot for me to lose my cool. I believe in talking to my kids and being affectionate and loving with them, even when I'm seething. I do this because I want to build trust, not instill fear, and luckily it has worked well for our family so far. 

It's really not a big deal that this morning I had to be somewhere smack in the middle of when we're usually taking the girls to their schools. That happens. But instead of asking Johnny to handle the kids by himself like I usually do when I have an early morning obligation, I tried to figure out exactly who had to be where by when so that I could do absolutely everything. I planned it down to the minute. Looking back, it was pretty unrealistic of me to think that we'd be able to make that work. Especially since we got up at the same time as usual, drank our coffee sitting around the table like usual, had the same amount of breakfasts and lunches to prepare as usual, and so on. I know, I know, there are a million things I could have done differently or prepared the night before. But we didn't do them. I didn't plan well. I wanted to do it all and be perfect at it.

When we were finally ready, we were already late. And if I hate when my kids are late for school, I hate even more when I'm late for an appointment or a meeting. So we were scrambling and I was stressed. I was grabbing things I needed but hadn't yet packed: keys, phone, earbuds. Oh wait, I need my water bottle. Okay I'm ready. Let's go. Oh, wait, I forgot my wallet too. And oy, my hair! Just one second. And so on. Johnny was tapping his foot and rolling his eyes at me, and Freyja was beckoning me to the doorway, murmuring "Mama, come!" And in the middle of this, Bee announced "Mama, I'm not comfortable in this outfit." Again.

The first time she said this, about fifteen minutes earlier, both Johnny and I had tried to reassure her that she looked great. I'd launched into my almost-daily speech about how she's beautiful no matter what she's wearing. I usually joke that she could wear a towel or a paper bag and still be beautiful and she usually laughs and says "What about if I wore my pajamas? Or one of Daddy's t-shirts?" and we get sillier and sillier, collapsing into giggles. Not today. She had been wearing a pink hand-me-down tennis dress and I had thought she was as cute as a button. More importantly for me at that moment, she had been dressed and ready to go. The end. But before I had even replied, she was in her underwear again. She had been very specific that she wanted to wear her blue tank top. The only trouble is that she doesn't own a blue tank top. So we had gone through everything in her shirt drawer and I had pulled out a few alternatives. She had selected a striped tank and had been happy with that and the shorts I'd grabbed to go with it. Then as I was collecting my keys and phone and wallet and water bottle, discombobulated and rushed, I noticed her standing there, staring at me. "Mama, I'm not comfortable in this outfit either. I want to wear the other tank top." I sighed. And then, even though I knew better, I said the worst thing I could possibly say in this situation. "Bee, we don't have time. Can't you just wear it tomorrow?"

She balled up her fists and got red in her face. "No!" And it was on. Out of nowhere, a full-on, all-out tantrum. By this time, Johnny had put Teeny down and closed the door. We weren't going anywhere. Teeny started crying too, stressed that her sister was so upset. I was falling apart. Bee tugged on my sleeve. I whirled around. "What!?" I demanded. She begged through her tears to change her clothes again because she didn't like what she picked the second time. She said again that she didn't feel comfortable and I leaned into her face. "YOU KNOW WHAT?" I screamed. "I DON'T CARE!" 

Bee crumpled, sobbing hysterically. Any hope of making my appointment on time was gone, but it didn't matter. I had made my baby cry. I knelt and hugged her. "Bee, I'm sorry," I said. "I love you and I should not have talked to you that way. Let's go change." She took my hand and in five minutes it was over and we were in the car, on our way. 

She was all smiles until she asked why we weren't doing what we planned. She didn't understand why she was going to school first instead of dropping me at my appointment. "Remember when I got really upset because you wanted to change your clothes again?" I reminded her gently. She nodded. "Well, I got really mad not because of you but because we were late and I didn't want to miss the appointment. Changing your clothes again took time I didn't want to take, and now I'm not going to my appointment because I'm too late for it." Her eyes got big and she nodded again. "Ohhhh," she said in a soft voice. "I'm sorry, Mama." I blew her a kiss and told her everything was fine. She smiled and said "You're my best Mama. I love you." And it was over.

