Nellie

Nellie her first year home

It all started with an ad in the paper.

Well, not really. It all started when we adopted two kids. They hadn't been here long before we realized every kid really should get to grow up with a dog. I was a vaguely known entity in the local animal rescue community, had helped re-home a few before, so I imagined one would come our way. And one probably would've, but then I saw this ad:

Female black lab mix free to good home. Has shots. Spayed.

Ads like this bother me. First of all, I don't like to think of any creature being rejected. Secondly, "free" animals around here are all too often sacrificed to fights. Combine all that with an early childhood spent with labs, and you can guess what happened next. I made the call, and we haven't looked back since.

Until now.

Nellie is...was...to my kids what my dog, Misty, was to me. Misty was not a lab, but rather an Australian Shepherd we got when I was young, sometime after Barnaby, who was a lab, was lost to complications of Parvo. Despite her fear of cows (admittedly not a great feature in a herding dog on a beef farm!) and one entirely too-close call with a passing car, Misty lived a long, full life. She was smart, funny, and occasionally brave – at least when it came to defending her red pick-up truck! Most of all, she was my constant companion, a girl's best friend. More than one chapter of my life closed when, during my senior year of college, she finally crossed the Rainbow Bridge.

My kids had that with Nellie. Like me and Misty, they've literally grown up together.

Nellie going gray

The only thing is, Nellie being a dog and all, she didn't just grow up – in fact, one could argue that is the one thing that didn't happen in her fourteen years! She grew old. The seizures she'd always suffered lessened, but she lost a third of her teeth. Her heart, the physical one, began to fail, even as the other, the heart of love, continued to beat strong. On the last day, the one we'd feared for months yet never could imagine, she got up, had a snack, and stretched out for a nap. It was a morning like any other, except this time, she didn't wake.

I've said before that it is hard enough to lose a pet, that it's a thousand times worse to see your kids losing one too. I imagine most of my readers know such pain entirely too well. So rather than dwell on it, I thought I'd share a few snapshots that reveal Nellie as she is was, show why we loved love her so:

• Whining from inside her crate at our lion-maned cat as, dangling from the top, he taunted her.
• Stealing a bologna sandwich and swallowing it whole.
• Standing at the back door barking, usually around midnight, her hair –and mine!– standing on end.
• Basking in the admiration of friends, strangers, and passers-by: "Look! There's a dog at Niagara Falls, and it's smiling!"
• Taking off hell-bent into the woods, hot on Cooper's and later Roxie's tail, even if we suspect she rarely knew what she was chasing.

  

  Nellie and Roxie

• Sheepishly belly-crawling back into our yard after sneaking off for a bite or two of new-lain horse apple or stinking fresh green cow pie.
• Getting skunked, and good, right smack in the face.
• Looking at me mournfully through yet another round of wormer – she never could quit those pasture snacks!
• Curling by my feet as I slept fitfully on the couch, keeping vigil through another night of illness, usually hers, sometimes the kids' or mine.
• Leaning on my knee, gazing up goofily with her snaggle tooth and her bugged-out eyes.
• Snoring. Clicking toenails. Clandestine crunching of cat food. It's way too quiet now.

I know this post needs some kind of end, but I've had about enough of things coming to an end here in black cat land, so let's just say to be continued. We'll catch the rest when we meet again, somewhere across the Rainbow Bridge.

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Fireflies and stars

Sometimes it's hard to tell stars and fireflies apart, especially if your vision's clouded. Yes, I know that fireflies usually glow green and dart about and that their light appears to be a whole lot closer, namely because it is. But if you take your glasses off to have a good old-fashioned cry, as I did a couple weeks ago, well, it's pretty easy to confuse them. Not that this confusion is necessarily a bad thing – after all, what I saw through tear-rimmed lashes was a glorious blur of twinkling lights.

And Lord knows I needed both glory and light that late spring night. I'd been butting heads with one of my kids, watching something eat away at her before my eyes, and it didn't seem like there was anything I could do. If anything, in fact, I kept making things worse, which is about as bad a feeling as a mama can ever have. So yeah, I needed light that night, and plenty of it. I sat on my front porch praying for guidance, praying for help and a sense of hope. I got my answer in the form of fireflies and stars.

As I sat there watching, my tears slowly dried. Then I got to thinking about what stars and fireflies really are. Fireflies are awesome and all, but, truth be told, they're bugs. Black, wiggly, six-legged, flying bugs. As for stars, well, they're balls of heat and gas and nuclear reactions. Look too closely at either and you risk losing the sense of beauty and wonder they instill (unless, perhaps, you happen to be some sort of entomologist or astronomer, which I'm not).

