Never Done: I submitted all the adoption paperwork
This week's mide (middah) is Cleanliness: Let no stain or ugliness on our self/space. For the first part of the week I took it quite literally, making sure to shower even if I felt I didn't have the time, or if I was just home alone working, or if I didn't want to be cold when I got out. Also, I decided to clean up my attitude while doing house cleaning -- and it made a big difference for all concerned. But as the week progressed I started to think more metaphorically. In order to complete the adoption paperwork, I had to make a child care plan, which is to say I had to choose someone to be the child's parent if anything ever would happen to me or Josh.
It was quite easy to come up with a short list of people it felt OK to ask for something as significant as this -- proven parents, with space in their home, who would value keeping a young person connected to his/her cultural background. But upon reflection, I realized there was something else needed: we needed to have a clean relationship, and I needed to know that if we ever would get into a mess together, that we would all be equipped to clean it up. I am someone who rarely carries a grudge, and rarely even remembers the content of past conflict. I also don't have very many messy relationships, although I do have some, and most of them are with former lovers or former political colleagues. Not surprisingly, there are no former lovers on my short list, but there is one former political colleague, which in my mind speaks highly of that person and our friendship.
When I took my short list to Josh, he agreed 100% with my choices, which also speaks to the cleanliness of the relationships. And you know what else did? When I asked someone (actually, a couple) they answered in a most supportive, clear, uncomplicated, and yes, clean way. They said yes -- first that would like to be part of our planning in whatever way (if any) turns out to be most appropriate for everyone involved. And then they went on to make it clear that their saying yes was in no means a contract that would bind us forever, nor should we ever worry about hurting their feelings in our decision making.
This interaction let me understand that cleanliness is in the details of communication like this. It's like when you're cleaning the house -- if you do a really quick sweep, but you don't dust the house will stay clean for a day or two before the lingering dust will start to accumulate more dust. But if you take the time to dust the nooks and crannies and corners, then the house stays cleaner longer. Maybe this is a rushed and incomplete metaphor (I am writing while a friend is over and talking with Josh three feet from me) but please extrapolate in any way you think I want you to. Metaphors aside, what I am trying to say is that clean relationships are clean at all levels -- from the broad strokes to the small interactions, in the moment and over the years. And looking over my life, I am filled with pride and joy (actual pride and actual joy!) and gratitude that I have so many clean relationships and so few messy ones. Now, to start meditating on the messy ones, and what I did to create the mess, and what I might be able to do to clean them up.
Showing posts with label adoption. Show all posts
Showing posts with label adoption. Show all posts
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
I finally watched Battlestar Gallactica
Never Done: Watched Battlestar Gallactica, the miniseries
I might be late to the party, but that doesn't mean I'm not thoroughly obsessed with Starbuck. Why is she so cocky? Is she or isn't she (a dyke)? How the hell did her plane not break into bits when she flew it at full speed into Apollo's in order to save him? Or at least why didn't she get whiplash when she did it?
And why does she clash so much with Tigh? And what is his story, anyway? Why does he drink so much? What's up with his wife? Did Starbuck sleep with her or something?
And a million other things I don't understand. Is Earth real? If it is, is it still unpopulated? If the crew finds it, will they become Earth's first people? Is this all a creation myth?
Let me say right now, after having just watched the miniseries and nothing else, and having done a good job of not reading spoilers (with one exception about Sharon and adoption, but that was unintentional, and before I knew I would be hooked) ... so let me say right now, if this is all a creation myth, and at the end they find Earth and populate it for the first time, that is fracking brilliant.
I might be late to the party, but that doesn't mean I'm not thoroughly obsessed with Starbuck. Why is she so cocky? Is she or isn't she (a dyke)? How the hell did her plane not break into bits when she flew it at full speed into Apollo's in order to save him? Or at least why didn't she get whiplash when she did it?
And why does she clash so much with Tigh? And what is his story, anyway? Why does he drink so much? What's up with his wife? Did Starbuck sleep with her or something?
And a million other things I don't understand. Is Earth real? If it is, is it still unpopulated? If the crew finds it, will they become Earth's first people? Is this all a creation myth?
Let me say right now, after having just watched the miniseries and nothing else, and having done a good job of not reading spoilers (with one exception about Sharon and adoption, but that was unintentional, and before I knew I would be hooked) ... so let me say right now, if this is all a creation myth, and at the end they find Earth and populate it for the first time, that is fracking brilliant.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
I met L
Never Done: Met L
On the down side, Josh has been so sick with bronchitis that we had to miss his mom's 90th birthday party in Potomac. On the upside, we (mostly Josh) made her a super sweet art project, photographed it, and emailed it to Josh's niece-in-law along with a letter. The art project was a little mosaic of a duck with a green umbrella.
Here is the story of the duck: Josh's mom (Tsip) loved her first day of kindergarten because she learned how to draw a duck with a green umbrella. On the second day the teacher said, "Today we're going to play with blocks." Tsip raised her hand and said, "I don't want to play with blocks. I want to learn to draw!" But the teacher repeated, "Today we are going to play with blocks." So Tsip raised her hand again and asked to go to the bathroom. When she received permission, little Tsip walked right past the bathroom, and straight home. When the school called her mom in for a conference, they strongly suggested that Tsip wasn't mature enough to start school yet. So she got another year at home with her mom, during which time her mom taught her how to embroider and do other needle crafts.
She became a wonderful artist; she studied at the Art Students League after she got out of high school, and she went on to be a leading figure in the revived art of Jewish paper cut, and also a painter, stained glass, and mosaic artist. We had the idea for the duck mosaic before we knew we couldn't make it to her party, but once it fell through, it became a consolation for our absence.
Another consolation for our absence is that I was able to go to the teenager panel of our adoption classes. One of the ten mandatory classes is a panel of teens who are paid to be experts, and to tell us what it is like to live in the foster care system. The woman leading our sessions has been telling us about one child (L) who she thinks might be good for us, but she had told us she wouldn't be able to bring him to this panel, and in fact, he wasn't there when it started. But four of the teens I met the last time were there, and another seven I had never met. Most of these youth live in an LGBT group home, and ranged in ages from 15-19. I cannot tell you how smart these youth are. And funny. And honest. One of them said, "I hate to break it to you, but teenager fun isn't the same as adult fun. I mean, I'll take a walk in the park with you if you want, but I'm not gonna pretend it's fun!" Another one, when we were having a "boo in the room" conversation, after a prospective parent had said there is no way anybody is going to have anybody over in their room, said, "You know, we are all sexual beings. At least, I am. I am 17 years old, and I have a steady boo. And we are going to find somewhere to go. I would think you would rather we be safe, under your roof, than out in a club somewhere." What I loved most about that moment was that one of the parents looked at him, and said, "You know, you're right. That's a really persuasive argument." And just like that, the whole point of the panel was validated: we were there to learn from them.
