Teenager Thursdays

Fifteen.  15.  Fifteen.

You say that word to any experienced mother and she will just sigh, nod, whisper "I understand" and hand you a tissue.   As of this week, I will not have a single 15 year old in my house.  I will have a 17 year old.  A 16 year old.  A 14 year old and the 3 littler ones.  BUT for 6 blessed months I will not have a 15 year old.

Twice I have survived this journey.  More importantly, so have both my oldest boys.  Barely.

Just think, I only have 4 more kids to go.

Parenting a 15 year old boy is similar to running into a brick wall.  Think the Great Wall of China sort of brick wall.  You can't go over it, you can't go under it and trying to get through it feels close to impossible.

I advise a good friend you can vent to, a case of red wine and a really, really good therapist.

Because if you survive it, the payoff is apparently 17.  17, when the glimpses of the adult your child is becoming become more frequent.  17, when they offer you a chair in a crowded waiting room.  17, when they thank you for cooking them dinner and they know, almost, how to have a polite conversation about something other than themselves.  

I had heard stories about being the mother of teenagers.  I really thought that my 'spectacular' parenting and strong desire for harmony would mean we could sail through these years in a sea of calm mutual respect and personal growth, working together towards our combined goals of my peace of mind,  and their maturity and independence.

All the mothers of preschools just hopefully smile and nod.  All the mothers of teenagers laugh.

Parenting teenagers.  Never dull.  Never easy.  Always rewarding.

And now I have two that drive.   Where is the Ativan when you need it?



PS  Sorry for disappearing for the last, well year or so.  Hockey season absorbs everything.  Teens and Toddlers absorb the rest.

Well Hello There

I am suddenly getting a lot of hits on THIS  post.  I am not really sure why but Hi everyone and welcome.

That post was written last summer and in the last year and a bit, things have changed.  The girls' mother has moved away and our contact has lessened with her, but our contact with extended family has increased.  We have began contact now with the girls' father's side of the family (although not with him).

There are days that I love the contact and there are days feel like I live in a fishbowl.  Some days are easier.  Some days are harder.

But the girls and the boys are thriving.   They are loved by many and that is good.

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Edited to add:  The hits are coming from HERE    Thanks for taking the time to read, and to share.    

We are fine. In fact we are GREAT.

We are good. We are fine. We are safe. We are happy.

We are just really, really, really busy.

Some of us started dance, preschool and gymnastics.  One of us might be homeschooling a certain 10 year old and directing church nursery.

Some of us are playing Junior Hockey, which is a really, really big deal in some of our worlds.

Some of us are just too cute for words.

The Time Before

I don't think about it much.  Those hours and days before.

I try not to think of the cries that went unanswered or the meals that went unfed.  I try not to think of the cuddles that weren't given or the multiple strangers who stood in my place.  I can't fathom the scary times or sad times or even the possibility of happy times.  It is just too much.

I parent in a way in which I hopes help to heal the pain of what wasn't done then and what was lost when she became my daughter. I take countless pictures of every special moment of her life.  Literally thousands and thousands of pictures taken in the last two and a half years.

There are 12 months of my daughter's life of which there was no photo record.  I have asked. And asked.  And begged.  And asked.  This isn't uncommon for many children adopted at an older age but that doesn't make it any easier.  I have been this route before.  We have one photo of our oldest son as an infant and it is a priceless treasure.

But she has nothing.

She notices now, at three and a half  "Where is Baby Taya, Mommy?" as we look through albums of her brothers and sister.  I ask again.

Our "Openness Agreement" has developed into a genuine and easy friendship.  A sisterhood of love for the same children.  Yesterday for the first time, I dropped by unannounced for a surprise visit with an extended family member.  We were out of town, unable to reach them through conventional means and just stopping by was the only option.  We were welcomed and embraced.   We had a picnic together and then a long drive back to town.  It was a lovely visit.  An easy visit.

I asked again.

When I dropped them off, she asked me to wait for a moment as she ran inside her home.  Out she came with a bag of undeveloped film canisters.

"I think there might be a picture on these" she said.

This morning I stood with trembling hands at the photo desk at WalMart.  I tried not to hope, convincing myself that chances were, they were pictures of other people. Other days.  Other times.

And I was right.  The first two batches I looked through were holiday pictures and blurry faces of distant relatives.  One whole roll was completely blank.

I grabbed the last envelope heavy with pictures and flipped it open.   There, staring back at me were the eyes of my infant daughter.

The weight of those missed moments, the weight of the gaps in her story, the weight of her time before us hit me like a physical punch to the chest and I gasped.  Tears poured from my eyes, as the poor teenager behind the desk stared at me in horror.  "Oh it's a good thing"  I explained  "a very good thing!".

They are poorly lit and horribly fuzzy.  They are taken on a cheap, old camera.  We don't know exactly how old she is, or where they were taken.   But they are HER.  They are HERS.  They are a part of her early story captured for her to see.  Captured for me to see.  A tiny glimpse but so incredibly precious.

My baby, our baby.   I am so incredibly thankful for a few fuzzy pictures sitting in a drawer waiting to be discovered and I am so incredibly thankful I was entrusted with them.

Fresh Air Fund - Give a Kiddo a Summer Experience

Well us West Coasters aren't getting much of a summer, and the East Coasters are melting under the scorching sun  (the sun we haven't seen in two months I would like to point out)  most of us are still getting to enjoy a change of location this summer.   A trip to the beach, a jaunt into the woods for a hike, or a camping vacation with the family are all part of most of your summer plans.  

