The Most Important Election of My Lifetime

 It is the day before Halloween. The day before my brother was born 45 years ago.

My heart goes to the excited place of "hosting our annual firepit in the driveway for all the trick or treaters and with our neighbors." And it also goes to the negative stuff, or the sad stuff: 

My dad died on All Saints Day, Nov 1. 

Our good friend died a few months later, of a terrible, brain-eating disease that took her so young.

And, well, it's Oct 30, 2024. Need I say more?

Never before have we as a nation faced a more important election than the one before us now. God help us if that felon becomes our next president, but, I'm firmly rooted in my deep belief that Kamala Harris will prevail and, literally, save us all and our country. 

May God Bless America. 

And may the next week pass as peacefully, quickly, and decisively as possible, because I am at my wit's end with all this ridiculousness. My nerves can't handle this.

Labor Day

You guys: I GOT HONORABLE MENTION in this writing contest! #12 out of thousands of submittals! WOW!

In October 2021, I entered the 250-word Microfiction Challenge sponsored by New York City Midnight. It was a fantastically fun experience--thousands entered--and get this: I got honorable mention! Just found out today (Dec 16)! 

I was selected as #12 out of thousands of entries. I'm thrilled, proud, and inspired to continue writing more! I definitely didn't think I'd even get this far. This is the end for me, for this challenge. I didn't win any money, and I don't "move on to the next bracket." 

BUT this was a game-changer for this writer, reminding me that I am a good writer and that I should KEEP GOING and continue writing down my life, sharing my stories, baring my creative soul. ;)

 I was assigned the category of drama (how perfect; too bad there wasn't a category called melodrama b/c I'd be all over that). I had to use the phrase/action of "circling a date on a calendar" at least once. It could only be 250 words. I was given the prompt at 8 pm and had until midnight to write it and submit it. Top prize was $6,500! They award prizes to the top 10. I got #12. Oh, well. 

BIG VICTORY for this writer. I am on cloud nine! 

And now, here's the story I wrote that, in my world, "won." See my endnote after the story. I don't want to tell you until after you read the story (but you'll probably figure it out anyway).

Alternative Title: Still, Born

(I couldn't decide so I went with "Labor Day"!)

*******************************

Labor Day 

Like, HONESTLY? Nora thought, souring at the memory as she circled the date on the calendar.

August 31.

Labor Day?

THAT had to be the day she delivered her stillborn son? She let fly a few cuss words. Capped the marker and tossed it on the table.

Memories came tumbling at her like they always did. Fast. Unforgiving.

Years of infertility then SHAZAM the IVF works then SHAZAM her water breaks too early and it lands her in the freaking mother-baby ward for a week listening to the happy coos of new families while she lays there sobbing, begging the universe to save her baby then SHAZAM baby comes too soon and too small, still as the water on a windless lake.

Stillborn.

But still, he was born. That is worthy of remembering.

In the cruel first light of Labor Day, she and Mike held little Chris, already gone, as they said hello and good-bye in a single breath. Then, they had to sit there while that cocksucker of an Irish-brogue-talking priest “counseled” them: “This is God’s will; He never meant for your baby to live.”
Um. Okay.

Nora thinks of Chris every day. Her son Malcolm knows he has a big brother.

Those 2 would have made quite the pair.

Every year, on this pathetically ironic day, they honor Chris. They circle the date, celebrate his life.

And she silently tries to forget, even while she desperately wants to remember. It’s so confusing.

“LABOR Day,” she sputtered. “Right.”

*************************************************

ENDNOTE: Yes, although this is crafted as "fiction" this story IS about me. Nora is me [named myself after my great-grandmother who I'm currently writing some creative nonfiction about]. Mike is my husband Jeff [named after the real Nora's husband, Michael Durkin, who I'm also writing a book about]. Chris is my stillborn child, Christopher, forever in my heart. And Malcolm is of course my amazing son Matthew.

Breaking Branches and Chasing Beautiful Things

I spent today breaking up branches and chasing beautiful things.

It's been a day. 

I felt the need to be outside a LOT today. So Matthew and I took the dog for a walk, and then we came back and I stayed outside. It was bright and sunny, but cold as can be. One of my very favorite kinds of days. Where the air is crisp, but you're glad to have your warm coat and comfy hat to make it bearable to be out there, witnessing God's beauty and enjoying Mother Nature's blessings.

I began breaking up the long sticks that I had placed into a huge pile weeks and weeks earlier. I had music playing on my phone as I broke up the sticks so that they could fit better into my Yard Waste bin and so that recycling would actually take it.

As I broke, stepped on, snapped in half, and (sometimes) cut with clippers these long, dead, thorny branches long ago sapped of life, I realized that I was beginning to enjoy myself. It was good to do something so physical with my hands that didn't involve the tap-tapping of my fingers on the keyboard or the clicking of my mouse. It felt good to be physically active and to be breaking these branches, these thorns that made me wear gardening gloves in order to protect my skin from scratches. It felt so cathartic to be reaching in and smooshing down all those branches. It felt great when I stepped inside the bin and firmly jumped on all those dead branches and thorns. It was a fully immersive experience in nothing but the present moment--and, these days, I've not been there much (the present). 

I've spent my days glued to the TV screen and the computer monitor and my phone, reading news article after news article that carefully picks apart what happened. 

I've spent my days transporting myself back to that awful day, a few days ago, on Wednesday, January 6, the day that rioters and insurrectionists (domestic terrorists)--bent on destroying our democracy and hurting, even murdering, people--descended upon our "bright shining city on the hill" and lawlessly and violently defaced the Capitol building that is our country's cherished treasure, a place that is the physical face and activity center of the very democracy that these terrorists tried unsuccessfully to destroy.

I began to think about the thorns and the sticks and the dead things I was breaking up. I likened the thorns to those crazy people who stormed our Capitol. I likened the dead branches to their cold, lifeless hearts who didn't care WHO they hurt as long as they got their message across. 

Then Became the Magnolia

Then Became the Magnolia

by Kathleen Kelly Halverson, 3/31/2020

                           Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

I walked by it,

inhaling its evolution,

for over a week,

day after day -- and each time,

it changed and called to me.

Impossible to ignore, it was.

And so

I slowed my pace and began to pay

attention, to watch the evolving birth of 

this incredible being.

I watched as it began--

first with buds that were barely an appendage,

clinging to sweetest stem,

breathing and dripping with opposing

forces of hope, promise, innocence,

boldness, and intention. Forces that

merged and married in a way that almost

didn't make sense. It was intoxicating to

witness.

