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

Tiny Little Pellet, Huge Honkin' Headache

There are some things that really do go bump in the night...
Like Matthew's melon head.
Hitting the carpet on the deck.
HARD.

Let me set the scene for you.
(This is actually more a story about the dog than Matthew, but be that as it may...it's a slice of one of life's more chaotic moments.)

I come home from teaching my yoga class last night.
I am feeling great--relaxed, chill, appreciative, immersed in the present moment
(as I always feel after doing or teaching yoga).
Looking forward to hanging out with my family on the evening before the weekend officially starts.
Whoo-hoo!

We decide to walk around to the front yard and hang out in our bright orange and green plastic "faux" Adirondack chairs.
I'm walking with Matthew, who is carrying his treasured new toy Caterpillar truck (a front loader, complete with moveable parts and a little plastic man tucked inside).
I look up, and there's Jupiter, munching on the compact little rat-poison pellet that (our pest control man, just yesterday) assured us was safely tucked inside the paw-proof bait boxes outside the garage door.
(We think a squirrel or a chipmunk was the culprit...that squirrel or chipmunk is no doubt dead by now!)
I take my eyes off Matthew and yell to Jeff: "Jupiter has something in his mouth!"
(I am quite good at this stuff, and I have a sixth sense about things not being quite "right"--my sixth sense kicked in BIG TIME last night, and I'm glad it did...as you'll see...)
Meanwhile, I look down, and (whoops! Bad Mommy!) Matthew has fallen, face down, onto his Caterpillar truck on the sidewalk.
(Lesson #1: The minute you take your eyes off your kid, that's when he'll get hurt.)

Argggh. He's OK. He shakes it off.
I pick him up, brush him off, and he's off again, toddling into the grass with his beloved truck.

Pan back to Jupiter:
He knows the command "Drop it," and drop it he did. Jeff pulled it out of his mouth.
We both look at it, puzzled.
What the heck is this manufactured-looking, pellet-like object that clearly smells and looks like food,
almost like a treat, of sorts?
Crap.
The pest control guy was here today.
We both look at each other:
THE BAIT BOXES!
Shit.
We look inside one of the boxes, and sure enough, one of the two pellets that is supposed to be "safely" tucked inside
is not there.
As in, rat-poison pellets (that our pest control guy is currently using to take care of our ongoing mouse problem).
Lesson #2: Don't believe the pest-control man when he tells you it's safe to use the bait boxes and the dog won't get the pellets. 

Damn it.
We talk about it.
Can we blow this off?
(I'm really tired, and I just want a glass of wine.)
Can we just assume he didn't eat anything?
I mean, it was just "in" his mouth.
He wasn't chomping on it.
There weren't pieces missing or anything.
But, yikes, "what if"?

So, the fun begins.

We all go inside, having abandoned all thoughts of enjoying a warm late summer (okay, technically, fall) evening in the front yard.
Now we are trying to decide what to do.
We call our pest control man. No answer on his cell.
We call the pest control company. They're closed.
We call the pet ER.
They instruct us to call the Poison Control Center.
We do. And for only $35 and our credit card information, we finally get an answer from the vet specialist on call.
(Lesson #3: Just because it's a toll-free number doesn't mean that the Poison Control Center's advice is free.)

He asks us what the EPA code number is on the bait box.
Wha? What EPA code number?
("There should be a code number on the bait box. Do you see it?")
Jeff goes out to look. No number.
(Lesson #4: All rat trap boxes should be labeled with an EPA code. Who knew?)
Apparently, there are three types of rat poison. Because we don't know (a) how much he ate (or whether he ate it at all) or (b) what type of poison it is (the kind that swells the brain, the kind that thins the blood, or the kind that attacks the kidneys), we must induce vomiting.
(Lesson #5: Rat poison pellets are very, very scary and should be taken very, very seriously.)

You are KIDDING me, right?
Sigh. More drama in the Halverson house.

Jeff remains on the phone, trying to hear the poison control person while Matthew is practicing his loud speaking voice in the background (perfect timing, as always).
Jeff goes onto the deck.
Matthew decides he wants to be where Daddy is.
Out we go to the deck.
Matthew sits on his little multicolored plastic picnic table.
I set his truck in front of him.
Zoom-zoom.
I turn around--FOR ONE SECOND--and
BAM! Backward he falls.
He lands with a thwack on the back of his head
and promptly starts to scream.
(Lesson #6: Stand right behind your son when he's sitting at a play picnic table. You are not a bad mom. You are not a bad mom. You are not a bad mom.)
Now Jeff REALLY can't hear the poison control guy,
who is in the middle of explaining what we should do.
Jeff runs inside, frantically throwing open cabinets to find out whether we have hydrogen peroxide in the house.
I, in the meantime, am consoling a very scared little boy (I think the fall scared him more than anything...he's got a hard head and this is not the first time this has happened),
who is now mid-scream
(you know, the kind that is SO HARD that it becomes voiceless, airless, and scares a parent half to death, as their face gets increasingly red and you wonder if they're breathing at all).
I check his head; he's fine. No blood, bumps, or bruises: Just a healthy dose of fear.