The part I didn't tell her is that inside I was still a mess. A mess because I was late and I missed my appointment. A mess because I hate when I make a plan that doesn't go exactly the way I think it should. A mess because I am a gentle parent who lost her shit and I felt tremendous guilt and insecurity about how to handle the situation and make it right. And mostly, I was a mess because I was afraid she learned this from me. How many mornings has she seen me standing in front of the mirror saying "I hate the way I look in this outfit" as I change what I'm wearing yet again, the self-loathing mounting until I can barely stand to look at myself? Countless times, that's how many. I don't want her to have the same hateful inner voice that I have. I'd hoped that me telling her how beautiful she is no matter what she wears would be enough like it is most days. But it wasn't, just like it isn't when my husband eyes me in the mirror as I'm picking myself apart and tells me how good I look. "Uggggh!" I will sputter in exasperation, stripping off whatever he just approved of. I have been so crippled by my inability to choose an outfit and feel good in it that I have sometimes been late for the very event I am dressing for. I've even thrown tantrums myself, sitting on my bed in my underwear, surrounded by clothes I think I hate, convinced I am too fat to be out in public. Stupid. It's just so stupid.

I realize Bee's behavior isn't all about me and my horrible influence. I really do get that she's four and a half and that this sort of thing is more or less age appropriate behavior. I have heard stories about four-year-olds who wear the same Batman shirt every day for months despite their parents' protests, only to wake up one morning and fling it across the room, refusing to wear it ever again. Bee has been dressing herself for months and when I worry that she doesn't match or look well put together, I remember all the kids in her classroom I see in all kinds of crazily put together outfits every day. When I come home from work, she's rarely wearing what she had on when I brought her to school. Most of the time this is fun for her. She loves to dress up. But other times I think it can be fairly painful for her. I know that there is very little about a preschooler's life that they can control. And I know food, sleep and clothes are just some examples of how they exert their control in tiny ways. Bee is a well-adjusted kid whose tantrums are few and far between, and when they surface they are always related to one or the other of these and nine times out of ten they happen when I'm in a hurry to get somewhere. I swear it's as if saying "Let's go, we're late" is the magic spell to turn a dawdling four-year-old kid into a veritable bag of cement.

She does this when we're going to a restaurant. She gets excited about the food, the company, the newness. We study the menu together and I get her to agree to try X dish. It arrives and she instantly pushes the plate away. It's not what she thought it would be and in a flash, she refuses to even try it, and I'm cranky because I ordered and have to pay for something no one is going to eat. I've since learned to feed her first, or pack a snack. She does this at bedtime. She played the nightly I'M NOT TIRED game followed by the BUT I DON'T HAVE TO PEE game until we got into a game-changing groove. Now we have a new ritual: I fill her heart with kisses and she fills mine. We make ding noises when we're full of love and that seems to be exactly what she needs to conk out quickly and effortlessly. And similarly, she does this with her ridiculous and stubborn insistence on wearing at all times possible her cheap-ass H&M Hello Kitty flats. I hate them and regret ever buying them but she loves them because they make her feel like a princess. She wants to wear them all the time. All. The. Time. I realized she was going to argue with me about this every time I said no. Maybe this was a battle not worth fighting? Now I let her wear them pretty much anytime she wants. On the occasions I say no because she's riding her bike or going to the playground, she asks to put them in her backpack to change into afterward. She will bring them to playdates and to overnights at Nana's. And I don't care anymore. I stopped caring. What difference does it make if she wears shoes I don't like? Does it hurt me to send her to school in shoes that make her happy?

So why didn't I think about all of that this morning? After I raised my voice, I gave in anyway and let her change. That is something that one the one hand I'm not proud of because I prefer to be consistent the whole way through and I can't help but think that was like giving her a clear message that tantrums work and that she'll get her way if she just argues hard enough and wears me down. But on the other hand, who really cares if she changes three times? I was tired of fighting. I know I would have saved the rest of the family tears and aggravation if I'd just let her change again when she asked. Instead, I had a meltdown that topped her meltdown. And when I heard myself scream the way I did, I looked up at Teeny waiting at the door in Johnny's arms and saw she had her fingers in her ears. I felt a thousand times worse. 

The lesson for me here isn't that I have to flog myself into being a perfect parent. I'm not one, and I can't become one. This morning was not the first time I raised my voice, and it won't be the last. I know I can't just vow never to yell at my kids again. I also can't commit to being able to let go of all my body-image garbage, much as I would like to. I try, especially because I am very conscious of being the mother of two daughters in a society that is not kind to girls and young women who don't fit a particular mold. I want my girls to grow up with healthy self-esteem and a positive body image. I want to give them the tools they need to develop into brave and confident women. And of course I don't want to model the opposite for them, hating what I see every time I look in the mirror at my big butt or my greying hair or the wrinkles I keep seeing appear on my face and wondering when I'm going to wake up six feet tall, skinny and 25. 