It's a being that starts small, with seed

and sapling. A newly planted spirit

whose nimble limbs move WITH the 

wind, refusing to fight and showing the

world not a lick of fear or uncertainty but

rather intentionality and every bit of

beauty--limbs that bend without fear of

breaking and whose strength lies quietly

unnoticed but ever present, in rich soil

and deeply and lovingly planted roots

and whose form, soon enough, morphs

into something magnificent.

I continued my walks.

First, it boasted buds that were tightly

bound to stem, akin to a womb-enshrined infant

still soundly sleeping, firmly attached to a mother--a being with

humblest beginnings but one that would

soon have sweeping and strong life

stories in full technicolor, 

and bold and beautiful endings.

As the days passed, the buds folded ever-so-slowly open,

more and more with each passing day--

giving the world a hint of the wonder that was to come 

from this being.

And then.

Today, it happened.

The babies yawned and stretched

and opened and smiled at spring

and decided, "It's time."

And after that delicious sleep and after

saving their strength for this day of great reveal,

they finally unfolded completely.

Flaunted their fuschia hues

and not-so-why peeks of purple and white.

Unrolled and shook out all of their soft,

folded-over edges, translucent petals

showing their innocent faces

to the world for the very first time.

Yawning their now full-on blossoms up

to the sky, they were velvet-lined vessels

inviting the world to drink of their display,

to inhale their scent,

to bear witness to their beauty,

to watch their grand entrance.

And their proud mother? 

What did SHE do?

Well.

She threw back her head with absolute

abandon, stretched, and smiled at the sky.

Opened her arms and welcomed spring.

And so, after a long week of making me wait . . . 

Then became the magnolia.

3-31-2020

"In My Little Town" (cue up Paul Simon)

Dear readers:

As I reflect on what life was like in 2020 (as if any of us REALLY want to remember that year), I know that a story about a peaceful protest in a small town and a crowd of hundreds and hundreds of people is probably not what you’d think of when you think of a pandemic, and quarantine, and social distancing, and masks. But this is a moment that my 11-year-old son and I shared in June 2020, and it’s a pandemic story because it happened in 2020, and it happened not just DURING a pandemic—but DESPITE a pandemic.

I hope that you’ll read this story. I submitted parts of it to the Smithsonian National Museum of American History for their Coronavirus 2020 stories from people who lived through the pandemic, for purposes of social history that our future generations can read, reflect upon, and imagine what it must have been like to be us at this pivotal point in American history.

I live in a very conservative town in upper Montgomery County, MD (halfway between DC and Baltimore). But it's getting more balanced out as younger, more liberal families move here: Including us. (We ain't young, but liberal we are!) 

It was early in the summer of 2020. The pandemic had stretched on and on since March, a time that had a concrete, distinct starting point but that now had a gaping yawning no-end-in-sight.

But what’s important to remember about the pandemic is that, even though social distancing was happening, and masks were being worn, Black and brown people were STILL being murdered due to systemic racism in this country.

Case in point: Memorial Day weekend of 2020. Yes, at the end of May 2020, a raging pandemic was happening, but guess what else happened?

George Floyd was murdered. Please don’t forget about Mr. Floyd, future generations.

And more information came out about the senseless murder of Breonna Taylor well before Mr. Floyd died. My Black and brown friends reached a new low in their collective consciousness, mourning not just for Mr. Floyd and Ms. Taylor but for 400+ years of slavery, injustice, systemic racism, white privilege, microaggressions, and senseless murders and arrests of Black and brown human beings (mostly male).

Dear future generations: Please don’t forget about Breonna Taylor, either.

Remember, the pandemic has caused those of us (yes, myself included) with depression and anxiety to experience perhaps the most intense depression and anxiety and downward-spiraling we’ve ever experienced. All seems hopeless. We can’t leave our homes except to take socially distanced walks in our neighborhood with family members. Some of us have lost loved ones to COVID-19 or to other diseases/conditions—and most of the time, we weren’t able to be with them physically as they took their last breath on this earth. Others have lost jobs, income, with no help in sight. Still others can’t feed their families adequately enough—they relied on the free and reduced lunch/meal programs that Montgomery County Public Schools offered (the school district still offers this, but, it’s of course different from the way it looked when school was happening in person). There is a RAGING (and I mean RAGING) debate between parents on one side of the issue (“send our kids back to in-person school”) and the other side of the issue (“keep our teachers and students safe—keep school virtual”). I am in the latter of those two camps.

These are real, Maslow’s hierarchy-type problems—and even with THESE problems ever-growing during the early days of the pandemic, Black and brown people were, still are, being murdered in their homes and on the street next to their cars. They are still being pulled over because they “fit a description” even if they can prove they were nowhere near the scene of the crime at the time that it happened.

In June 2020, I joined a Zoom call with my friend Clayton, an attorney and politician in Chicago, and about 80 others of varying races, and together we talked, vented, and wept for the unfairness and inequities continually doled out to Black and brown people in this country. He cried as he told me how he will never feel safe enough to take his small boys camping. He bemoaned their lack of getting to know our country’s glorious national parks.

A few weeks (days?) later, the small but powerful liberal core of the town I live in shocked me with pleasure by announcing that there would be a protest and a march to honor and remember the lives of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor. Now, I have been marching and protesting since post-election 2016. I attended the women's march along with tens of thousands of others in January 2017, wearing my pink hat and marching with my Liberal Ladies of Olney in downtown DC. I attended the students' march after the Parkland murders, and was once again immersed in a sea of people demanding justice and the closing of dangerous loophole laws that allow guns into the hands of dangerous people. Fast-forward a few years: George Floyd was murdered, as was Breonna Taylor. And lo and behold, after having lived for the past 15 years in a town that I don't even consider a suburb--it's an EXURB, we are so far north of DC and so far upcounty (country roads border us on basically all sides)--I was so proud to know that my little town was organizing a protest and a march and that we'd call for action, PEACEFULLY. The march was 100% student organized. I'm talking, HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS. With megaphones, showing leadership and peaceful demonstration the likes of which I have never seen. Yes, it was the middle of a pandemic. Yes, it was a calculated risk, going. But I couldn't NOT go. I felt it was important to go, do my best to keep a safe distance from people, and wear our masks. I took my son, who was 11 at the time.

We started at the corner of Olney Mill and Rt. 108, one of the "main intersections" of our town (there aren't that many). We began walking, not chanting just walking. My son and I had made signs, and we waved to neighbors and friends who had also come out to show their support. At that point, as I said, we weren't chanting much, and no one seemed to be in charge. We were starting to block the intersection and block traffic. Someone yelled, "Who's in charge here?" We all looked at each other and shrugged. Most of us were adults who had brought

our kids of all ages with us: elementary school, preschool, middle school, high school. Some dogs. Some bikes. Some scooters (including my kid). I'd say at that point there were about 100 of us. A "small" group.