I take Matthew up to bed. He's still screaming, but it helps to be in his nursery with his lovey, Froggie; low lights; humidifier on; international folk music lullaby CD playing. (Thank God for Putamayo and Carlos Santana [yes, Carlos Santana indeed does a mean mellow acoustic guitar when he puts his mind to it!])
He falls asleep in no time.

Meanwhile, out goes Jeff to the drugstore to buy hydrogen peroxide.
Yup. 3% solution induces vomiting.
(In between all of this, I actually have time to pour myself a glass of wine and exhale. Good God. Now, I really need the yoga!)
We give Jupiter a tablespoon of the hydrogen peroxide.
Poor thing laps it up like candy, not knowing the hell that is about to happen within his guts.

Within minutes--no, seconds--he's vomiting all over the kitchen floor.
(Lesson #7: If you ever want your dog to vomit, give him hydrogen peroxide.)
Seven huge piles of vomit. I mean HUGE. (Wow, does that organic dog food ever expand!)
And Jeff gets to poke and prod through it all to determine if any rat poison was in there (as if we could tell at this stage of, um, "breakdown").
(Lesson #8: After dealing with a possible rat-poisoning incident with your pet, you can kiss good-bye all thoughts or desires of dinner.)

We are lucky. It appears that he hasn't ingested anything.
And now the poor dog can't even have water or food for another few hours until his gut relaxes and gets back to normal.
Now Jeff's on the phone with the ER vet, again. He says just keep an eye on him, but it's "great" (!!!???) that he vomited so much because if he did ingest anything, it's pretty much guaranteed that it's no longer in his body.
(Lesson #9: Sometimes, throw-up is "great"!)

Prognosis?
Jupiter will probably be just fine (and indeed, as of this morning, he is).

As for Jeff and me, that's a whole other ball of wax.
I think it's time to buy some more wine.

Lesson #10: Always have a healthy supply of wine in the house. For moments such as this.

Motherhood in a Coconut Shell

Is it really August? How did that happen? I haven't written much this summer.

So, before I turn in for the evening, here's a random spouting of what's been going on with me lately. Here it is, in some form of nutshell. But I'm not very good at nutshells, so I can't promise you that this is TRULY going to be a nutshell. Probably more like a coconut shell.

• Lately, my dear friend Catherine and I have been talking about all sorts of motherhood-related issues. Deconstructing it. Figuring it out. Going inward and sharing outward. Catherine is my friend who I met after I read an article that she wrote in Adoptive Families magazine. I loved it so much, I contacted her; visited her then-blog, now website (called Mama C and the Boys; check out the transracial adoption workshop she is hosting this October in Portland, Maine); and we eventually became cyberfriends. We hope to meet someday, but for now, the Internet is our touchstone. We talk about everything adoption and motherhood and writing and blogging, and she is a true sister to me in so many ways. Our friendship is proof that there are as many boons as there are downfalls to Internet technology and social media sites. We've been talking to each other via email and Facebook and comments on each other's blogs about how we're constantly doing this (deconstructing motherhood, that is). Sometimes, I think I'm engaging in needless self-criticism and overanalytical behavior, but most times, I feel that all this deconstruction and glancing inward is a very, very good thing. It makes me a better mother. It gives me an outlet. It reminds me that I am not alone in my feelings about motherhood (as in, "I don't know what the h I'm doing half the time!"), my joys, my challenges. So many women are with me on this crazy ride.
• Jeff is away in Florida for 3 weeks. Yup, he's flying into hurricanes again. Literally. We are staying put in MD, visiting friends and family, setting up playdates, and having a grand old time. Me and the two "boys" (Matthew and the dog). While NASA and NOAA and the GRIP project gobble up my husband's time for the next several weeks, I am flyin' solo. With the help of dear sweet Caitlin (our teenage babysitter), the angel from around the corner. She is also from South Korea, and I'm happy for that connection between her and Matthew.
• Matthew is finally walking! He is so adorable taking those steps. I could just cry, he looks so cute. Or laugh. Or both. Look out world, here he comes! Time to kidproof the house...AGAIN. This time we're putting things even higher up, if not completely away, for a few years.