The moral of this story is that I am imperfect in general. My big butt, my greying hair, my wrinkles, the volume of my voice, my instinctive desire to fix and to plan and to get it all right and get it all done. I set myself up to fail by trying to make the impossible happen this morning and I let Bee take the brunt of my frustration. I couldn't work the magic I planned to by adding the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back into an already packed morning, and I took it out on her. Maybe it's just that I need to admit that mornings are not our best time. Maybe my schedule is still too full. Maybe I am mentally taxed enough by two kids and a full-time job and blah blah blah to try to add anything else to my plate -- however small -- without ensuring that something else comes off. Maybe it's saying yes to Bee's silly requests more because I am the kind of parent who wants to say yes whenever I can. And maybe it's saying no to everything else more often because I just can't handle another thing if I want to move through my day being the best version of myself that I can be. Maybe accepting my imperfection in all its ugly glory is the best -- and the hardest -- thing I can do as a parent. 

On Writing and Thanking and Writing

I've had a notebook ever since I was old enough to write. For twenty years I have had a favorite kind. (I love the plaid Clairefontaine ones, medium sized. And there are only certain pens I like to use. Yeah, I'm fussy like that.) I always have one in my bag. Paper and pen help me clear my mind like therapy or a good cry. I get ink on my hands and callouses on the fingers that clutch the pen, and it feels like I've worked my muscles, as if I went for a long run. I've written my most secret thoughts down since I was a child. Like Harriet the Spy, it's a compulsion for me. Most of the time I didn't even know I was writing to figure things out. I write to remember. Much of my memory is in a foot locker in my bedroom, a real eyesore of a hand-me-down that my husband would love to get rid of. I can't reread the dozens of notebooks that are locked inside - it's too embarrassing and painful. Just looking at the various phases of handwriting - especially the big, round, affected teenage girl handwriting I taught myself - or flipping through one entry after the next about whatever crush I thought I'd pine for until the day I died makes my face feel hot with shame. But I can't throw them out either. That would be like pressing the delete button on 25 years of my experiences. It's all in there. Even when I knew my privacy was being invaded by people who just couldn't resist snooping, I had to write it all down. I related to Harriet on so many levels and read Harriet the Spy so many times I know whole chunks of it by heart. 

I switched to blogging about twelve years ago. I had just met Johnny and we were both pretty crazy. Crazy in love with each other, but also just plain crazy. He was 22, I was 28, and we were both all kinds of intense, unstable, and dramatic. I filled up notebook after notebook either raging about how much I hated him or waxing poetic about how in love I was. And I will confess now that I started blogging instead not because I wanted the world to know about all my personal goings-on but because typing on my computer instead of scribbling furiously in my notebook meant I could be utterly, self-indulgently, and virtually verbose at work too and no one would know I wasn't the world's busiest employee. (My work ethic has since improved considerably, for the record.)

The bad news about taking my dirty laundry to the internet back when blogging was just getting started is that the tools weren't that sophisticated, or if they were, I was not sophisticated enough myself to know it. There was no Facebook then, no Blogger or WordPress. It was even before MySpace. I was using LiveJournal, which was basically Drama Central for twenty-somethings at the time, and early adopter though I may have been, at the beginning I didn't know how to post "friends only."  I never censored myself because after all, it was my journal. You don't like what I have to say? Well then don't read it! I was never especially popular and I had absolutely zero self-esteem, so I didn't think anyone would care enough about what I had to say to bother with my ramblings. But I was wrong. My silly journal got linked around and people who should not have been reading were. I hate confrontation, so I didn't waste any time putting all my words on lock-down to avoid any more drama. 

After that, I blogged privately for a few years. But I have to admit that there is something appealing about letting it all hang out. When I write, I sort out my feelings. I figure stuff out and am able to move on. When I write online, I also feel like I've shared my thoughts and my life with everyone who owns a computer. It's a heck of a lot easier than talking, especially about the tough stuff. I'm not too good at that.  But I'm so in my head that I assume - often incorrectly - that people know what's going on with me, as though tossing my nonsense out to the interwebs was the same as meeting all my friends and acquaintances or coffee and a good heart-to-heart without having to actually open my mouth.