It just so happens that this week's mide (middah) is Humility: Seek wisdom from everyone. (Yes, I completed my first cycle through all the mides (middot) and am back to the beginning again.) Not all the teens show their wisdom as easily as the boy I quoted above, but they were all consistently good at reminding us that humility would be a useful tool to being a good parent.
Once the panel was already underway, a beautiful, littler boy, all wrapped up in a down jacket, arrived and slouched into a seat near the door. Our group leader caught my eye and discreetly pointed to him, and mouthed his name. So this was the boy she has in mind for us. He barely said a word the whole time he was there, and when he did, he mumbled it, facing the other direction. I think our group leader has thought of him for us because he's out already at the age of thirteen, and she knows we would love to parent a younger LGBT child. I couldn't pick much of the personality she had described to me -- talkative, funny, and wry -- and yet, through his sullen presentation, I could see a glint in his eye, and a little wry smile. But afterwards, when he was talking with a girl (R) who lives with him at the RTC (residential treatment center, where these kids are essentially being "treated" for being homeless, but really, it's a new word for an orphanage -- a big institution where foster kids live) he was animated and engaged. I spoke with them both -- I remembered R, who I had liked a great deal the last time we met. She asked me if I was done with my classes yet, and I told her I was, but that I wasn't certified yet until I got a bigger apartment. She looked me in the eye and said, "Remember me." I told her I would.
Later, when I spoke with our group leader, she told me L has the flu, and that is why he was so quiet on the panel, and she also said that she knows someone who is probably taking R. I felt my heart sink a little -- I had remembered her very well, as a matter of fact, and had thought she might be my kid. But then the sinking was immediately replaced with delight that someone is stepping up to take her, and with the sudden understanding of what the leaders have been trying to teach us for months now: that it doesn't really matter which child you get. If what you want to be is a parent, then it's about your making an unconditional commitment to a child -- any child -- and it will be tough, and it will take patience, and that's what parenting is.
On the down side, Josh has been so sick with bronchitis that we had to miss his mom's 90th birthday party in Potomac. On the upside, we (mostly Josh) made her a super sweet art project, photographed it, and emailed it to Josh's niece-in-law along with a letter. The art project was a little mosaic of a duck with a green umbrella.
Here is the story of the duck: Josh's mom (Tsip) loved her first day of kindergarten because she learned how to draw a duck with a green umbrella. On the second day the teacher said, "Today we're going to play with blocks." Tsip raised her hand and said, "I don't want to play with blocks. I want to learn to draw!" But the teacher repeated, "Today we are going to play with blocks." So Tsip raised her hand again and asked to go to the bathroom. When she received permission, little Tsip walked right past the bathroom, and straight home. When the school called her mom in for a conference, they strongly suggested that Tsip wasn't mature enough to start school yet. So she got another year at home with her mom, during which time her mom taught her how to embroider and do other needle crafts.
She became a wonderful artist; she studied at the Art Students League after she got out of high school, and she went on to be a leading figure in the revived art of Jewish paper cut, and also a painter, stained glass, and mosaic artist. We had the idea for the duck mosaic before we knew we couldn't make it to her party, but once it fell through, it became a consolation for our absence.
Another consolation for our absence is that I was able to go to the teenager panel of our adoption classes. One of the ten mandatory classes is a panel of teens who are paid to be experts, and to tell us what it is like to live in the foster care system. The woman leading our sessions has been telling us about one child (L) who she thinks might be good for us, but she had told us she wouldn't be able to bring him to this panel, and in fact, he wasn't there when it started. But four of the teens I met the last time were there, and another seven I had never met. Most of these youth live in an LGBT group home, and ranged in ages from 15-19. I cannot tell you how smart these youth are. And funny. And honest. One of them said, "I hate to break it to you, but teenager fun isn't the same as adult fun. I mean, I'll take a walk in the park with you if you want, but I'm not gonna pretend it's fun!" Another one, when we were having a "boo in the room" conversation, after a prospective parent had said there is no way anybody is going to have anybody over in their room, said, "You know, we are all sexual beings. At least, I am. I am 17 years old, and I have a steady boo. And we are going to find somewhere to go. I would think you would rather we be safe, under your roof, than out in a club somewhere." What I loved most about that moment was that one of the parents looked at him, and said, "You know, you're right. That's a really persuasive argument." And just like that, the whole point of the panel was validated: we were there to learn from them.
It just so happens that this week's mide (middah) is Humility: Seek wisdom from everyone. (Yes, I completed my first cycle through all the mides (middot) and am back to the beginning again.) Not all the teens show their wisdom as easily as the boy I quoted above, but they were all consistently good at reminding us that humility would be a useful tool to being a good parent.
Once the panel was already underway, a beautiful, littler boy, all wrapped up in a down jacket, arrived and slouched into a seat near the door. Our group leader caught my eye and discreetly pointed to him, and mouthed his name. So this was the boy she has in mind for us. He barely said a word the whole time he was there, and when he did, he mumbled it, facing the other direction. I think our group leader has thought of him for us because he's out already at the age of thirteen, and she knows we would love to parent a younger LGBT child. I couldn't pick much of the personality she had described to me -- talkative, funny, and wry -- and yet, through his sullen presentation, I could see a glint in his eye, and a little wry smile. But afterwards, when he was talking with a girl (R) who lives with him at the RTC (residential treatment center, where these kids are essentially being "treated" for being homeless, but really, it's a new word for an orphanage -- a big institution where foster kids live) he was animated and engaged. I spoke with them both -- I remembered R, who I had liked a great deal the last time we met. She asked me if I was done with my classes yet, and I told her I was, but that I wasn't certified yet until I got a bigger apartment. She looked me in the eye and said, "Remember me." I told her I would.
Later, when I spoke with our group leader, she told me L has the flu, and that is why he was so quiet on the panel, and she also said that she knows someone who is probably taking R. I felt my heart sink a little -- I had remembered her very well, as a matter of fact, and had thought she might be my kid. But then the sinking was immediately replaced with delight that someone is stepping up to take her, and with the sudden understanding of what the leaders have been trying to teach us for months now: that it doesn't really matter which child you get. If what you want to be is a parent, then it's about your making an unconditional commitment to a child -- any child -- and it will be tough, and it will take patience, and that's what parenting is.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
I entered the New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest
Never Done: Entered the New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest
Never Done: Completed GPS/MAPP (Group Preparation and Selection/Model Approach to Partnerships in Parenting) class
One of my goals for this year is to be a finalist in the New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest. Since one of the most useful rules I've ever learned about writing comedy is that it's about quantity, not quality, I generated 10 potential captions, not worrying about whether or not they were funny, and then chose one direction, and worked at it until I couldn't figure out how to make it any funnier, and then took the plunge and submitted it.