Yeah, a nutshell...um, right.

I think I've definitely outgrown that nutshell. Actually, who am I kidding? I've NEVER, EVER fit my musings into a nutshell. I favor the more expansive space of the coconut shell. It suits me much better.

Signing off for now. I am planning my next post around the theme of "button-pushing." Take your best guess at what I'll be talking about (if you're a mom or a dad, you already know).

Where We've Been...And How Far We've Come

It's been a long time since I've blogged. For a lot of reasons, none of which I really want to go into right now. So let's just get to the good stuff. Another blog posting...FINALLY!...from yours truly.

We had such a fun day today. Matthew, Jeff, and I went to a place called Clark's Elioak Farm, a small, family-owned farm (that has a long history of families going there over the years...it's somewhat of a Maryland legacy) where you can walk around, pet the animals, go on pony rides and hayrides, host birthday parties, and play on the gazillion fun things they have there for kids. Including a huge, larger-than-life sized shoe (pictured here), reminiscent of the Old Woman in the Shoe fairy tale. This is just one of the many fairy-tale statues they have here. It's really cool.

Matthew is walking now. As of last week...FINALLY! To say I'm relieved is putting it mildly. (Now, if we can only get him saying something besides "ma-ma" and "da-da" and "uh"! I know, I know...patience!) So he had fun finding his feet and walking around on the (very unsteady) grassy field of the farm. Good practice for him. He'd fall in the soft grass only to staunchly get up again. It was a riot to see him walking like a miniature drunkard, belly sticking out, feet wide apart, toting his Buzz Lightyear sippy cup with water in it. As a mom, I'm really enjoying being an almost breathless witness to this whole walking transition. I see before my eyes my child changing and growing--somehow, as a "vertical" kid he seems so much  more grown up and already, not the baby we brought home 8 months ago (yes! Next week it will be EIGHT MONTHS! Can you believe it?!?) but ever so much more a little boy.

Later that day, we ended up at the bookstore. And Matthew and I inevitably ended up in the children's section while Jeff was browsing through the science section. We were playing with one of the toys when this woman approached us and very purposefully said "hello, there" (to Matthew, not to me). She began to engage me in conversation, asking me how old he was and when we brought him home. I began to suspect we had a common adoption connection right then and there. Sure enough, the next thing she said "How long did you wait?" and then "We're waiting, too." And she pointed over to her husband and her daughter, who kind of waved at me. The daughter, armed with a pile of children's books, didn't look thrilled and actually looked kind of embarrassed that her mom was seeking out strangers simply b/c they were parents of adopted children--parents just like the one her daughter is about to become. They were buying one of the "classic" adoption-friendly kids' books called "A Mother for Choco" and of course, the memories started to flow for me. They asked me all kinds of questions. How long did we wait. Did we know we were getting a boy. Which agency are we using. How was the transition. What was he eating when he came to us. And on and on.

The woman (future adoptive parent, that is) seemed hesitant to talk with me too openly (although you all know I'm an extremely open person so I was gabbing away as easily and proudly as could be, more to the woman's mom than to the woman herself), so I didn't push it or ask her too many questions. I got the sense she was kind of shy about it still, and still feeling her way around her foray into the world of adoptive parenting. She clearly didn't seem to be in a very good place, or state of mind, on this particular day. She emanated sadness and frustration. There was a heaviness about her spirit, a sadness that I distinctly saw b/c I remembered feeling it, too.

I asked her "So, are you getting excited?" She sighed and said yes, but this wait is just so hard. "We sent our dossier to Korea back in January. We've been waiting ever since."

She reminded me of me, just one year ago. It felt like Matthew was so far away, physically, mentally, emotionally. At times, I was ready to lose my MIND. But I gently reminded her that we are lucky, in the adoption process (vs. the IVF or "getting pregnant" process that I carefully avoided directly referring to but she knew what I meant), b/c we absolutely positively KNOW at the end of all this, we will have a child. We WILL be parents. I tried to keep the conversation upbeat, and positive, but I empathized with her outright about how frustratingly long and difficult and roller-coaster-like that wait really is. I told her to hang in there. They were all smiles and sweetness for Matthew, and in that moment, I felt SO PROUD to be his mama. He was clinging to my shirt but shyly smiling at them all the same. I can't even put into words how proud I was. And how proud I was to be sharing my story with others. Loudly. In the middle of a bookstore, where perhaps we were the only two adoptive families in the bookstore. (In this moment, I realized that I think I'm comfortable with the role of "educator of others" about all things adoption!) I thought about where we've been as a family (we've certainly "been there" just like she and her husband now are...WAITING, WAITING, WAITING). But mostly, I thought about how far we've come, and how happy I am to have strapped myself into that roller coaster in the first place, wearing my fear around me like heavy armor but still getting into that damn car. It was at times a terrifying ride. With unknown twists and turns that jolted me forward and then backward. It was also an exhilarating ride that left me breathless and amazed at the miracle that emerged from all of it.