Recently my blog has been getting a lot of hits, and now I am promoting it on a Facebook page that I created just for this purpose. I do that partly to keep it separate from my personal Facebook page; I have new readers who don't know me personally. But even more, I'm secretly (and now, not-so-secretly) hoping that some neurological expert will read about Teeny and will offer up a simple solution to all her medical problems, or that some wealthy reader will want to be her benefactor (okay, or my sugar daddy), or that some hotshot agent (who has nothing better to do than read some working mom's online diary) will discover me and want to publish my sure-to-be-a-bestseller memoir. But I don't want to have to say any of this out loud because it's asking for too much. I want the universe to just know.

Two weeks ago someone was frustrated with me and lashed out with a very judgmental comment about the kind of person I am. We were having a conversation in which I did ask for help, and I was instantly sorry I had. I felt like I'd been slapped in the face. She basically said that I was the type of person who would impose upon others without a second thought, just expecting that they would drop everything to help me. She was, in my opinion, entirely off the mark, and I was pissed off. Even more, I was hurt and defensive. I promptly proclaimed to one and all that I would never ever ask anyone for anything ever again and fled for home, in a tornado of self-doubt. 

But no. That isn't me, and I know it. It's hard for me to ask for help. Over the years I've developed a strong sense of pride and I'm fortunate to be able to support myself and my family with little help from others. I am 40 years old. An adult, a spouse, a parent. I shouldn't rely on others and I put a lot of pressure on myself to do and to achieve so that I don't have to. But it takes a village, right? I don't ask for much, so when I do, the people who love me usually know that I really, really need their help.

I am far more courageous and honest online. I'm able to share my highest highs and lowest lows, when doing so in person makes me feel like I'm alternately bragging or complaining, or worse, hinting that I need something from someone. In person, it's easier to say very little about myself. I talk a lot, sure, but not always about anything very substantial. 

I know it's a little crazy that I would rather blog than confide in a friend. Even I think it's odd that I am a completely introverted oversharer. It has gotten easier over the years - certainly having taught high school made it much easier. I often tell people that once you can stand up in front of 25 teenagers and get them to listen to you, you can talk to anyone about anything, and it's really true! Even so, I still have to give myself a pep talk when I walk into a room full of people and convince myself to talk to at least two people or to introduce myself to someone I haven't met yet. It's even harder for me when friends and family ask me how I'm doing. And the weirdest thing is that I have trouble updating people - even those I really love - about my life before I've had a chance to write about it.

On the other hand, I don't usually think about the fact that sometimes people I work with, neighbors, casual acquaintances and Facebook pals are people who read my blog and have access to very, very personal information. They read my thoughts and my fears, my successes and my struggles. And I know I'm putting all of that out there, but at the same time, I am essentially a very private person. I generally don't bring up Teeny's issues unless someone asks me about her, and I certainly don't blab to everyone I see about all the challenges in my life. But oh yeah, I was the one who invited the world into my diary. I want you all to know. I just don't want to have to tell you. That part is too scary. 

So imagine how I felt when two of my coworkers set up a surprise fundraiser to cover the cost of Teeny's genetic testing I wrote about here. I know these two women professionally and to a lesser extent, personally. I have tremendous respect for them as animal advocates and as moms of young children. I was vaguely aware that they read my blog but I am really not able to gauge people's interest level well - seems there are some really dedicated readers, and at the same time some of my very closest friends and family members are not readers. 

Anyway, these two women worked fast. They spread the word far and wide before I even knew what was going on. The email they sent me on Thursday morning tipping me off sat in my inbox for hours before I had a chance to read it. When I did, I was standing in someone else's office in another part of the city. I was just scrolling through emails on my phone and I was caught completely off guard. Absolutely stunned, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry -- or throw up. I felt so grateful. And I was terrified. I worried that people would think I put them up to it, or that no one would want to contribute. Worst of all was that I had no idea how to react. I wanted to protest. I wanted to apologize. It was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me and I felt completely undeserving. For me, feeling needy is just about the worst sensation in the world. I hate thinking I can't do everything by myself. But I can't. I do need help. And these women wanted to help. So I just said thank you. And then I needed to write about it. 