No one else stepped up: And so I did. Now, I have a very loud voice and can really belt it out thanks to my extra large lung capacity that God granted me when I came into the world in 1968 (appropriate year, huh?). So I screamed at the top of my LUNGS, with as much confidence as I could muster: "PEOPLE, PEOPLE! LISTEN UP! Here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna cross THAT INTERSECTION (pointing to the crosswalk at Olney Mill and 108). We're gonna go LEFT (pointing toward Good Shepherd Lutheran Church). We're going to KEEP WALKING until we meet up with some others and we'll march to the corner of 97 and 108. GOT IT?" And everyone looked stunned, nodded, and the crowd, en masse, began lining up at the crosswalk.

We walked toward the center of town. Cars passing us beeped, mostly in support (we got a few middle fingers but much fewer than I suspected we would). I worried about police presence. I worried about violence. And pepper spray. Would my son get injured? Would I get injured? But, still, it was in my little town, and I felt pretty "in control." At any point, I could zip him down a side street and we could just walk home if anything scary happened. I really wanted him to experience a PEACEFUL protest.

As it turns out, I had absolutely nothing to worry about.

We walked for a few blocks, holding up our signs and waving to beeping cars. But we were relatively unorganized even still. And then we approached the corner where the Jewish synagogue, B'nai Shalom, stood. And out from that small side street came a massive crowd the likes of which I had never seen. I was awestruck. I was SO PROUD of my town. And leading this (much more organized than us) group was none other than . . . local high school students. With megaphones. Fists in the air, masks securely on. SCREAMING their demands for justice for Breonna and George. "Say her name: BREONNA TAYLOR!" "Say his name: GEORGE FLOYD!" Over and over again. "No justice, no peace. No racist police!" Kids of every color, every culture.

As a grown adult, I felt humbled and proud to be witnessing such greatness, such leadership, such peaceful protest, led by organizers so young and at just the beginning of their paths—human beings with so much promise. I felt, “Our country’s going to be OK with them in charge.” I remember smiling to myself, thinking that.

And the police? Once they got word that the protest was happening (several protests ended up happening simultaneously, actually), they stepped up and slowed the flow of traffic, kept us safe, and wished us well as they crossed us safely from one corner to another, block by block. They yelled things like, "Stay safe out there, folks." “Be sure to drink lots of water; it’s hot out there.”

The local African American church near the library set up a bunch of tables and passed out waters to us. (It was a stiflingly hot day.)

When we reached the post office, the students in charge started wildly waving their hands and then making the hand gestures that indicate to everyone "please stop talking; we have something to say." The walkers stopped walking, the scooters stopped scootering, the dog owners told their dogs, "Sit. Stay." All megaphones dropped but one. We were on a sidewalk but our presence had spilled over onto the road, and the police had stopped traffic in both directions. The boy with the megaphone said something like "Here's what we're going to do. We're going to lie down just like George Floyd had to, and we're going to observe 8 minutes and 46 seconds of complete silence.” This was the exact amount of time in which the officer had his knee on Mr. Floyd's neck, the time it had taken for George Floyd to go from begging for breath to having no breath at all left in his body.

A deafening silence descended upon the crowd of (now) hundreds and hundreds of people, who just moments before had been chanting in unison, saying their names (George Floyd, Breonna Taylor), and demanding justice and equity.

And then, I heard a shifting sort of sound all around me. Bike helmets were removed and tossed to the ground. Dogs laid down and began licking their paws and settling in. And all around me, I watched as this giant wave of people lowered themselves -- almost collectively -- to the ground, face down. Some placed their hands behind their backs in symbolic gesture of George Floyd's positioning on the day he was arrested and murdered while in police custody.

My son looked at me and whispered, "What do we do now, Mommy?"

"We lie down," I said to him. "Baby, we lie down on the ground, on our bellies. And we remember these people who were murdered."

He gently placed his scooter on its side. He waited for me to lie down first. I moved us over to the grass and lowered myself. I turned my head to the side, gazing at my son as he lay next to me. The grass and the dirt were cool against my cheek. He handed me his glasses. I set them down in the soft grass.

And we all stayed that way for exactly 8 minutes and 46 seconds.

You could have heard a pin drop. No cars beeped. I turned my head, looked to the right, where the grassy field extended for miles, situated between the post office on the left and a popular walking trail on the right. The people in the cars just sat there and waited and watched us. There was no beeping. Just deferential silence.

I did take a moment to lift up my phone and get a few photos of the crowds of people, just lying there, in quiet solidarity, honoring the fallen lives of two Black human beings who didn't deserve to die, two people who had become symbols of ALL the Black and brown lives taken over the years--murdered in unfair, inequitable, unconscionable ways.

As I lay there in my little town on the grassy field just off the sidewalk, watching others lying in similar stance on the macadam of the actual road, on the yellow double lines, on the grassy median in between the two lanes of traffic, on the sidewalk, under trees, and in this same field as I, my silent tears merged with the tips of the blades of grass that brushed my face and cheeks, and I sobbed silently to myself. I had never before felt so connected to my community as I did that day. My son, on his stomach next to me, held my hand and snuggled up closer to me. He knew the story of Breonna Taylor and George Floyd well, and he knew why I was crying. He got it. More than I ever expected him to at age 11.

On that day, we marched, we yelled in peaceful unison, and we laid quietly in submission and silence, and our quiet but collective community tears fell, and we were one. It was a landmark moment in my little town of Olney, MD (which up to that time had not been all that "known" for peaceful protests or social justice marches but was beginning to BECOME known for them). I was proud of the people in my little town.

It was my son's first peaceful protest and march. And I'm pretty sure it won't be his last. 

This Blog Has Gotten Bigger: Are You With Me?

Well, it's June 2020. A lot has happened since the last time I posted, which was in January 2018. 

Matthew is 11 now, and growing like a weed. He starts 6th grade (which in MD, is middle school!) this fall. He is such a wonderful kid, and it feels like forever ago (and almost like yesterday) that he joined our family after a trip from Seoul to San Francisco to Dulles Airport in Virginia, where we met him for the first time. But this blog isn't only about him, or about our family, anymore. It's gotten bigger.

There is so much to say. I think I'm going to start blogging again, about not just my life as a parent but also about . . . this world of ours. 

This crazy, crazy world.

Coronavirus. Quarantine. Pandemic. Words we never thought we'd live through in our lives. And here we are, still working from home, still schooling our kids from home, wearing masks, no pools no restaurants no haircuts no group gatherings no concerts no sports, for going on 6 months now.