I think what I submitted falls short, but a journey of a thousand miles ... you know. And also, there is something liberating about clicking on the "submit" button without worrying too much about the outcome. The stakes are low, another opportunity will come along next week, and perfection is not always the goal.
Meanwhile, speaking about perfection and the goal, I completed GPS/MAPP class -- and got a certificate and everything, with my names spelled wrong (Levinson) and everything. The organization that did the training -- You Gotta Believe! -- links to an Adopt US Kids ad campaign that says: "You don't need to be perfect to be a perfect parent. Because kids in foster care don't need perfection; they need you." So here I go, taking the final steps (finish writing the 20-page Family Information Form, get a bigger apartment) toward the bank of the river, so I can jump off and get swept downstream with all the other imperfect parents.
Never Done: Completed GPS/MAPP (Group Preparation and Selection/Model Approach to Partnerships in Parenting) class
One of my goals for this year is to be a finalist in the New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest. Since one of the most useful rules I've ever learned about writing comedy is that it's about quantity, not quality, I generated 10 potential captions, not worrying about whether or not they were funny, and then chose one direction, and worked at it until I couldn't figure out how to make it any funnier, and then took the plunge and submitted it.
I think what I submitted falls short, but a journey of a thousand miles ... you know. And also, there is something liberating about clicking on the "submit" button without worrying too much about the outcome. The stakes are low, another opportunity will come along next week, and perfection is not always the goal.
Meanwhile, speaking about perfection and the goal, I completed GPS/MAPP class -- and got a certificate and everything, with my names spelled wrong (Levinson) and everything. The organization that did the training -- You Gotta Believe! -- links to an Adopt US Kids ad campaign that says: "You don't need to be perfect to be a perfect parent. Because kids in foster care don't need perfection; they need you." So here I go, taking the final steps (finish writing the 20-page Family Information Form, get a bigger apartment) toward the bank of the river, so I can jump off and get swept downstream with all the other imperfect parents.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Catching up on bad 80's TV
Never Done: Watched Punky Brewster
I missed out on a lot of pop culture from my earnest college (and a bit beyond) years. If it happened between 1983 and 1988, and it wasn't either feminist, whole wheat, or anti-racist, I probably didn't notice it. The me I am now respects the me I was then, but also sort of wishes I had a little more fun. Thank god I found my way to Railroad Square Cinema, which truly saved me from sinking under the weight of my own gravity.
The me I am now has a lot of catching up to do, so every now and then I conjure up the ghost of pop culture's past, and take a little trip. And because I'm obsessed with adoption and fostering in pop culture right now, I thought it only fitting to finally watch Punky Brewster, which aired from 1984 til 1988, and which I never saw. (As you might imagine, I pronouncedly didn't even own a TV during those years.) The thing I found interesting about Punky is that under that terrible acting and laugh track, the show is actually emotionally accurate when it comes to depicting the inner life of an abandoned child. She is afraid (because her mother left her) that she is essentially unlovable, and many plots center around the way she tests her grouchy foster dad George to make sure he really wants her.
Despite the emotional verisimilitude, the show is still pretty much unwatchable, so if you're reading the blog for tips on cool ways to spend your time, I would say YES on the Russian baths, and PASS on the laugh tracks.
I missed out on a lot of pop culture from my earnest college (and a bit beyond) years. If it happened between 1983 and 1988, and it wasn't either feminist, whole wheat, or anti-racist, I probably didn't notice it. The me I am now respects the me I was then, but also sort of wishes I had a little more fun. Thank god I found my way to Railroad Square Cinema, which truly saved me from sinking under the weight of my own gravity.
The me I am now has a lot of catching up to do, so every now and then I conjure up the ghost of pop culture's past, and take a little trip. And because I'm obsessed with adoption and fostering in pop culture right now, I thought it only fitting to finally watch Punky Brewster, which aired from 1984 til 1988, and which I never saw. (As you might imagine, I pronouncedly didn't even own a TV during those years.) The thing I found interesting about Punky is that under that terrible acting and laugh track, the show is actually emotionally accurate when it comes to depicting the inner life of an abandoned child. She is afraid (because her mother left her) that she is essentially unlovable, and many plots center around the way she tests her grouchy foster dad George to make sure he really wants her.
Despite the emotional verisimilitude, the show is still pretty much unwatchable, so if you're reading the blog for tips on cool ways to spend your time, I would say YES on the Russian baths, and PASS on the laugh tracks.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Readier and readier
Never Done: Hosted a Living Room Adoption Film Festival
When I started Google searching films about adoption, the same ones kept popping up on the list: Secrets and Lies, My Own Private Idaho, Mommie Dearest. I adore the first two, and I've only ever seen clips from the third, but none of them was exactly what I was hoping to see at the festival. I wanted to see films that would scare me straight out of wanting to adopt a messed-up "older" child. I chose three.
Mother and Child: written and directed by the extremely talented Rodrigo Garcia, with an amazing cast (Annette Bening, Naomi Watts, Kerry Washington, Samuel L. Jackson, Jimmy Smits, Shareeka Epps, and Cherry Jones as a Catholic nun in an adoption agency) playing characters whose lives intersect, all around themes of parenthood and adoption.
Lost and Delirious: Canadian lesbian boarding school adoption genre piece, complete with pillow fights, spiked punch, Shakespeare quotes, fencing, falcon training, the wise Native American man, closeted lesbian teachers, and tragic lesbian suicide. One of the main characters was adopted, and struggles so much against abandonment that it ends up pushing her over the edge. I watched it thinking, "OK, so what if she was my kid? What would I want for her? What would I do for her?" Also, I was completely distracted throughout this entire film because the girl she is in love with is played by Jessica Paré -- who plays Megan Calvet, Don Draper's secretary turned fiancée on Mad Men.
Second Best: William Hurt plays a lonely village postal worker (in England) who fosters and then adopts a troubled 10-year-old boy who reveres his messed-up outlaw incarcerated birth father. This film was the most realistic, I believe, in terms of the process one goes through in order to foster then adopt. Starting with a home visit, and then weekend visits, and then fostering, and then adopting -- all while unilaterally deciding to parent this child through his outbursts, regression, and self-harm.