If you're one of the nearly 150 individuals and families who participated and contributed so far, thank you. In three days you achieved 150% of the original goal and there is still more coming in. My jaw dropped time and time again when I saw how many people pitched in to help. Friends, neighbors, colleagues, acquaintances. The president of the non-profit I work for. Board members. Friends' parents. Some of you helped when I know perfectly well that you are struggling yourselves. Again, I thank you. And if you're someone who wanted to participate but could not, thank you. Maybe you're one of the people who reposted the link so others could read about Teeny and contribute. That too is a tremendous contribution. If you are a friend to our family who has lent a hand by calling, texting or emailing to check in knowing it's likely that I won't reply right away, by sharing your story or your child's story with me, by hanging out with us talking about politics, movies, the weather -- anything other than cerebellar hypoplasia, by playing board games with us, by dragging me out for coffee or a manicure or just a walk, thank you. My family thanks you all. One day, I know Teeny will thank you. We promise to honor your gifts, which are supporting us in so many ways. Your gifts are covering the genetic testing I wrote about last week, and even more. More of our once-impossibles are now-possibles, thanks to you. Every gesture feels like a hug, a vote of confidence in my ability to lead Teeny and our family through this. So please stay tuned. This kid is capable of big things. I just know it. And I'm gonna write about it. 

Maybe one day Teeny will write about it, too. 

All I Know Is That I Don't Know (Nothing)*

*Title is a song by Operation Ivy that's been in my head for a week.

I turned 40 last week and the most notable thing about it was that nothing notable happened. After 39 years of utterly uncelebrated, unremarkable birthdays, it's a little odd that I expected this one to be different somehow. I thought that maybe I would wake up with new wrinkles or a shock of grey hair or a nearsighted squint. But one day I was 39 and the next day I was 40 and somewhere in there I still managed to go for a run, take a half day off work, go dancing with my husband, eat too much at my favorite restaurant and see a really bad movie. Not too shabby.

The thing I can't shake now is that I am old. I know, I know, you're only as old as you feel. Age is just a number. Right. But 40 is older than I ever thought I would be, and even to my 40-year-old ears, it sounds old. It's very likely that more than half my life is behind me. It's a very tough concept for me to swallow that my life, this wonderful, precious life, is a one-way journey and that one day my girls will wake up and I will not be there to tell them I love them. I am not really okay with that yet. Is anyone ever?

I remember being a kid and looking at my parents and other people's parents -- all of whom at that point were younger than I am now -- and thinking, wow, grownups know so much. I knew nice moms and mean moms. I knew scary dads, creepy dads, fun dads. Some of my friends' parents were so awesome that I secretly wished they were mine too. I thought some of them were better than others, but only in how they related to their kids or to me. I never questioned their decision-making, their common sense, their ability to be providers and caregivers. Never once did it occur to me that these people might have no idea what they were doing.

What I have discovered is that being 40 doesn't mean anything. I look over my shoulder sometimes to see who's looking at me and I wonder what they see. A mortgage-payer, family-supporter and haver of 401ks, IRAs and 529s? A loving mom, perhaps? Hopefully not a Special Parent. A workaholic earner of a higher salary than either of my parents did? Or do they see the tattooed, scarred, sad and angry, black-haired girl who thought she was smarter than any grownup who crossed her path, yet took two steps sideways for every half-step forward? I am still her and I am also nothing like her because of all the other things I have become. And never forgetting any of it made me into someone very different. Older for sure. Less impulsive and less selfish. But wiser? No. 

Now I look at people my age - some are parents and some are not - and I think wow, we growups don't know jack! I know nice people, I know mean people. I know scary, creepy and fun people. There are as many parenting styles as there are parents, and I'm starting to see that none of us really has any idea what we're doing. (Right?)

I remember leaving the hospital after Bee was born, thinking, Holy crap, what am I supposed to do with her now? What did I do to make these people think that I can take care of a child? Are they crazy, letting me just walk out the door with this baby?

So who am I to be a head of household? Who am I to make decisions that affect other people? When Johnny and I talk about moving out of the city or what to do about Teeny and school or have any number of other Grownup Discussions that would be very difficult for anyone to work through, I sometimes wonder why can't I just put on my combat boots and headphones and stomp out of the house and around the East Village. Oh right, because I'm not 15 anymore. (And because the East Village just ain't what it used to be.) Growing up was painful enough the first time; you could not pay me to do it again. I still remember every embarrassing misstep. Call me crazy, but I even remember what it was like to be Bee's age, with her curiosity, her sensitive heart, her inexplicably random wants and needs. Her mind works like mine did and I remember how much it hurt when I felt unheard.