And, in addition to that, people are dying at an alarming rate as a result of poor and loopholed gun laws. And Black people, especially Black men, are disproportionately affected and 10 times more likely than white people to be murdered by someone with a gun (and often, someone who should never have had that gun in the first place; thanks, loopholes; but we in Moms Demand Action are workin' on that).

And, in addition to that, racism is alive and well in our great country. 

I encourage you to follow me in these posts. 

Read them. Open your mind. The content on my blog posts is never light; if you want light, I respectfully say, "Look somewhere else 'cuz you're not gettin' it here." I have "gone deep" ever since I started journaling and writing at the tender age of 10. I used to allow people to shame me for this. Boyfriends broke up with me because I was "too deep." Family friends have repeatedly told me that my poems as a teenager were depressing, sad. Friends have told me that I need to lighten up. 

Well, I'm 51 y'all, and I ain't lightening up. In fact, I am just getting started. 

My posts, and my personality in general, are usually deep and thought-provoking and yes, "heavy" (others' words) and "serious" (not my words but OK). I guess maybe that's one reason why I have been feeling so terribly alone lately, especially in the past few years. But it's not the worst thing. To me, the worst thing is ignoring the change that I can be in the world, conveniently turning my head away and remaining in my perfectly round, perfectly white little bubble. I refuse to do that.

The past several years (ever since the Parkland massacre, really) have taken me on an even more profound journey. A journey in which I have been outspoken and active in the fight for gun violence prevention and the safety of our children. A journey in which I have begun embracing and leaning in to the movement against racial injustice and white privilege in this country. Admitting my own white privilege, educating myself so I can do better, and then taking some concrete actions. A journey in which, I have to admit, I have been feeling extremely alone. That's OK. Even for an extrovert, I feel OK about that (sad but OK). Because the work is THAT important. If I lose friends over this, or if my friends think I'm batshit-crazy and talk about me behind my back, that is absolutely no skin off my back. If I invite 15 of my closest friends to some real, authentic dialogue with others (many of them, Black people) about racism and anti-racism work, and only 3 show up or even acknowledge my invitation, will that bother me? Hell yes. Will that stop me from doing the hard work of anti-racism, of gun violence prevention? Hell no. 

My anti-racism work has absolutely nothing to do with me and my white fragility. I am not looking for praise or adulation that the whitest of white ladies to perhaps ever walk this earth is now doing the hard work of anti-racism. It has everything to do with Black people and the injustices and racism that they have been subjected to for 400+ years in this country. 

I have soooo much to learn about my white privilege, about white fragility, about systemic and institutionalized racism, about the school-to-prison pipeline, about the prison industrial complex, and about why Black Lives Matter. 

So, I think I'm gonna start bloggin' again. 

This is my attempt to encourage people to open their hearts and open their minds to learning about all the ways in which this country, and our world, is still so unjust and unfair, especially to Black people. And also to brown people, to people of color, to BIPOC, and to other non-white races. (I hesitate to use "people of color" and "BIPOC" here but I do, because I have gotten very mixed messages from my Black friends about the appropriateness of these terms; I am still open to learning and making sure I use the most accepted terminology, so please reach out to me and correct me if I have used these terms incorrectly or ill-advisedly.)

In some of my blog posts, I hope to share stories of what I have learned from my Black friends--actual stories of racism that they encountered (with their blessing to share the story, of course), what they have articulated to me that they want and need from white people, what their fears are (fears that are very different from the ones that I have as a white privileged person), and the lessons I have learned in this journey along the way.

My blog posts will also be my attempt to vent my feelings and how strongly I feel that real change needs to happen, and it starts with us. It starts with white people--and I know a lot of white people. My circle is predominantly white, followed by some Asian (mostly Korean), and a very few friends who are Black and who are other races (from India, the Philippines, Mexico). We need to use our white privilege (which we ALL have, like it or not) as the power tool that it is in order to make our voices heard and to elevate the Black people in our country who have been discriminated against, profiled, been made to feel "less than" and invisible, for more than 400 years.

A few months ago, my own son and his Chinese-American friend were the victims of racist remarks. And it wasn't the first time for our family, either. The white kids told my son and his friend to "go back to China; we don't want your coronavirus." I'll tell you that story in a separate blog post; that story deserves its own dedicated space.

I'll talk more about all of this soon. But I do encourage you to pay attention to what I'm saying, to read my blog, to stay woke, and to take concrete action to create a culture and a world that is truly diverse, equitable, and inclusive. This won't happen today or tomorrow. It's a marathon, not a sprint. But in order to finish a marathon, ya gotta take small steps first, start slow, pace yourself, pick up speed, and then FINISH. So, I am in this for the long haul.

And don't worry: If you don't know remotely where to start, that's another reason why I have decided to start blogging again. I'll be providing resources (books, movies, documentaries, articles, blog posts, social media profiles, etc.) to read, watch, and follow. And I will provide these resources only if I myself have read/watched/followed them first. So this won't be like my Facebook feed, where I am sharing a million things even if I haven't yet read them. I'll share only resources that I have completed in their entirety, and my perspective/opinion on what I thought of them. Maybe pull out a few quotes, or a few scenes from said movie or documentary, that kind of thing. I hope you find it helpful.

Stay tuned. I know the title of this blog is a little misleading, and I ask you to be understanding of that--because it contains legacy content about Jeff and my journey to parenthood that goes back to 2008ish, I do not want to change the title. It's part of our family story. But suffice it to say, this blog is about way more than adoption and parenthood now. It's about righting wrongs. It's about "leaning in" to discomfort and unfamiliar dialogue, and being OK with that--because that's where the learning, the growing, and the changing happen--in those uncomfortable spaces that we, as white people, absolutely MUST start occupying with greater force and frequency than ever before.

Please join me.

It's January 2018--and it's going to be a magical year. I know it because I'm already telling my stories and sharing my writing in ways that I've wanted to for a long, long time. I'm keeping this post short. There's lots to do to prepare for the Year That Shall Be My Year, but, suffice to say that I'm excited.

And now, the announcement: After writing as a storyteller (among hundreds of others) for Adoption.com, for just a few months, I was told that they liked my writing so much that, this quarter, I was selected to be added as a Staff Storyteller (a higher honor than "just" the storyteller designation). Writing for this site offers tons of intrinsic rewards and motivation for me; gratitude is joyfully present. I have written several stories for Adoption.com so far. Here's one: https://adoption.org/international-adoption-expensive

I will link to others as I find them being published.