Not just one little boy, but an entire family, transformed.

Dammit, I love my son. It's the hardest thing I've ever done but also the most rewarding. He pushes EVERY SINGLE ONE of my buttons. But still, I love him as the day is long. Perhaps one of the reasons I've not written in so long is simply b/c there is SO MUCH to say. So much has changed. Mostly for the better. Where do I even begin? (So today, I finally dove right in, thanks to this family of strangers who walked up to me and acknowledged the kinship that we all share.)

So, I dedicate this blog posting to the young woman in the Germantown Borders who seemed to have some sadness and frustration tugging at the corners of her smile.

And her parents (who are going to be FABULOUS grandparents, I can already tell!).

And her husband.

And to all parents who are still waiting to be parents.

If you're waiting for a referral or waiting for your child to come home (shout-out to Emily and Lauren and their respective spouses here!), just know that SO MUCH JOY awaits you. Trust me; he or she is (or they are) worth the wait. I'd sign fifteen more mountains of paperwork and wait even longer than I already did, if it meant bringing Matthew into my life all over again.

Today, the simple act of human connection, in such a random, "at-the-right-place-at-the-right-time" kind of way, caused me to reflect on where we've been, and how far we as a family have come. No, it's not easy. And I'm so often NOT finding motherhood nearly as intuitive as I thought I'd find it. It's not perfect. But it's now a part of my identity. But am I happy, and do I feel full up with the satisfaction that comes from mothering my son?

Hell, yeah.

Perspective

Well, there is nothing like the death of a friend to give me some perspective and to remind me of my blessings. I have been battling with some negativity and self-doubt lately. But Kate's death has reminded me to stay positive and to be thankful for what I have, to be present in where I am now, to live each moment to its fullest, and to be grateful for the breath that I and my loved ones continue to draw every day.

On Sunday, my friend from work, Kate Thaxton, passed away after a 3.5-year fight with pancreatic cancer. And I do mean fight. She approached cancer like the beautiful, strong, fire-filled woman she was: She was NOT going to let it get her. She pledged to stay positive about her body's ability to beat this thing. She willed "healing" in her everyday living. She bravely faced this cancer with every ounce of strength and perseverance she had, and as a result, the months that doctors gave her turned into years. She went back again and again for treatments, even when doctors told her it wouldn't work. One of her most famous acts (at least in my mind) was early on in her diagnosis: the wearing of a shirt that she had made, which said:

Foxtrot

Uniform

Charlie

Kilo

cancer

I loved it.

Kate was young, in her late thirties. Younger than  me. She and her husband Tim seem to be soulmates in the truest sense (I don't know Tim, but I've seen his posts, and his latest YouTube video tribute to his amazing wife). They never had the chance to have children, to be parents, as so many of us are. Kate would have made a MARVELOUS mom. She was joy and beauty and energy embodied. As someone said to me at work today, "Even if you didn't know her well, you just couldn't help but like her." Kate was THAT kind of person.

As I prepare for what will, no doubt, be one of the most emotional funeral services I have ever attended (it's tomorrow), I am reminded of that phrase we hear again and again, and yet continue to forget, in life's daily stresses and trials: CARPE DIEM. Live and enjoy and savor every delicious moment. We never know how long we have. Those things that seem so important and dramatic in our everyday life: Ask yourselves this. Are they REALLY that important and dramatic, in the whole grand scheme of things?

Kate's death has been a much-needed reminder to me. When life gets me down, I think I will go back to the breath (as we say in yoga and meditation). I'm thankful that I am still drawing it, and I am sad that Kate is not.

It's just not fair, universe: I don't care what you say. It's just not fair.

Jeff is going with me, because Kate's funeral happens to be at the very same funeral home that we used to have our first son, Christopher, cremated. I can't go there without Jeff; I just can't. But I want to go to pay my respects to Kate and her family. And I know it will be OK. Because Kate's positive, loving spirit will be there, embracing all of us, as we sadly say our good-byes to a good friend who left us far too young, with far too much life left to live.

Here is her website, so everyone can see how beautiful she was (the video tribute may even be posted here; I hope it is!): http://www.katethaxton.com/

Rest peacefully, dear sweet Kate. We will never, ever forget you. Everyone whose life you touched was better for having known you.

Namaste.
Kathleen