My emotional memory is life's greatest gift to me, and seeing it as such is the biggest indication that I have truly arrived as a grownup. When you're a real grownup, whatever that means, you are the sum of your parts. A new being that is part who you were and part who you have become and you remember it all as you move through life, and you use it as you fumble through the millions of decisions you make every day. So when Bee makes an off-the-wall request, like she did today when she wanted to help me by washing the walls with her favorite yellow sponge five minutes after Teeny went to sleep and fifteen minutes before her bedtime, my many different parts had to convene for a quick discussion. My 40 year old self said "No! Put that filthy sponge away. It's getting late. It's almost bedtime. We need to get your pajamas on and your teeth brushed." Then my 3 year old self said, "She's telling you, 'I want to help you. Let me feel important and like I'm part of the family.' Remember that feeling? How can you say no?" And then I debate with myself : Does it really matter if she goes to bed ten minutes later? She's happy. She's busy! She's helping. But I'm tired and I don't feel like playing. I asked her to get her nighttime diaper out and she ignored me. What a brat. She's not doing what I ask her. But so what? Does it hurt to let her do this instead? Or will she learn that she can get her way if she tries hard enough? Well, who cares? She's cleaning! If she does this, I can ask her to wipe the table with the sponge too, which she loves to do since she does it in school. And then she'll be distracted away from the 395873598 other things that distract her at bedtime. And even better, it will tire her out. And on and on and on.

This happens in the space of three seconds, and soon I'm on my hands and knees with another sponge and we're wiping at the not-so-washable fingerpaint stains and the stray flecks of dried baby food and the cat hair and laughing about how we're working together and her sponge is yellow and mine is beige and the soap is green and my section is cleaner than yours, Mama. And then she knocks over the cats' water bowl and we're cleaning that up too and then two seconds after that I am grabbing her and kissing the back of her neck and her hair and picking her up and she's tossing the sponge in the sink and we get her pajamas on and she says she wants to snuggle so we climb into my bed and huddle together under the covers until Daddy comes to carry her into her room to be tucked in and she says "I'm ready, Daddy. I love you, Mama. Goodnight!" and I watch her waving to me from her Daddy's arms, and all the different parts of me are quiet except for the 40 year old one whose heart is swelling because having your child tell you she loves you is the perfect ending to a good day and when you're 40, perfect moments mean a hell of a lot more than they did when you were 20.
 

How Teeny Learned to Crawl Sort Of, or, Navigating the EarlyIntervention System in New York City

Here is the rest of the blog entry that no mother wants to write. It's the story of How Teeny Learned to Crawl Sort Of, or, Navigating the Early Intervention System in New York City.

So there's good news and bad news.

The good news is that I am a mama who pays attention. Diligence and determination are my middle names. If you've read previous blog entries, you will know that I knew something was a little different about Teeny from the moment she was born. So small, so fragile, so sleepy. By the time she was five months old I was convinced. She wasn't rolling over and tummy time still made her miserable. By six months, I was telling her pediatrician that she was slow to meet milestones and she told me that she was fine, just lazy. By ten months I couldn't take it anymore and I turned a routine pediatrician visit for Bee into a referral session for Teeny. If you missed it the first time, you can read more HERE and HERE.

The bad news is that there's more news. We started Teeny at private physical therapy two days a week to give her issues a kick in the pants while we went through the evaluation process to see what we were really facing and what services we would qualify for. The first time we schlepped into Times Square early one weekday morning with both kids, navigating the stroller around the suits, the tourists and the horrible Elmo and Mickey Mouse impostors, I said a silent thank you to the gods of people with small children that the Disney Store and Toys R Us didn't open until 10, so Bee could not coerce us into a side trip (this time). We did however get suckered into tipping one of SIX Elmos for these ridiculous photos:

Nervously, I discussed the issues with the PT and he got to work. And he billed us, because our insurance company wouldn't touch this with a ten foot pole. I was grateful that I am a worrywart and keep an ample medical flexible spending account for such unplanned purposes. Teeny's physical therapy is worth it, and this physical therapist is a good guy. He works her hard but makes it look like they're playing. Convinced this is just a "minor delay," he has been our voice of optimism throughout this whole process, coaching me as much as he's coaching Teeny. I hope he's right.

The evaluators, on the other hand, seem like harbingers of doom and gloom. It's their job to tell it like it is, in no uncertain circumstances. So while it's such a relief to start getting some answers, I don't really like these answers. And because they can't technically diagnose, they succeed fabulously at scaring the crap out of nervous moms and dads with their vague "red flags" and "we generally like to see X, but with Teeny I'm concerned because instead I'm seeing Y," and so on, meaning of course that every evaluation leads to more questions and further evaluation.

The day before Teeny's first evaluation, our service coordinator, K, came to meet me at work. She was very kind and friendly, but only confused and scared me more when she handed me a pile of papers to review and sign. She talked about the process briefly, the goal of which was to determine whether Teeny would qualify for state funded services. And two minutes later, she was gone. 