I plan to write more, both creatively and consistently. Not just about adoption. Especially in the form of poetry. And journaling. And, I plan to get moving on that book I've been threatening you all with (a story about my great grandfather). But more on all of that soon. For now, please share my joy with me as I celebrate a small milestone in this Already Magical Year of 2018. Four days in? Not bad. Not bad at all!

May good things come to you all this year. I'm donning my Storyteller hat starting now. See you soon, in my stories and in the joy of telling them to the world.

--Kathleen

I am so excited to announce that I have been accepted as a writer/author for Adoption.com. This is my first foray into adoption writing, and I am very, very excited to embark on this journey. Please wish me well, and look for articles by me on Adoption.com (website and social media pages). I will be posting updates as my work gets published. As the person who's been editing other people's words for 25 years now, I am thrilled to be writing and publishing my very own words about a topic for which I care deeply and about a triad (the adoptee/adopter/birth parent triad) of which I am proudly a part. Please share in my joy, follow Adoption.com, and look for articles by yours truly!

Whoo-hoo!

"Good" Night, Alt-Right

"Good" night, alt-right
"Good" night, car that bites (driven by maniacal alt-right white)
"Good" night, equality fight (we rest now, for tomorrow, we rise and roar)
And the red blood on the hands of the alt-right white.
"Good" night, stares (of innocent onlookers and peaceful protesters)
"Good" night, chair (sat upon by a killer white 'neath lightbulb bare)
"Good" night, kittens of the KKK ("blood and soil," you say . . . just go away)
"Good" night, mittens (that house the hands of vengeful bigots)
"Good" night, clocks (that have stopped)
"Good" night, socks (peeled from privileged alt-right paws)
"Good" night, house (of mine in white suburbia low in crime)
"Good" night, louse (the man who in "denouncing" took his time).
"Good" night, comb (as I draw you through what hair may still be there)
"Good" night, brush (almost missed you, mind still in a rush)
"Good" night, alt-right (with guns that kill and teeth that bite)
"Good" night, and SHUSH
"Good" night, to the alt-right (who are doing anything but "whispering hush")
"Good" night, stars (whose light is dimmed because of killer cars)
"Good" night, air (she who marched in peace no longer there)
"Good" night, terror--everywhere.

It is anything but a "good" night.

On race (don't go back to sleep)

Today, they finally came. The tears, that is. The Big Fat Sliding-Down-My-Face Tears. I was ready for them, but, being an "extreme empath," I was surprised at the time it took for them to get here. Especially after Saturday. Especially after being thrown right back into the 1950s. I am groping in This Darkness, looking for light. Not there yet, but I'll get there.

I feel as though I am living in some fucked up dystopia, and I can't believe how bad things have gotten since 45 took office--and how quickly they became that bad. I do not support 45 or his childish, egotistical, child-pouting-in-a-sandbox, "mine-is-bigger-than-yours" ways. That is no way to lead a country. He has taken us down a path that has given white nationalists, neo-Nazis, and other extreme right-wing idiots the permission, the validation, the bravado that they have wanted/needed in order to go more public with their underground racism, their bitter battle to beat down the brown-skinned ones, the gender-fluid ones, the non-white ones. It makes me SO MAD and fills me with such hopelessness but also rallies me to a new awakening and reminds me to not turn my head away and pretend that this doesn't affect my white privileged ass, because it does. I CAN and WILL make a difference in this fight to denounce racism, to strip away the supposed strength of the alt-right movement who feel so protected and coddled and supported by the baby-man who they think they're in bed with, who they think they can trust. HAH. OK.

I am seeing my friends (some of whom happen to have brown skin) speak up and rise against this, and I join them in resistance. We cannot let this stand. We cannot go back to sleep. We must wake, and rise, and ROAR, and fight for the freedoms of EVERY person, regardless of race, color, religion, creed, sexual preference, gender identity. It is in this way that we can truly make a difference and pull ourselves up out This Darkness and into the light. Right now, I admit: I'm having a lot of trouble seeing The Light, but I know it's there. And I know what I have to do to get to it.

The other night, after camp, Matthew handed me a piece of paper that had his new friend Ramses' name on it, along with his mom's name, Christina, and her cell phone number. The boys had taken it upon themselves to exchange contact information. I said, "That's so cool that you met a nice friend! I'll call his mom and we'll set something up." I went on to ask Matthew, "How do I pronounce his awesome name?" Matthew replied, "Well, I think it's "RAM-SIS" but no, maybe it's "RAM-SEEZ"; I don't know; you might have to ask his mom." I said, "OK." We continued our discussion. I asked questions about his new friend. "What kinds of things does Ramses like to do? Does he have straight hair, curly hair? Is he tall, short?" Matthew paused and said, "Welllll, I don't want to offend anyone, but . . . " And I helped him along. "Is this about the color of his skin?" And he nodded reluctantly and said, "Yessss. He kind of has . . . um . . . brown skin?" Looking at me with that questioning look of a child, like "Is it OK for me to be saying this?"

I assured him that it was OK for him to say that his friend has brown skin. AND it opened up a (shorter than I wanted but I'll take it) discussion on race that I was admittedly a little unprepared for, but I rallied fast. I explained to him that we all have different colors of skin and that beneath that skin is a unique, individual person--a human being!!! And that the color of our skin is just one beautiful way that defines us. And that, in our world, there are times when people with brown skin are not treated the same as people with white skin. He paused, made a frowny face, and said, "That's not fair." I said, "I know. And it's not right. But it does happen. And many people, mommy and daddy included, are working very hard to try to stop it from happening."

He was nodding vehemently by that point, and I could see his shoulders kind of relax as he became more comfortable with the conversation and found his voice in this mom-son exchange. I could tell that he felt "held" in this conversation.

As much as I want to shelter him from all the hate that is in this world, the only way to get past that hate and to change this country for the better is to talk about it. To admit that "it" exists! And to take action. And teach HIM how to reject it and embrace the incredible diversity of our world. To face the hate head on and say "Fuck you."

And to Love. Love big, and lots, and with gusto, and grace. LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE. That is the thing that overpowers hate.

 And work hard to make things better for everyone. To squash the racism and inequality from the get-go. Show them that our numbers vastly dwarf theirs. Work hard to make it stop being an "Us/Them" world. Where's the "We the People," people? Where'd it go? Did the "we" ever exist to begin with? 

Sometime, in the next week or so, two eight-year-old boys will get together to discuss, I don't know, power rangers, Star Wars, how to get to the next level in Terraria, and whether they like to jump off the diving board or toss a ball when they go to the pool. One boy has Asian skin and a single red hair that likes to poke out from amidst the crown of Busan black locks, and a name that means "Gift of God" (Matthew) and "shining jewel" (Seong-jin). The other has brown skin and a beautiful name that we will learn exactly how to pronounce.