I loved watching these films in community, with Josh, Heath, Abigail, Alex, and Beatrice. They all (the films, not the friends) made me cry, and they all made me realize that I am growing readier and readier through this process of adoption preparation. Which is to say that when one of my friends said she was afraid that James (the boy in Second Best) was a ticking time bomb, I realized that I was not afraid that he was; I knew he was. I knew he was going to tick and go off many times before his adolescence was over, and that it was just what William Hurt was going to expect, and stay steady for. And by extension, it is just what I will need to expect and stay steady for.
When I started Google searching films about adoption, the same ones kept popping up on the list: Secrets and Lies, My Own Private Idaho, Mommie Dearest. I adore the first two, and I've only ever seen clips from the third, but none of them was exactly what I was hoping to see at the festival. I wanted to see films that would scare me straight out of wanting to adopt a messed-up "older" child. I chose three.
Mother and Child: written and directed by the extremely talented Rodrigo Garcia, with an amazing cast (Annette Bening, Naomi Watts, Kerry Washington, Samuel L. Jackson, Jimmy Smits, Shareeka Epps, and Cherry Jones as a Catholic nun in an adoption agency) playing characters whose lives intersect, all around themes of parenthood and adoption.
Lost and Delirious: Canadian lesbian boarding school adoption genre piece, complete with pillow fights, spiked punch, Shakespeare quotes, fencing, falcon training, the wise Native American man, closeted lesbian teachers, and tragic lesbian suicide. One of the main characters was adopted, and struggles so much against abandonment that it ends up pushing her over the edge. I watched it thinking, "OK, so what if she was my kid? What would I want for her? What would I do for her?" Also, I was completely distracted throughout this entire film because the girl she is in love with is played by Jessica Paré -- who plays Megan Calvet, Don Draper's secretary turned fiancée on Mad Men.
Second Best: William Hurt plays a lonely village postal worker (in England) who fosters and then adopts a troubled 10-year-old boy who reveres his messed-up outlaw incarcerated birth father. This film was the most realistic, I believe, in terms of the process one goes through in order to foster then adopt. Starting with a home visit, and then weekend visits, and then fostering, and then adopting -- all while unilaterally deciding to parent this child through his outbursts, regression, and self-harm.
I loved watching these films in community, with Josh, Heath, Abigail, Alex, and Beatrice. They all (the films, not the friends) made me cry, and they all made me realize that I am growing readier and readier through this process of adoption preparation. Which is to say that when one of my friends said she was afraid that James (the boy in Second Best) was a ticking time bomb, I realized that I was not afraid that he was; I knew he was. I knew he was going to tick and go off many times before his adolescence was over, and that it was just what William Hurt was going to expect, and stay steady for. And by extension, it is just what I will need to expect and stay steady for.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
You don't need references to get drunk and knocked up
Never Done: Asked for adoption references
I need four people to tell the bureaucrats of NYC that I would be a good parent. The reference form asks them to state that I have the following characteristics:
Moral character
Mature judgement
Ability to manage financial resources
Capacity to develop meaningful relationships with children
I feel pretty good about my prospects. I asked four people/couples yesterday, and three already said yes. I made a list (I swear I am not sucking up by saying this -- it is truly true) of the parents I most admire and have most learned from, and it was a long list, so I started winnowing it down with criteria like, do they have a four-week old infant? Yes? Then I won't ask them right now. Also, I chose one from New York, one from New England, one from Portland, and one from Chicago, which although it's not on my list of places I think about living, it is the United Airlines hub that gets me from one place to the other. Also, I asked one person who has known me my whole life, one person who has known me since I was a teenager, a couple who've known me for 20 years, and another who has known me for 15. Some are Jewish, some are not; some are Chicano/a, some are not; some are gay, some are not. I am so all about diversity, and I hope the state of New York appreciates that about me.
I am not particularly nervous to ask people to recommend me (I feel pretty confident about my capacity to develop meaningful relationships with children) but I do still find it strange that, as many people have pointed out, you don't need references to get drunk and knocked up. And you don't have to take classes if you're birthing your own babies. Not that I'm complaining. I am actually learning a ton in the classes, and I think the references will probably help my friends and family become even more invested in my choice. Hey wait, I bet the bureaucrats of NYC thought of that!
Sarcasm aside, I really appreciate that my friends and family are writing these recommendations for me, and I feel the process inching along, getting more real with every step.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Polar bear plunge
Never Done: Went to Inner City Hot Tubs at Common Ground, not inner city, and no longer at Common Ground
When I left Portland, I didn't really think I was leaving. I thought I was going to grad school, and then coming right back. Those of you who know me well know that I still feel like I'm coming right back, or that I should, or at least that I want to. But this isn't a post about that decision, which everyone has heard far too much about. I have been storing heavy items in good friends' basements and garages throughout Portland and Beaver Creek for 8 years (thank you Barbara & Peter, Carol, Diane, and Scott & Rupert for holding onto them for me for so long.) A good friend might be driving an empty truck cross country, so I decided it was time to get it all in the same place, in case the stars align for her to take it with her.
I looked up storage facilities in Portland, and found that in addition to the megaliths, that there are some local storage companies with great reviews. But it was New Year's weekend, and most of those places were home ringing in the new year. So I reserved a small (5x5) locker at Public Storage, for a hefty $72/month. When I mentioned this to Kathleen, she immediately offered that I could store all my stuff in her basement. "That's what basements are for!" she said. And it's true. When I had my basement, I had lots of people's stuff in it. So Josh and Kathleen and I spent the afternoon driving around Portland with borrowed cars (thanks Kathleen, Chris, and Scott) and collected my dad's wine press, the beautiful door that Eric and Stu made in the late 1980's, my compound miter saw and three-foot level, my antique Singer sewing machine, and a few other valuables, and we shlepped them down into Kathleen's basement, where they will now live, reunited, until I can get them. Kathleen gets extra credit for this, because not only did she give me this space, and not only did she loan me her car, but she walked away from the Red Zone, where she was watching 7 football games at once, to drive around and help me.
What do you do after you shlep cast iron equipment with no gloves in 28 degree weather? You go to the hot tubs. Jensi and Josh and I had planned to take a walk, but it was cold out, and I was underdressed, and I really wanted to get in a soak at my favorite old hippie hot tubs. So we called, got a time slot, and drove over. Only ... they weren't there. How can hot tubs move? Using our trusty iPhones, we uncovered the mystery of the missing moisture: they had moved to NE 33rd, near New Seasons, near the Kennedy School. So we crossed town and found them -- in what looks like an old medical building -- not as rustic or homey as the old place, and the Genesis Juice is pasteurized now and sold in plastic bottles instead of glass, but they still stock the showers with Dr. Bronner's peppermint soap, and it's still co-ed and clothing optional.