I think it might be kind of the same with our relationships, family and all the rest. If we look too closely, we might lose the forest for the trees. Yes, we should keep on looking, and yes, we need to give those we love the full extent of our attention and care. Just don't get hung up on the details. Focus too much on atoms and antennae, and you'll miss out on the glow. Stay watchful, but as you do, don't forget to cherish the miracle of this other life which for some incredible reason, you are blessed enough to share.

Step back.

Look again.

Firefly or a star?

Does it matter?

Hold it loosely.

Let it shine.

Yeah, this is real too

A child, maybe 12, moves across the parking lot. Progress is slow, weighed down as he is by a leg cast and bulging backpack. He places his crutches carefully, looking up every so often, only to drop his eyes again when he sees how much parking lot remains.

The other parents stare, first at him, then at his mother, waiting alone by her car. 

"How long has he been crossing this lot, anyway?"

"I'd never let my kid get away with that."

"Bless him. That'd stop if he just got a little extra attention and love."

"That kid needs a good whipping. Then he'd move!"

If you are horrified, you should be.

If you think this cannot possibly be real, you are probably right. At least I hope you are. After all, what kind of person would criticize a child so obviously in pain? What kind of jerk would blame his parents because a broken leg had slowed him down?

Yet thousands of families endure something similar every day. Every. Single. Day. Not because of something visible, something obvious like a broken leg, but because their child suffers from wounds unseen, some of which were inflicted literally from the very first. Some combination of hunger, abuse, trauma, and neglect caused the child's brain to develop in unexpected ways, with a broad range of maladaptive behaviors to match. 

For parents of these kids, the phrase "pick your battles" takes on a whole new meaning. They have to pick so often and so quickly –yet somehow also carefully–, that I can just about guarantee they're not picking the ones you want. Yet trust me, they believe in love and discipline and everything else that goes into making a family work. It's just that their normal looks way different from yours. They can't waste time apologizing for something that isn't their fault. Like the mom whose son is wobbling around with cast and crutches, they have bigger fish to fry.

Please give them benefit of the doubt, accept that they are actually doing the best they can, however imperfect that may be.  

Remember, the support you give the family is love you show the child.

Love is an action verb

So this week-end, the Internet, and presumably everyone else, was all about love.

Or were they?

I'm not trying to be cynical here. It's just that I'm pretty sure that for some, their words were just that, words. A bunch of empty phrases in honor of a saint about whom we don't know as much as we think we do. I have nothing against Valentine's Day, but it always feels to me like an awful lot of people are getting it wrong. I think I've finally figured out why.

Love, to me, is an action verb. It is not a warm fuzzy feeling or an emoji-bedazzled Facebook status or even a dozen roses or a diamond ring. Sure, all of those things can go along with love. And if you happen to be in love, there's a pretty good chance they are part of the package. But make no mistake: they are not love itself.

So in belated honor of Valentine's Day, here is are some things that for me, represent real love, love as action.


...delivering a casserole
...lending a car
...babysitting
...accepting help




...driving the extra mile (or ten... or more...)
...changing a tire
...giving up your bed
...admiring the six hundredth Lego creation

...making gifts of the stories you love
...playing Monopoly when your game is Scrabble
...granting permission for the date
...saying no to the broken curfew





...cheering for the winning goal
...crying over the ball that didn't go in

...sending your children off to school
...welcoming your children back home

...sharing a coffee with friends
...sharing a coffee with a stranger
...picking up the phone
...turning off the phone for real face time




I could keep going, but I think you get the idea. What about you? What are the things that show you love is an action verb?

When you see a family like mine...

I think this may be the first in a series. Only time will tell. I also want to write some posts on the theme of "Everything I need to know, I learned from an orange cat," but that loss is still too fresh. For now, I'm just letting the muse strike when and where she will until I summon enough energy to impose some discipline on her.

To give you a frame of reference, I am 5'9",  blond, blue-eyed, like an extra in a Scandinavian movie. My three children, on the other hand, were born in India and have darker skin than I do, with black hair and dark eyes. They are also shorter in stature.

 

Here on some tips on what NOT to say, especially when meeting us for the first time.

Question: Where are they from?

Answer: Kentucky.

Alternate answer (available only if I think it's relevant): Kentucky, but they were born in India.

The voice in my head: Stop being so dang nosy. If you had children from India, I bet you'd find a different way to phrase your question.

Question: Are they yours?
Answer: Yes.
Alternate answer (snarky, paired with theatrical scanning of surroundings): Are what mine? Oh my God! Them?! Why do these people keep following me?
The voice in my head: You probably want to know if they're adopted. If you also have a transracial family and/or adopted kids, you might have grounds to ask. MIGHT. Otherwise...