The next day, we began with the developmental evaluation. We arrived at the agency's offices a good fifteen minutes early. We met K again, and H, the woman who helped me sort out the many different agencies who work with EI and secure my appointments. L was the psychologist evaluating Teeny. Whoa, I can not even believe I just wrote that. the psychologist evaluating Teeny. My daughter is a baby. A baby! She was one year and one day old when I put her down on a mat on the floor of Evaluation Room 2 and let someone evaluate her. L was an older lady, very sweet and enthusiastic. K and H both stayed for the evaluation, loving on Teeny, applauding her every move even as L offered a running commentary about what she saw. With Teeny in table-top: "See her hands? The way they are splayed out instead of facing forward when she's on all fours indicates that she doesn't have the strength to support her upper body enough to crawl. As long as her hands do this, she will always pitch forward." With Teeny in her lap: "See how she can't even hold herself up to a sit when you put her there? This is a very significant delay." With Teeny on her back, holding a toy in each hand and banging them together. "See how she holds something in each hand? This is very sophisticated and age appropriate." With Teeny kicking both legs out and waving her hands wildly: "This is frustration. Cognitively she is ready to move. If she could crawl, she'd be in China by now. She wants to play, but she can't. Her mind is ready to do new things but her body can't do them, and she will grow more and more frustrated if she doesn't get help soon." And so on, jotting down notes all the while, talking about her deficiencies in both gross and fine motor skills, and recommending further evaluations in PT and OT.

In summary? "Cognitively, Teeny is a smart and alert baby. She is interactive and social. Physically, she has the development of a 5 month old baby. Her mind is ready for walking, but her body is not." She said she would make a strong recommendation that Teeny be offered both PT and OT, but she could not be sure if she would qualify. I was hardly listening at that point, stuck on she has the physical development of a five month old baby. Even if she was right, it was hard to hear her talk about my baby this way. Still, it's better to hear it than not, and it was reassuring to have my suspicions validated. When we were through, I left Teeny with them and ran to the ladies' to pee and wipe away a tear. I wasn't sure why I was crying - because I got bad news or because the news was, for bad news, actually very good. When I came back, K, H and L had taken off their evaluator hats and were just three women loving on a baby. They were cooing at her and holding her up to a mirror, where her expression turned from concerned ("she's wondering where her mama went!") and broke into a toothy grin. She raised a hand and waggled it at her reflection and the three ladies gasped. "She's waving! I didn't think she could do that! Smart baby."

And then it was on to the next evaluation.

PT was next. This therapist, A, came to our apartment. She was allergic to cats (boo) so I shut our two into the girls' room amidst meows of protest, and then we all hunkered down on the rainbow mat and got to work. She echoed many of L's comments as she pushed and pulled and contorted Teeny into and out of many different positions. She showed me exercises to do with her, asked about the PT she was currently receiving, suggested we see a pediatric neurologist, but then would not say why. "Just to confirm that it's not neurologic," she said. "Though there are a lot of good signs, I am seeing some red flags." Then she looked me in the eye and told me very sweetly that the papers she was filling out about my girl were going to look very drastic and harsh. Be prepared, she said, and don't take it personally. After all, at her age, there isn't much she should  be able to do, so she is being scored on three things. if she could crawl, and she's so close, the scores would rise dramatically. Still, she'll qualify, and you should fight for as many sessions a week as you can. I recommend PT at least four times a week and OT at least twice. And she packed up her bags and left before I could take a single picture.

Less than a week later, we had the OT evaluation. This one was back in Evaluation Room 2, and this time my mom took Bee, so Johnny was with Teeny and me. Our service coordinator and another representative of the agency who were with us for the developmental evaluation both seemed shocked at how much Teeny had progressed in the week since. She was bunny hopping all over the place and able to work her arms more independently than ever before. This therapist echoed the PT's concerns that there may be a neurological issue.

The evaluators were all very kind. They genuinely seemed to enjoy working with Teeny and were so celebratory of her little victories that I am starting to feel encouraged and hopeful. And let me tell you, every day I love this kid more. As she gains more physical strength, she seems to grow cognitively as well. During the first evaluation I said she doesn't know ma-ma-ma means mama or that mama means me. She doesn't wave. She doesn't understand "hands up" when I'm putting the tray on the high chair. She can't move herself around at all. All of this has changed. In every evaluation, Johnny and I found ourselves exclaiming, "This is new! She couldn't do this last week!"