While we soaked, I mentioned that I had wanted to do a polar bear plunge this year, and that maybe this was the (second, after my ice water finger plunge) alternative -- hot water in outdoors in sub-freezing weather. Jensi had a different association with the polar bear club. She said it's the name of a group of people who search for their adoptive parents. Or maybe it's people who are searching for the children that they released for adoption. (I couldn't find it on a google search, so now I'm wondering if it's something different.) Either way, it made me think about the adoption process I'm going through now, and once again take some ethical comfort in the fact that when you adopt an older child, they have some agency in the process: they are usually not disconnected from their birth family or their culture of origin, and they can ultimately decide whether or not they want to be adopted by you. I also thought about how people say that you don't pick your kid, that your kid picks you. As I sat there in the hot water, looking up at the stars, as the year turned new, I thought about the plunge I am taking, and who is going to pick me, and when.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Loop, Whorl and Arch
Never Done: Got fingerprinted
I must have been fingerprinted before -- maybe in high school while studying forensics? Did we study forensics in high school? Do I remember anything we learned in high school? But I digress. And so quickly after starting this post! It was definitely the first time I had prints taken electronically, and I think it was the first time I had them taken outside of the classroom. Although I was arrested in college, and charged with illegal sale of alcohol to minors, but I wasn't printed. (It's a long story, and one that seems like it should be told in relation to another Never Done activity, not this one. If we get to the end of the project and I still haven't written about it, someone should remind me and I'll do it then.) Also, another digression: how can I write a post about fingerprinting without mentioning that my bestest friend in Portland is a fingerprint ID tech for the Police bureau. She's also a wonderful artist and crafts person who doesn't feel very bonded, shall we say, with the Portland Police bureau, and doesn't always like to say where she works. So I always encourage her to say she's a print maker. It's not a lie.
So I was fingerprinted. Electronically. For the adoption process. At a place called, ridiculously, L-1 Identity Solutions. Doesn't that sound like it's straight out of a Robert Ludlum novel? Their website says "With the trust and confidence in individual identities provided by L-1, governments and businesses around the world are better protecting the public against terrorism, crime, and theft fostered by fraudulent ID." Great. Just great. I do understand why New York State wants to find out if I have a criminal record, if they re going to entrust a child to me, and I can scarcely imagine another bureaucratic situation in which I'd feel as relaxed and positive about getting fingerprinted.
But here's the thing. It wasn't all positive. Josh and I arrived at 9:30, when we had an appointment, and were greeted by a smiling young black woman. Before she got a chance to ask us anything, her boss (a white guy) asked us our last names, and when he didn't find us in the computer, he asked us if we were being printed with ink or electronically. We had no idea, so he asked to see our paperwork. We showed it to him, and he still couldn't find us in the computer, but could see that we needed electronic printing, and told us to go sit in a row of chairs. We went over, and I smiled and said good morning to an Asian woman who was sitting there waiting. (In case you are wondering, there is a reason I am identifying everyone by race.) Within 30 seconds -- literally before I had a chance to sit down, he called us over to get printed. First me, and then Josh -- with two different women -- a Latina and an African American. He told me to sit down and pointed to a chair at a desk, so I sat there. When the woman came over to print me, she asked me to move to the other chair -- I was in hers. I apologized as I moved, and she said kindly, "It's just a chair." My printing went mostly fine. The machine kept rejecting my prints, and she had to press my fingers down harder on the glass before the machine would accept them. But she got them all, handed me a receipt, and told me that was all.
But I was holding two forms that needed the signature and date of the person who printed me, and so I handed them to her, and asked her to sign them. She froze, and again showed me the receipt, and told me it was all I needed. By now, I'd seen her boss blustering around the office, annoyed and everywhere. Most noticeably, I had heard him yelling at the Asian woman who was waiting when we arrived. "Your name is not in the computer. Do you understand me? Am I not clear?" "Yes, she replied." "You don't have to talk loud just because your name is not in the computer!" In case you were wondering, he was the one talking loud. And also, remember how he treated me and Josh when we weren't in the computer? "Come on in! Have a chair! We'll be right with you!"
So when my fingerprinter told me I needed to ask him about the form, I imagined it was going to cause another blustery show. But instead, he looked at the form, and told her that yes, this was a new thing they had to do, and to please sign it.
Just then, 18 (I counted) Asian people came in. The boss got agitated started telling people to be orderly, get in line, and wait their turn. (They were actually already doing all those things.) And then he turned to me with a big smile and said, "You got here just in time." I felt pulled in two distinct directions. I wanted to leave, to get the hell away from him, to get on with my day, and to get back to work, because that is after all why I had scheduled the earliest possible appointment. At the same time, I wanted to stay, to try to be a more positive force for this group of people who I expected were about to have a much less welcoming experience than I had just had. And this, I believe is, the heart of the Mussar practice -- how do we balance out conflicting concerns? Our material concerns (get to work) with our spiritual concerns (care for others, interrupt racism)? The yetzer hore vs the yetzer tov. How often do we stop to notice these conflicting concerns? Sometimes it's super complicated to figure out, but in this situation, it didn't take me long to notice that I was probably not the best person for the job -- that there were three kind women of color who worked there, who were already treating this group of people thoughtfully and professionally. In fact, things would probably go quite weirdly if I would stick around once my appointment was over. So I gathered up my papers, and my two forms of ID, and my big down coat, and I thanked my printer, and I excused myself for breaking through the line, and I left Identity Solutions, with a little bit more trust and confidence in my own individual identity than I had going in.
And one step further through the adoption process (yet still pretty close to the beginning.)
I must have been fingerprinted before -- maybe in high school while studying forensics? Did we study forensics in high school? Do I remember anything we learned in high school? But I digress. And so quickly after starting this post! It was definitely the first time I had prints taken electronically, and I think it was the first time I had them taken outside of the classroom. Although I was arrested in college, and charged with illegal sale of alcohol to minors, but I wasn't printed. (It's a long story, and one that seems like it should be told in relation to another Never Done activity, not this one. If we get to the end of the project and I still haven't written about it, someone should remind me and I'll do it then.) Also, another digression: how can I write a post about fingerprinting without mentioning that my bestest friend in Portland is a fingerprint ID tech for the Police bureau. She's also a wonderful artist and crafts person who doesn't feel very bonded, shall we say, with the Portland Police bureau, and doesn't always like to say where she works. So I always encourage her to say she's a print maker. It's not a lie.