Will the race question come up? Probably not. But, it's there. It's always there.

And as parents, it's our duty and our responsibility to discuss race with our children. How people are treated unfairly, even today, based on the color of their skin. The inequality that exists in our society. The white privilege that we, as white Americans, MUST acknowledge and admit that we have. Even if (and especially if) we live in small towns with little diversity. It's easy to think that racial injustice doesn't apply to you if you don't see diversity all around you.

It's our responsibility as parents, as human beings, in big cities, exurbs, suburbs, and small towns, to do the hard work that we must do to ensure that Black lives, and Jewish lives, and transgender lives, and the lives of all those still persecuted MATTER. We have a tremendous ability, as a race of HUMAN BEINGS, to overcome this. To rise above. To stay woke.

But it starts by not going back to sleep.

 And sometimes, it comes in the form of big fat fucking tears streaming down your face on a Tuesday. As you sit at your desk, head in hands, crying aloud for a country that feels lost, dis-eased, unfamiliar. All the time asking God, "why my country, why this world, what universe am I LIVING IN?" God hasn't given me answers yet, and even THAT is complicated in and of itself. (sigh)

 STAY WOKE. DO NOT GO BACK TO SLEEP.

It's been a long time since I've blogged. Welcome back, me. This whole motherhood thing is keeping me pretty busy.

So, I'll plunge right into a "deep" topic here. 

It was a warm night in June 2014. We were eating ice cream with Jeff's parents at the Baskin Robbins in Olney, sitting near the fountain watching families chase after their kids. One woman, who was Caucasian, was supervising her two children walking on the wall. The children were of mixed race. It was clear to me that she was their mom--not by the way she looked but, rather, by the way she WAS with them: Her attentive guidance as they walked proudly on that wall. Her loosely holding the little one's fat little hand. Her intimate laughter with them. Her telling them "no" when they pushed it too far. Her hair, slightly mussed, because, when a vital piece of your heart and soul is walking alone for maybe the first time on a concrete wall, you don't much care what your hair is doing.

Then, Matthew said to me, "Mommy, if a kid's skin is different from the mom's skin, does that mean she's still his mom?" Without hesitating, I said, "Yup. Some kids' mommies have a different skin color, but they are still the kid's mommy. Like you and me." [Many times already, we've had the "you-are-my-son-but-you-didn't-grow-in-my-belly" conversation.]

He paused for a moment. Then, after much reflection, he said...

"Do you want to try my ice cream? It's really good: peach. What kind did YOU get?"

I will never forget that moment. There is nothing like a nice, deep talk...however brief, with a side of ice cream.

Diversity and The Conspicuous Family

My employer, the American Speech-Language-Hearing Association (ASHA for short) is so awesome, in so many ways. One such way is their commitment to diversity. ASHA has an entire Diversity Team, and for the month of September 2011, they are doing a Diversity Museum, where people can display items from their various cultures/backgrounds. I plan on bringing in the hanbok (formal Korean outfit worn at special occasions) that Matthew wore for his 1st birthday, as well as various other Korean cultural items (and adoption-related items) that we have begun gathering, as the multiracial family that we are!

As part of the ASHA Diversity Museum, I participated in a video montage in which the Diversity Team interviewed me about the ways in which I and my family are diverse. I talked about adoption and the Korean culture--about being what is known as a "conspicuous family" (I'll revisit The Triangle Stare in a minute; I'm fairly certain I've touched on this in much earlier blog postings) and about the value that we place, in our family, on the country/language/culture of Matthew's birth--something that means the world to us.

I talked briefly about the adoption process, what we went through in bringing Matthew home, and the fact that we are a family, despite the fact that we may look different from one another. If we seem to be functioning as a family, we ARE one! People often give us The Triangle Stare: Stare at Mom, move gaze across to Dad, move gaze down to baby, then pause, and look up at the mom again, across at the dad again, and down at the baby again. (And then, depending on who you are and how sensitive to you are to people's privacy, you may or may not ask us if we are Matthew's parents.) I work to reduce instances of The Triangle Stare all the time, although, honestly, I believe that people mean no malintent...we are all products of society's slight unwillingness to truly embrace the diversity of family and just accept the fact that if a group of people seem to be functioning as a family, it's pretty darn tootin' that they ARE one.

Here are some notes from what I prepared for my little interview. I showed lots of photos of Matthew, obviously. I've posted some recent photos of Matthew at the end of this blog.

Our “Conspicuous Family”

Kathleen Kelly Halverson: 50% Irish, 25% German, 25% Slovak
Jeffrey Brian Halverson: 25% Irish, some Armenian, some Russian
Matthew Seong-jin Halverson: 100% South Korean
Matthew’s Birth City: Busan (SE Korea)
Matthew’s “Foster City”: Seoul (NW Korea; capital city of South Korea)
Dialect of Busan: Gyeongsang
Languages spoken by us: English, basic survival Korean (we all hope to take classes together someday!)
Korean Alphabet: Hangul (derived from Chinese)

How does Hangul differ from Chinese?
[excerpted from http://www.korean-language.org/]

Originally written using “Hanja” (Chinese characters), Korean is now mainly spelled in “Hangul,” which consists of 24 letters—14 consonants and 10 vowels—that are written in blocks of 2 to 5 characters. Unlike the Chinese writing system (including Japanese "Kanji"), "Hangul" is not an ideographic system. The shapes of the individual "Hangul" letters were designed to model the physical morphology of the tongue, palate, and teeth. Up to five letters join to form a syllabic unit.

Korean is spoken by more than 72 million people living on the Korean peninsula. Although it differs slightly in spelling, alphabet, and vocabulary between the two regions, Korean is the official language of both South Korea and North Korea. Outside of the Korean peninsula, there are about two million people in China who speak Korean as their first language, another two million in the United States, 700,000 in Japan, and 500,000 in the Russian regions of Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan.

The Korean language has five major dialects in South Korea and one in North Korea. Despite the geographical and socio-political dialect differences, Korean is relatively homogeneous, being mutually understandable among speakers from different areas.

English/Korean (some basics)

Hello

Annyong hashimnigga
(formal; means peacefulness, well-being; literally translated, “Are things peaceful for you?”)