Question: Do they look like their dad?
Answer: Nope.
Alternate answer (highly snarky, accompanied by feigned scrutinizing of children): You know... now that you mention it, they sure don't. Wonder how THAT happened?!
The voice in my head: You want to know personal details about my family and think you've found a clever way to ask. You haven't.

Question: Are they adopted?
Answer: Yes.
(No other answer is necessary.)
The voice in my head: This question is usually fine by me, as long as it's asked kindly and respectfully, and as long as it's not followed by any of these...

Question: Couldn't you have your own?
Answer: They are my own.
Alternate answer: I already do.
The voice in my head: Please tell me you are not actually asking me about my sex life and/or reproductive health. Do you hear me asking you about that?!? I didn't think so.

Question: Did you try magic beans/ IVF/prayer/sacrifices to pagan goddesses?
Answer: No.
Alternate answer: Actually, I chose adoption first. I wanted to be a mother and there were kids who needed parents. It was a perfect fit.
The voice in my head: Why are people so stinkin' interested in getting what I would consider TMI? Seriously! That is so NOT okay!

Question: How much did they cost?
Answer: stunned silence
Alternate answer: Ummmm.... You do know that I didn't BUY my children, right? I paid fees to lawyers, agencies, orphanages, immigration services, and more.
The voice in my head: What in the heck is wrong with you? Who asks that? How much did your pregnancy cost? What about the delivery? What? You don't want to answer? Why not?

I could go on, but you get the point. If you wouldn't say it to a married, heterosexual couple with 2.5 kids who look exactly like them, then don't say it to me. Deal?

More questions to which you might not want an answer...

It is the first week of classes here at the University, and overwhelmed is the understatement for how I feel. So in honor of that, I'm going to share a random series of questions that have cropped up in the past week. After all, it'd be no fun if I kept the surreality to myself! For an extra dose of fun, I've posted the answers, in a different order, below.  Up to you to match each question with its answer.

Questions

Did I turn off the grill?

Have you ever seen a bug that looks exactly like a leaf?

How can a physically healthy, fully sighted person literally walk into a car?

How can the password you used less than a minute ago become invalid without you actually changing it?

How much coffee do you drink every morning?

Is this classroom really big enough for 15 students?

Wait, is this a habanero?

What on earth is the cat licking?

What is that smell?

Where is the dog?



Answers

ADD. It's a real thing, people. I'm just glad he's ok.

Dinner. Mine. Not his.

Enough so that I don't smack you when you ask silly questions.

Microsoft.

Nope, sure didn't. Glad I remembered before I actually left the driveway.

Not before today I haven't!

Probably not. Thank God for AC on a hot day!

Rolling. Don't ask the follow-up question. You don't want to know in what.

Why oh why do I keep asking this? I've never liked the answer before!

Yep, sure is. May have to take a fire extinguisher to my hands.

Shadow mothers

True story: I never expected that my kids would forget their birth mothers. That's just not reasonable. I have always known those women would always be a very real and important presence in their lives.

What I did not realize is that I would spend so much time thinking about their birth mothers too.  So much so that it is not really a stretch to say that I feel like I too have a relationship with them, even if we have never met and are unlikely ever to do so.

I spend a lot of time sending thoughts and prayers through the universe, hoping that somehow my children's birth mothers will catch them and know that our kids are growing up healthy and strong. And once in a while, my thoughts seem to reach their intended destination, for I sometimes feel what I can only define as a presence. The strongest manifestation of this happened just after I dropped off my eldest for an overnight stay at a prospective college. Just as with any time my kids hit a major milestone, I sent a thought out to her birth mother.

About halfway home, I no longer felt alone in the car. Somehow, I felt like my daughter's birth mother was trying to tell me that we'd done it. Our girl was going to make it. That was all, but it was enough to make me cry. I turned off the radio to see if there was more. There wasn't.

"Shadow mothers" probably sounds ominous or sad, and maybe it is, but really, it's just how I've come to think of the women who brought my children into this world. They are here, with all of us, as much a part of our family as the members I can touch and see.

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Author's note: While searching Google Images to find the images that accompany this post, I learned of a book entitled Shadow Mothers. This post was developed independently of and well before that discovery, and in fact is about another topic entirely.  Also, I want to give credit where credit is due, but can find no attribution for the first image, which appears on numerous sites, as does the second, which I believe was taken by Ruth Malhotra. Whoever they may be, thanks to the photographers for their excellent work.