So I was fingerprinted. Electronically. For the adoption process. At a place called, ridiculously, L-1 Identity Solutions. Doesn't that sound like it's straight out of a Robert Ludlum novel? Their website says "With the trust and confidence in individual identities provided by L-1, governments and businesses around the world are better protecting the public against terrorism, crime, and theft fostered by fraudulent ID." Great. Just great. I do understand why New York State wants to find out if I have a criminal record, if they re going to entrust a child to me, and I can scarcely imagine another bureaucratic situation in which I'd feel as relaxed and positive about getting fingerprinted.
But here's the thing. It wasn't all positive. Josh and I arrived at 9:30, when we had an appointment, and were greeted by a smiling young black woman. Before she got a chance to ask us anything, her boss (a white guy) asked us our last names, and when he didn't find us in the computer, he asked us if we were being printed with ink or electronically. We had no idea, so he asked to see our paperwork. We showed it to him, and he still couldn't find us in the computer, but could see that we needed electronic printing, and told us to go sit in a row of chairs. We went over, and I smiled and said good morning to an Asian woman who was sitting there waiting. (In case you are wondering, there is a reason I am identifying everyone by race.) Within 30 seconds -- literally before I had a chance to sit down, he called us over to get printed. First me, and then Josh -- with two different women -- a Latina and an African American. He told me to sit down and pointed to a chair at a desk, so I sat there. When the woman came over to print me, she asked me to move to the other chair -- I was in hers. I apologized as I moved, and she said kindly, "It's just a chair." My printing went mostly fine. The machine kept rejecting my prints, and she had to press my fingers down harder on the glass before the machine would accept them. But she got them all, handed me a receipt, and told me that was all.
But I was holding two forms that needed the signature and date of the person who printed me, and so I handed them to her, and asked her to sign them. She froze, and again showed me the receipt, and told me it was all I needed. By now, I'd seen her boss blustering around the office, annoyed and everywhere. Most noticeably, I had heard him yelling at the Asian woman who was waiting when we arrived. "Your name is not in the computer. Do you understand me? Am I not clear?" "Yes, she replied." "You don't have to talk loud just because your name is not in the computer!" In case you were wondering, he was the one talking loud. And also, remember how he treated me and Josh when we weren't in the computer? "Come on in! Have a chair! We'll be right with you!"
So when my fingerprinter told me I needed to ask him about the form, I imagined it was going to cause another blustery show. But instead, he looked at the form, and told her that yes, this was a new thing they had to do, and to please sign it.
Just then, 18 (I counted) Asian people came in. The boss got agitated started telling people to be orderly, get in line, and wait their turn. (They were actually already doing all those things.) And then he turned to me with a big smile and said, "You got here just in time." I felt pulled in two distinct directions. I wanted to leave, to get the hell away from him, to get on with my day, and to get back to work, because that is after all why I had scheduled the earliest possible appointment. At the same time, I wanted to stay, to try to be a more positive force for this group of people who I expected were about to have a much less welcoming experience than I had just had. And this, I believe is, the heart of the Mussar practice -- how do we balance out conflicting concerns? Our material concerns (get to work) with our spiritual concerns (care for others, interrupt racism)? The yetzer hore vs the yetzer tov. How often do we stop to notice these conflicting concerns? Sometimes it's super complicated to figure out, but in this situation, it didn't take me long to notice that I was probably not the best person for the job -- that there were three kind women of color who worked there, who were already treating this group of people thoughtfully and professionally. In fact, things would probably go quite weirdly if I would stick around once my appointment was over. So I gathered up my papers, and my two forms of ID, and my big down coat, and I thanked my printer, and I excused myself for breaking through the line, and I left Identity Solutions, with a little bit more trust and confidence in my own individual identity than I had going in.
And one step further through the adoption process (yet still pretty close to the beginning.)
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
It takes time to make a family
Never Done: Applied for a replacement Social Security card
One of the things I really really really don't like about living in New York is dealing with New York bureaucracy. So it was with great trepidation that I went to the Social Security Bureau to apply for a replacement card. First thing I encountered was a metal detector, three security guards, and a woman going off. "Fuck you! I'm not taking off my fucking jacket? Why the fuck ... you mother fuckers! I have a right to wear my jacket into the building!" She tried to go through the detector without taking off her jacket, and one of the guys had to restrain her. Her limbs flailed like she was a three-year-old in a tantrum, and she tore at the buttons on her jacket, ripped it off, flung it on the conveyor belt, screamed a few more swears, and practically ran through the metal detector. When it didn't go off, she turned and swore some more, as if not setting off the metal detector was some proof that she should have been able to wear her jacket. Throughout this all, the three guards kept their cool, and I became incredibly subdued.
I found myself redefining myself in contrast to that woman. I became a very good girl (and I use the word girl purposefully here.) "Do you want me to take off my sweater?" "Yes sir." "Thank you." I wanted to make those guards' jobs easier. I also wanted to take the whole scene down a notch. When I finally made it through, and got on the elevator to go up to the social security office, I realized I had instantly reverted into my childhood modus operandi: I will make everything better by becoming good. By becoming a blank slate. No feelings. No needs.
Except that of course I did have feelings and needs -- both growing up, and also in the line to get into the social security building. But the woman had so completely redefined me that I didn't notice that until many hours later, after I had already smiled obsequiously at the guard handing out the tickets I needed to get in line, and waited for 15 minutes waiting for an agent to take my paperwork, eating my sandwich while silently worrying that it might be against the rules to eat my sandwich, or that it might be bothering someone that I was eating my sandwich. Bothering someone? The guy behind me was playing a video game with the speakers full on, and I was afraid someone might not like the smell of cucumbers and oat bread? The woman who took my paperwork laughed with her co-worker the whole time she did my paperwork, while only saying the bare minimum to me in the ten minutes we spent together: "Receipt, form, and ID." "Two weeks in the mail." I smiled, thanked her, and told her I hoped she had a good long weekend. I was so grateful that she was not a bureaucratic jerk to me that I didn't notice until later that she was basically a bureaucratic jerk to me.
Where do I go? How do I become so concerned with making everything run smoothly that I erase myself? It's not like I was in the Social Security office to get my emotional needs met, but really? I was so eclipsed that I was afraid my sandwich would be a bother? It seems poetic that this happened in the office of the institution that literally reduces us to a nine-digit number, but the truth is, this can happen to me anywhere. And the other truth is, if I haven't kicked it by now, it's gonna take something pretty huge to help me kick it. And guess why I was in line for a replacement card? For my adoption application. Wah wah wah. (That was a "something pretty huge" sound effect.)