In the first eleven months of her life, Teeny did very little. In the past six or seven weeks, she is doing SO many new things. She rolls over in both directions and has essentially learned to crawl (bunny-hop style).

It's a work-around, but it gets her where she needs to go (and it's cute!).

Somewhere in there, Teeny had her first birthday. It fell right around the time I was feeling overwhelmed and afraid and really not like celebrating. Did I really want to invite every other parent of young children I knew over to look at my baby who was having such trouble? I was tempted to cancel all the plans lest people look at Teeny like a freak, or talk to me in hushed tones, asking in a I'm-glad-this-is-your-kid-not-mine voice about how she's doing. But then I said screw it. It's her first birthday and I want her to spend it with the people who love her. And she had a blast. Our friends and family are loving and respectful, concerned and caring. And if our baby ends up riding the short bus like the kids in this amazing book, then that's what we will have to deal with. But we'll take that one birthday at a time.

Most recently, she's shown us that she can push herself back from table-top into a sit, using her arms to steady herself. She has developed a voracious appetite and can feed herself using a pincer grip (sometimes). She clearly knows and comprehends her name and a handful of words. She shakes her head no when she's done eating and plays peek-a-boo by covering her own eyes to engage you in the game. And when I came home from work one evening last week, she looked up at me from her usual spot on the rainbow mat, smiled and said "mama!" I picked her right up and she put her arms around my neck. I felt her holding on; another first. This weekend we visited family and she got to play with new people and new toys in a new place. She snatched Bee's balloons away from her and threw a fit when Bee tried to take them back, which made us realize that we have entered the stage of parenting kids very close in age where it's sometimes better to have two of everything. Sitting in the backyard, she was so curious that she couldn't help but stuff the colorful fall leaves in her mouth (with a handful of grass and dirt as well). She is really into wind-up toys: the noise, the movement, their small size and "grabbability" are all really perfect for her needs, so we're amassing quite a collection. She's becoming more and more expressive and opinionated, which I can only see as a good thing. In many ways she acts like a normal 13 month old.

All the same, we did take her to specialists to rule out medical issues. The orthopedist we saw essentially tossed us out of his office after five minutes, saying that he sees babies her age who can't even hold their heads up and that if she still can't walk at 18 months then he'd consider doing an x-ray of her hips. The neurologist was less reassuring. He believes that Teeny sustained some kind of injury or some other "static event" as he called it, during either pregnancy or childbirth, that is causing her brain to miscommunicate with her nerves. Fortunately, he does not believe here is any degenerative disease and he thinks that since she responds so well to therapy already, this could be fixable. He did recommend an MRI all the same, which I'm on the fence about and haven't yet scheduled, but probably will soon since our pediatrician chimed in to say it was a good idea.

Then all the evaluation reports came in. The agency we're working with sent us a copy of the 23-single-spaced-page document that they sent to the state. Of course I read every word. The evaluators had warned me that their observations and recommendations, along with Teeny's test scores, would look very harsh in black and white. They reassured me that they had to be harsh, because this was how they got the state's attention. Our goal, they reminded me, is to get them to cover the services Teeny needs to make progress. I get all that. But seeing the charts with percentages and rates and all these horrible adjectives describing my child made me furious and sad. I got defensive. In my head I said "But she's doing that now, and that and that!" I choked back tears and resolved to be brave and to remember that this is a snapshot of where Teeny was pre-PT, which is what we want the state to see. And I also have to realize that Teeny does have significant delays and that, despite her many achievements over the past two months, she still has a long road ahead of her.

So hopefully we'll get the help we need. Supposedly the state pays for services in the home, but the agency we've been working with doesn't have any therapists who work in our neighborhood, so we'll have to be contracted out. That creates a whole new set of worries for me. The meeting with the state to create our IFSP (Individualized Family Services Plan) is scheduled for tomorrow morning. Apparently, the purpose of the meeting is to write this document, which will serve as a contract for us with the state and will cover specific services that Teeny will be entitled to receive for six months. And six months from now, the document will be updated in another meeting. We can request additional services and increases/decreases to current services as we go. Ultimately, however, the decisions rest with the state. Our agency encouraged us to look as involved and committed as possible, to which I was like, "Duh!" I have no more details that that, so I don't quite know what we're walking into, but I have done all my homework (literally! I did a whole paper and presentation on Teeny last week for school!) and both Johnny and I are prepared to be the fierce advocates for our daughter that I know we can be. Look out, New York State!

Friends and family, keep your fingers crossed for Teeny! We'll let you know how it goes.