Annyong haseo
(informal, I believe; my Korean friends use this to say “hello” rather than the above formal phrase)

Good-bye

Annyonghi kyeseyo
(said to someone who is staying)

Annyonghi kaseyo
(said to someone who is leaving)

Nice to Meet You
BAN-GAP-SUP-NEE-DA (phonetic version)

Mother
Omma

Father
Oppa

Thank You

Kamsa hamnida (pronounced KAM-SA'-MEE-DAH)

Two recent videos of Matthew

I so want to keep up this blog but just can't manage to find the time to write. I'm going to start posting photos and videos in an attempt to keep everyone current. I will write as I can!

Here are two videos of Matthew from this month (August 2011). In one, we discover our favorite Cars character on the side of a country road in PA (my apologies for the sideways nature of the video. First time I used the video function of my iPhone...argh...will try to fix it but did want to get this up in the meantime).

In the other, Matthew discovers the joy of water fountains...and we realize that you don't need bathing suits or even barefeet to dive into the pleasures of life.

Best,
Kathleen

Wondering Where I've Been?

OK, I'm officially halting my hiatus.

My only explanation is that I have a two-year-old. Need I say more, fellow parents of toddlers? I've been having the time of my life with this kid (I am loving this age, and the language explosion, and the cute things he says!), but my old 42-year-old self running around after an extremely active 2-year-old leaves little time for anything else (including writing). Let's see, was it the swim lessons (a whole story in itself) or the intro Little Gym class (where he wouldn't participate in circle time and wouldn't let go of his matchbox cars)? Or the continual tantrums that occur every night after daycare? (Why do I get the most miserable parts of the day and my daycare provider gets him when he's all cute and cuddly? But hey, at least there's bedtime, which is Matthew and my magic moment together. It is so awesome! But I digress...)

I've vowed to get better about blogging again. There will never be the "right" time, or "enough" time so I have to make the time!

I have some good news. More details to follow, but...I am about to be published! It's been ages since I wrote professionally. Well, I took the plunge and wrote an article and submitted it to an adoption e-magazine called Adoption Today. I was thrilled to find this e-mag because it addresses not just adoption but, specifically, international adoption. I love all my adoption magazines and the broad spectrum of adoption types that they address (e.g., Adoptive Families, The Adoption Constellation put out by Adoption Mosaic, to name a few), but I am admittedly thankful to have landed on a link that is so immediately relevant to my life and our family.

Having edited other people's words for so long, I have allowed my creative spirit and writer self to be somewhat stifled, so between the blog and now, the published article (which is slated for the September issue), I am over-the-moon happy that my writing is seeing more sunlight, so to speak. I'm used to it hiding between the covers of a personal journal, or buried in the "My Documents" section of my computer, under "Creative Writing" (read: "private...do not touch/read/open"). It makes me feel extremely vulnerable, but I suppose that's a good thing. And once you see my topic, you'll see what I mean. I'm taking a risk publishing it but it's a risk that I've decided is well worth it.

I'm going to leave it at that, for now. Once the September issue comes out, I'll share the link to my article and you can read it for yourself. It's on the sober side of the adoption journey, but it's an article that is so necessary for so many parents, whether they are waiting for their kids or already united as a family.

Oh, and I have to pat myself on the back for my recent weight loss: 10 pounds, baby! A lot more to go, but I am slowly getting there, with a lot of hard work and perseverance. Wish me luck as I continue on yet another (different kind of) journey! I'm always on a journey somewhere, aren't I? Thank goodness for that quote that says something like "it's not the destination but the journey" or else I'd be in trouble. I am constantly on journeys and rarely ever staying put at destinations! :)

Love and hugs to you all! Sorry it's been so long since I've written.

Word for 2011?

So, my best friend and I have a yearly tradition of selecting a “word” that will define and jump-start our new year (we like to use "word" rather than that scary R word that rhymes with "sezalution" (wow, now I'm making up words). We discuss our word with one another, with such vim and vigor around the January-February timeframe, and by about March, it's likely we've either forgotten it or knowingly fallen off our own self-professed wagons.

This year, my word came to me with an almost startling ease: SIMPLIFY. Then I started playing with it and (lover of language that I am) "complicating" it. (See? Already I'm falling off the new year's wagon.)

Anyway, here’s what I came up with:

Spiritual
Inquisitive
Mindful
Present, Patient
Loving, Letting Go
Independent
Fun
Youthful

I thought it could apply to my blog, too, for so often, I avoid writing in it because there's SO MUCH to say, sometimes it's overwhelming, and in approaching blog writing, I think that every post has to be perfect and well-written and tweaked just so and thought provoking and insightful. Why can't my blog postings be short, sweet, simple, and fun? And maybe even error filled and completely lacking in depth? (My inner poet cringes at the thought of going no deeper than the surface...wow, what a revelation...which is different than that other "R" word, but then I digress). Maybe lifting the heavy load from my own shoulders will also lead me to "shed" in some other important ways as well. As in letting go, being here now (as Thich Nat Hanh says, and Ray LaMontagne sings--there I go, being deep again). As in walking a little lighter, removing the monkey from my mind.

What’s your word for 2011? What do your letters represent? What shifts are you envisioning (or not) for 2011?

Kathleen

I Am Grateful For...

Matthew's round cheeks
and the sound of his laugh.
Good health and bad jokes
cracked by my "better half."

Yoga. And friendship.
(And yes, this means you!)
White wine. And red wine.
And good microbrews!

For blogs and for chat groups
and playdates galore.
For my readers, who thankfully
come back for more!

Hanging out with--and leaning on,
I must confess--
Other families whose lives
have been equally blessed

by the gift of adoption
and the joy of our kids.
Our journey was eased
by all that you did.

Warmth to come home to.
A child to love.
The kind earth below me.
The sunshine above.

Jupiter's antics, and
Matthew's sweet face.
The love of our family.
The gifts of God's grace.

Crisp colors of fall
on a backdrop of blue.
My parents, my family,
for all that they do.

The years and the lifetimes
I've known with my friends,
both living and gone.
The love never ends.

I'm grateful for
so many people and things
and the joy that they've given,
and the grace that they bring.

May all beings be happy.
May all suffering cease.
May the world someday know
The great feeling of peace.

I am thankful and hopeful
again and again
on this Happy Thanksgiving
of two thousand ten.

Amazingness

I just made up a new word. Amazingness.

Best way to describe the feeling I get in my gut whenever I look at this, my new favorite photo of the two most important guys in my life.

Gratefulness is coming a week early...Happy Thanksgiving to my friends, family, adoption community, Facebook pals, and fellow blogosphere members. I am grateful not only for the guys pictured here but for YOU all, as well! My life is happily complete.

More posts on what "grateful" means to me in the days to come, as one of my favorite holidays EVER approaches. (And I love that my birthday falls right around this time of year, too.)

What are you grateful for today? What feeling does such amazingness evoke?