Nobody kicks your shit like a kid kicks your shit. And from what I hear, no kid kicks it like a teenager kicks it. And from what I hear, no teen kicks it like an adopted teen kicks it. If this all works out and I do get to adopt an older child, one of my jobs is going to be to teach them how to take up space in the world. One of their jobs is going to be to find my weak spots and push push push. One of my jobs is going to be to hold my ground and provide boundaries for them. One of their jobs is going to be to find my weak spots and push push push. One of my jobs is going to be to balance my needs against the needs of the whole family. One of their jobs is going to be to find my weak spots and push push push.
On the way to get my replacement Social Security card, I spoke on the phone with the woman who leads my adoption prep classes. I told her where I was going, and that I was about to fill in all the paperwork. She reminded me not to rush -- that it takes time to build a family. When she said it, I thought that made sense, but in a sort of theoretical way. But the fact is, every step I take in the process teaches me something that I am going to need to know in order to be a good parent. I never thought I'd say this, but thank you, New York bureaucracy, for teaching me to be a better parent.
One of the things I really really really don't like about living in New York is dealing with New York bureaucracy. So it was with great trepidation that I went to the Social Security Bureau to apply for a replacement card. First thing I encountered was a metal detector, three security guards, and a woman going off. "Fuck you! I'm not taking off my fucking jacket? Why the fuck ... you mother fuckers! I have a right to wear my jacket into the building!" She tried to go through the detector without taking off her jacket, and one of the guys had to restrain her. Her limbs flailed like she was a three-year-old in a tantrum, and she tore at the buttons on her jacket, ripped it off, flung it on the conveyor belt, screamed a few more swears, and practically ran through the metal detector. When it didn't go off, she turned and swore some more, as if not setting off the metal detector was some proof that she should have been able to wear her jacket. Throughout this all, the three guards kept their cool, and I became incredibly subdued.
I found myself redefining myself in contrast to that woman. I became a very good girl (and I use the word girl purposefully here.) "Do you want me to take off my sweater?" "Yes sir." "Thank you." I wanted to make those guards' jobs easier. I also wanted to take the whole scene down a notch. When I finally made it through, and got on the elevator to go up to the social security office, I realized I had instantly reverted into my childhood modus operandi: I will make everything better by becoming good. By becoming a blank slate. No feelings. No needs.
Except that of course I did have feelings and needs -- both growing up, and also in the line to get into the social security building. But the woman had so completely redefined me that I didn't notice that until many hours later, after I had already smiled obsequiously at the guard handing out the tickets I needed to get in line, and waited for 15 minutes waiting for an agent to take my paperwork, eating my sandwich while silently worrying that it might be against the rules to eat my sandwich, or that it might be bothering someone that I was eating my sandwich. Bothering someone? The guy behind me was playing a video game with the speakers full on, and I was afraid someone might not like the smell of cucumbers and oat bread? The woman who took my paperwork laughed with her co-worker the whole time she did my paperwork, while only saying the bare minimum to me in the ten minutes we spent together: "Receipt, form, and ID." "Two weeks in the mail." I smiled, thanked her, and told her I hoped she had a good long weekend. I was so grateful that she was not a bureaucratic jerk to me that I didn't notice until later that she was basically a bureaucratic jerk to me.
Where do I go? How do I become so concerned with making everything run smoothly that I erase myself? It's not like I was in the Social Security office to get my emotional needs met, but really? I was so eclipsed that I was afraid my sandwich would be a bother? It seems poetic that this happened in the office of the institution that literally reduces us to a nine-digit number, but the truth is, this can happen to me anywhere. And the other truth is, if I haven't kicked it by now, it's gonna take something pretty huge to help me kick it. And guess why I was in line for a replacement card? For my adoption application. Wah wah wah. (That was a "something pretty huge" sound effect.)
Nobody kicks your shit like a kid kicks your shit. And from what I hear, no kid kicks it like a teenager kicks it. And from what I hear, no teen kicks it like an adopted teen kicks it. If this all works out and I do get to adopt an older child, one of my jobs is going to be to teach them how to take up space in the world. One of their jobs is going to be to find my weak spots and push push push. One of my jobs is going to be to hold my ground and provide boundaries for them. One of their jobs is going to be to find my weak spots and push push push. One of my jobs is going to be to balance my needs against the needs of the whole family. One of their jobs is going to be to find my weak spots and push push push.
On the way to get my replacement Social Security card, I spoke on the phone with the woman who leads my adoption prep classes. I told her where I was going, and that I was about to fill in all the paperwork. She reminded me not to rush -- that it takes time to build a family. When she said it, I thought that made sense, but in a sort of theoretical way. But the fact is, every step I take in the process teaches me something that I am going to need to know in order to be a good parent. I never thought I'd say this, but thank you, New York bureaucracy, for teaching me to be a better parent.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Seek wisdom from everyone
Never Done: Attend first adoption preparation class
As I have previously written, in order to become an adoptive parent, you have to take Group Preparation and Selection (GPS)/Model Approach to Partnerships in Parenting (MAPP) training for prospective foster and adoptive parents. It's a series of 10 classes, offered in a continuous loop -- you can jump in any time. As it happened, Josh and I jumped in on the most intense and real of all classes -- the youth panel, where 10 young people, ranging from ages 14 to 19, all hoping for adoption placements, talk to a group of prospective placements. We went to the LGBT Center, because I thought I'd be more comfortable being myself with the agency people there than in a straight group. It was the right choice -- the prospective parents ranged from a gay male couple, to two single lesbians, to five straight couples, to me and Josh. At least one of the women leading the training was queer, and at least 4 of the youth present were, as well. In fact, the only discomfort I felt all day long was when someone asked the youth if they had a preference about their parents' sexual orientation or race, and one of them said that they didn't care, but if it was two men, they didn't want to see them kissing and stuff in public. I felt the air sucked out of the room. Here we were at the Center, and there was a gay male couple sitting right there. There was a lot of jovial concurrence among the youth, until I jumped in with a question: "Do you feel that way about any parents? Or just gay parents?" And then it came out that all of them felt that way about any parents. "What you do is what you do, but we don't want to have to see it." Ahhh, and the air started filling the room back up.
For three hours, the facilitator asked the teenagers questions, and we asked each other questions. My mide (the Yiddish word for the Hebrew word middah, or character trait) that the Mussar Va'ad is going to focus on this week is Humility -- seek wisdom from everyone. With that awareness, I listened even more attentively than I might have.
Here's what I learned. Not one of these particular teens cared what the race or sexual orientation of their parents would be. But they don't want old parents. "That's when they get cranky." They want respect. Patience. Honesty. Parents who would give their all, and not give up. They want people to choose adopting because they want to, not because of some sense of charity. They want to be given limits -- the younger children asked for curfews -- and thoughtful discipline. One girl asked the mothers in the room if we would want mother-daughter days to go get our nails done, or to go shopping. The older ones made it clear that they are used to being on their own -- but that they need support to become successful adults. Most of them want to be free to go "out" and not to tell us where "out" is. This got the biggest push back from the prospective parents in the room. Later, one girl told me one on one, "You know, when kids say they are going out, they are smoking. Just so you know." This same girl had told us earlier that she wants to be a rapper, and if that doesn't work out, a social worker, which made most of the adults in the room laugh. But as I thought about it, I realized that's really very close to how I have lived my life -- going between social work, organizing work, and being an artist. So I fought the urge to laugh, and re-dedicated myself to listen even more carefully, and to learn from everyone in the room. Humility.
As I have previously written, in order to become an adoptive parent, you have to take Group Preparation and Selection (GPS)/Model Approach to Partnerships in Parenting (MAPP) training for prospective foster and adoptive parents. It's a series of 10 classes, offered in a continuous loop -- you can jump in any time. As it happened, Josh and I jumped in on the most intense and real of all classes -- the youth panel, where 10 young people, ranging from ages 14 to 19, all hoping for adoption placements, talk to a group of prospective placements. We went to the LGBT Center, because I thought I'd be more comfortable being myself with the agency people there than in a straight group. It was the right choice -- the prospective parents ranged from a gay male couple, to two single lesbians, to five straight couples, to me and Josh. At least one of the women leading the training was queer, and at least 4 of the youth present were, as well. In fact, the only discomfort I felt all day long was when someone asked the youth if they had a preference about their parents' sexual orientation or race, and one of them said that they didn't care, but if it was two men, they didn't want to see them kissing and stuff in public. I felt the air sucked out of the room. Here we were at the Center, and there was a gay male couple sitting right there. There was a lot of jovial concurrence among the youth, until I jumped in with a question: "Do you feel that way about any parents? Or just gay parents?" And then it came out that all of them felt that way about any parents. "What you do is what you do, but we don't want to have to see it." Ahhh, and the air started filling the room back up.
For three hours, the facilitator asked the teenagers questions, and we asked each other questions. My mide (the Yiddish word for the Hebrew word middah, or character trait) that the Mussar Va'ad is going to focus on this week is Humility -- seek wisdom from everyone. With that awareness, I listened even more attentively than I might have.
Here's what I learned. Not one of these particular teens cared what the race or sexual orientation of their parents would be. But they don't want old parents. "That's when they get cranky." They want respect. Patience. Honesty. Parents who would give their all, and not give up. They want people to choose adopting because they want to, not because of some sense of charity. They want to be given limits -- the younger children asked for curfews -- and thoughtful discipline. One girl asked the mothers in the room if we would want mother-daughter days to go get our nails done, or to go shopping. The older ones made it clear that they are used to being on their own -- but that they need support to become successful adults. Most of them want to be free to go "out" and not to tell us where "out" is. This got the biggest push back from the prospective parents in the room. Later, one girl told me one on one, "You know, when kids say they are going out, they are smoking. Just so you know." This same girl had told us earlier that she wants to be a rapper, and if that doesn't work out, a social worker, which made most of the adults in the room laugh. But as I thought about it, I realized that's really very close to how I have lived my life -- going between social work, organizing work, and being an artist. So I fought the urge to laugh, and re-dedicated myself to listen even more carefully, and to learn from everyone in the room. Humility.
Friday, October 22, 2010
You Gotta Believe!
Never done: Spoke with an adoption agency. This is a big one. I knew when I started this project that some days would feel insignificant and some days would rock my world. Well, rock on. I had a long talk with Mary Keane, from You Gotta Believe! which is a program (let's not talk about that strange name, which sounds like it's a booster for the World Series underdogs) for older child adoption in New York City. Over the past year I've called literally every adoption agency in the city, and received not one, not two, but NO return phone calls. It finally dawned on me to call the LGBT center, and ask them if they could be a resource. Terry Boggis called me back immediately, and has started to reach out on my behalf. She also recommended that I start going to GPS/MAPP classes. (GPS/MAPP stands for Group Preparation and Selection/Model Approaches to Partnerships in Parenting.)
So I called Mary, who leads the class at the Center, to tell her I would start going in early November, and we had a big full conversation. I always thought I would adopt. I grew up across the street from my (now) oldest friend, who is the only biological child in a family of four children -- her three younger siblings are adopted. They were all adopted as infants, and I think I imagined that's what I would do as well, but I've gotten to 47 without doing it, and my partner is 62, and so it's started to make more and more sense to consider adopting an older child.
I hear it already. "It's so hard." "Once they're that long in the system, they can't learn to trust." And yeah -- these are my exact fears too. But should the thousands of kids who are waiting for families never get them because potential parents think it will be hard. Well, it *will* be hard. Parenting is hard. I don't expect to go into this blindly -- or to pretend that I have no limits on what I am capable of. On the contrary, I know that there are certain things I can handle as a parent, and certain things I can't. (And hopefully the GPS/MAPP classes will challenge me on what I "know.") Isn't this a wonderful example of how to balance out the needs of the self versus the needs of the other? There it is again, the heart of Mussar practice.
Here's what I believe: I believe that every person is capable of learning to trust, no matter how badly trust has been broken in the past. I don't think it's always possible -- or useful -- to rebuild trust with the person who broke it. But I do think it's possible for a person who has been very, very hurt to heal. Repair. Tshuve.
So I called Mary, who leads the class at the Center, to tell her I would start going in early November, and we had a big full conversation. I always thought I would adopt. I grew up across the street from my (now) oldest friend, who is the only biological child in a family of four children -- her three younger siblings are adopted. They were all adopted as infants, and I think I imagined that's what I would do as well, but I've gotten to 47 without doing it, and my partner is 62, and so it's started to make more and more sense to consider adopting an older child.
I hear it already. "It's so hard." "Once they're that long in the system, they can't learn to trust." And yeah -- these are my exact fears too. But should the thousands of kids who are waiting for families never get them because potential parents think it will be hard. Well, it *will* be hard. Parenting is hard. I don't expect to go into this blindly -- or to pretend that I have no limits on what I am capable of. On the contrary, I know that there are certain things I can handle as a parent, and certain things I can't. (And hopefully the GPS/MAPP classes will challenge me on what I "know.") Isn't this a wonderful example of how to balance out the needs of the self versus the needs of the other? There it is again, the heart of Mussar practice.
Here's what I believe: I believe that every person is capable of learning to trust, no matter how badly trust has been broken in the past. I don't think it's always possible -- or useful -- to rebuild trust with the person who broke it. But I do think it's possible for a person who has been very, very hurt to heal. Repair. Tshuve.
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