Writing a Christmas Letter to Umma

One of my all-time favorite photos of Matthew (even with that ridiculous buzz cut

they gave him, poor kid)...it's framed huge and hanging in our hallway

upstairs...he's 4 months old in this photo.

Note to my readers: This is not one of my most concise of posts, so please get yourself a cup of tea or a glass of wine and snuggle up before reading this. I know that blog postings are supposed to be short and sweet. This one is sweet, I promise you that...but definitely not short.

Well, folks, I finally did it.

As I ramp up and start preparing for the holidays, one of my first steps (which will be an annual tradition of ours now) is to send Christmas letters and gifts to mail off to Korea: One for the amazing woman who brought him into the world and another for the equally amazing woman who introduced him to it--who took him to his monthly doctor's appointments, who held him when he cried, who comforted him and kept him safe. Note that I say "equally"--his birth mother is no less important than Umma, for without her, there would be no Matthew, no relationship with Umma. I am deeply indebted to, and grateful for, both of these ladies. Strong, beautiful ladies whose hands touched his and who gently guided him down the path to us.

So, after months of admittedly avoiding it, I have finally started writing a letter to Matthew's Umma (his foster mom; that's what we call her). I've written only one letter before this. And I was so nervous doing it, because I so wanted her to approve of the way we are raising him, of how he is growing into the amazing little boy he's become. (He's become much less serious; he laughs all the time. He babbles constantly, and says things like "uh-oh" and "all gone" and "airplane" and "baby" and even "yogurt"! And "please" and "thank you" are uttered often [compliments of Ms. Kim, his daycare provider!].)

It's almost like I'm scared to share him or something. Fearful that her mothering was "better" than mine is. That he'll remember it and prefer it over my own mothering. I know it's silly; why do we so often feel the need to compare ourselves with others? I tell myself, "Come on, Kath, he knows who Mama and Daddy are--and it's us! But, I do struggle with these feelings. It has little to do with Matthew, and everything to do with my own insecurities around motherhood (which, yes, I still have, even if it looks like I totally know what I am doing and feel 100% comfortable in this new role of "mother"--oh, the doubts and second guesses that go on in my head!).

And yes, I did say HAND writing the letter--which is how I've promised myself I will always write to her and to his birth mom (that letter will be later this month; that is one I'm avoiding even more than the Umma letter). It just feels more real that way...the paper that my hands have touched, will touch her hands. And because I'm touching Matthew all the time, maybe she will feel the energy of his love and the memory of his heart through such touch. In a world of technological innovations and keyboards and high-speed everything, it's been amazingly satisfying to pick up a pen, touch it to paper, and painstakingly (and time-consumingly!) create words from my own hands--the whirls and swirls and blots and dots that emerge from the purest of penmanship.

Oh, the letter writing: I have had such resistance to this, which in and of itself is a very difficult thing to admit to myself much less announce it to my readers in the blogosphere.

So, there you have it. I know you won't judge me for this. It's not that I don't want to write these letters: I do! I do! There is simply so much to say, I don't even know where to begin. And it takes ENERGY that I often don't have these days. I'm so tired in the evenings after he goes to bed [happily tired of course--but tired all the same]; and right now, I'm fighting this infection in my eye of all things, so reading/writing for an extended period is actually painful.

But, the other night--finally, with a glass of my favorite Chardonnay in hand, lights dimmed, music playing, Matthew safely tucked away in bed--I began writing. And then I couldn't stop. I just started at the place where my heart was at the time. And it got easier. As soon as the ink began flowing from pen to page, my heart opened, and I knew exactly what I would tell her. (And I knew that it would be a multi-day event; a very long letter, which she so rightly deserves, and I know she'll be eagerly reading every word, learning of what milestones Matthew has reached, what he's doing, what he looks like, how he's acting. And I am happy to tell her.).

I admitted to her that I didn't even know where to begin, and I apologized in advance if the letter began jumping all over the place. Lately, I have been overwhelmed, almost frozen, in the emotions that have been socking me over the head regarding Matthew and our life together with him--they are nothing but happy, joyful emotions, but at times, I don't even know how to take the dizziness of feeling such naked, simple, pure happiness. It's been a long time coming, and I am still getting used to the feeling.

And, as a result, I have (perhaps unwisely) chosen avoidance for now. Until now.

I know the court date was really just a formality and that he's been "ours" since December 14, 2009, but that very special day on October 29, 2010, meant much more to me than I thought it was going to. I think it was definitely a trigger for my deepest emotions finally bubbling up to the surface and reminding me that "we are still here; deal with us."

And deal with them I did. In the form of an "old-fashioned," handwritten letter, woman to woman, in a regular old college-ruled notebook. It felt good. And right.

Tonight, I'll go there again. And the next night. Until the letter is done, and I feel that I've said all I've needed to say (at least for another six months or so, when there will be more milestones to report on, more bragging to be done, more smiles to share).

What an odd dilemma for someone like me, a gal who loves to talk, who is extremely (perhaps overly) social, and who is accustomed to "too many vs. not enough" words. But, like so many other lessons I've learned about myself since Matthew came home, this is a lesson in and of itself.

I'm getting there.

Adoption Day!

Words still escape me. I will write soon. In the meantime, here are some shots of one of the most important moments in our life as a family. Happy Adoption Day, Matthew. God was smiling down on us that day for sure.

Words on Paper

Dear Matthew:
Yet another milestone awaits you, my sweet son.
Tomorrow, we go to court in downtown Baltimore
for your adoption finalization ceremony.
A judge will proclaim you officially ours...
as if you did not feel like our son from the moment you were placed in our arms
in the wee hours of a cold December morning that feels like forever ago.
What was life like without you?
I honestly don't know, so familiar is the imprint of your heart on mine.
Oh, I love you so.

I think about tomorrow and wonder,
Will it feel different, having these words on paper
stating in no uncertain terms that you are our child, and we are your parents?
How will I feel after our fifteen minutes of fame is over...
after the decrees have been signed,
pens capped,
paperwork filed,
pictures taken,
hands shaken,
hugs exchanged,
and happy tears shed?

Will legal words on paper
make me feel like you are any more mine
than the shining son you already are?

Don't get me wrong:
They are important and deserve a celebration and a ceremony,
these words on paper.
They represent for us, as a family, a meaningful rite of passage
in our history together--
something we will look back on with fondness,
something we will file away, maybe even frame, I don't know.
These words on paper will certainly help us in practical, logical ways
such as school paperwork, doctor visits, health insurance, and citizenship.

But in my heart, I know this:
You've been my son all along.
I don't need words on paper to tell me that.

Love,
Mama