I remember once having a conversation with my sons' biological father where he lamented the reality that he had no idea how to relate  to the boys childhood experiences.  He had never camped, never ridden a motorcycle, never been in a boat, never seen the ocean and never water skied.  In fact, he had never been out of the general location he was born in.  Ever.  And he was over 30.  Their childhood was as incomprehensible to him as his was to them.

There is an organization that seeks to make sure that ever child gets that fun summer experience, and they are still desperately in need of host families for kids THIS summer from the East Coast of Canada and the USA.  

PLEASE, go check out The Fresh Air Fund and considering hosting a child to give them a summer they will never forget.

Fresh Air children are boys and girls, six to 18 years old, who live in New York City. Children on first-time visits are six to 12 years old and stay for either one or two weeks. Youngsters who are re-invited by the same family may continue with The Fund through age 18, and many enjoy longer summertime visits, year after year. A visit to the home of a warm and loving volunteer host family can make all the difference in the world to an inner-city child. All it takes to create lifelong memories is laughing in the sunshine and making new friends.

The majority of Fresh Air children are from low-income communities. These are often families without the resources to send their children on summer vacations. Most inner-city youngsters grow up in towering apartment buildings without large, open, outdoor play spaces. Concrete playgrounds cannot replace the freedom of running barefoot through the grass or riding bikes down country lanes. 

Multi-Cultural Family

We are in the middle of packing up for our Harambee Camp, which is a celebration of African culture and the highlight of our year.  In the middle of planning for our grand African Adventure, we shook off our jingle dresses, tied up our moccasins and headed out to celebrate and honor National Aboriginal Day. 

I looked at my kids, my African-Canadian-American son, with the head full of dreadlocks,  holding on to his Jingle Dress wearing First Nations sister's hand while his  French-Norwegian-Irish-Swiss-Russian-Canadian brother sat beside him eating an Indian Taco and there was a small part of me that realized that maybe my normal isn't necessarily everybody else's normal.

And I felt sorry for everybody else.

Our life is so RICH.  Rich with culture and history and color.  We are blessed beyond measure by communities that have embraced us and still challenged us to know more, do more, be more for our kids.

I cannot imagine how little I would know about the rest of the world if I had chosen to stay in my world of White Privilege.

Maybe you are reading this and you are considering adopting transracially, or you are the parent of an adult child considering adopting transracially and you worry.   You might worry about the work involved to be a transracial adoptive parent, because there is a lot of work involved in being a GOOD transracial adoptive parent.   You might be scared of the opinions of others, because nothing really hurts more than realizing that someone else either doesn't view your child as equal in value to their own, or doesn't view your parenthood as being as legitimate as their own.  And it does hurt.  You might worry about raising teenagers when you don't fully comprehend what it is like to live in their skin, and it is very hard.   You might find a thousand reasons why adopting transracially has a cost, and there is a cost and probably you can find enough reasons to justify running far away from ever expanding the color of your family.  But that would be so sad, not for the children, who would hopefully find a family willing to embrace them and celebrate them, but for you and your little, tidy world.

I am richer for my kids.  I am richer for being in awe of the Elder willing to teach my children the history of hoop dancing or the kind emcee inviting my daughters to dance at a Pow Wow.  I am richer for understanding racism and culture and the horrors of prejudice.   I am richer for putting their needs before my own discomfort.

My life, my brown, black, white, multi-colored life is good.

On Men and Fathers and having a Daddy

I watch my husband sometimes with my kids and I wonder, in awe, how it is that I knew how to pick a good husband to be and a good father to be when I was only nineteen.  Engaged at nineteen.  Married at twenty.  Parents of three by 25.  Parents of 6 by 35.

And I did pick a good one.  I knew to expect to be treated well.  I knew I was lovable and beautiful and smart and deserving.  I knew that because my daddy had always told me I was.

I was his favorite Jennifer in the WHOLE WORLD.  And I knew I deserved a good guy because my dad showed me I did every single day of my childhood.

The words we heard this week were "terminal"  "limited options"  "aggressive".  And worse, "no cure".   We have some time to try to fight, but no one can really saw how much.  It was bad news. VERY BAD NEWS.

My dad is sick.  Really, really sick. His birthday this year is on Father's Day.  Sunday.

Honestly, I don't really know what to say other than I love him.  And that we need him.  My kids need him.  My sister needs him.  My nephews need him.  My step mom needs him.  I NEED HIM.

I have a hard time right now talking TO HIM.  I can talk about him just fine, but to him?  It is so hard to pick up that phone and say hello.   Why?  Because I know how badly he needs me to be OK.  He has spent his whole life making sure I am OK.  Checking my tire pressure every time I come over.  Topping up the oil, checking my wiper fluid. A quick hug and a glance  "You OK, Jen?".  "Yes dad!" and a smile of relief.

More than anything I know my dad wants us all to be OK.  It is not himself he is worried about.  In typical amazing dad fashion, it is ME.

And honestly, I am not.  I don't feel strong enough or wise enough or brave enough to face this battle with him.  I feel like a three year old who needs to know her daddy is the strongest man in the whole world and will fix anything and everything, always.   I want to hide and shut down and forget.   And he wants me to be OK.  Not to cry or sob or be a little girl scared of losing her daddy, but to be the capable woman he raised.

He has taught me strength.  And fortitude.  And how to be brave and strong and resilient.  He has taught me how to survive this and it is a lesson I never wanted to know.   Because his strength and bravery and hard work have been my foundation.  And can you survive without your foundation?  I really don't want to find out.

Happy Father's Day Dad.  Happy Birthday Dad.  I love you.

And I hate cancer.

I guess this means it is summer

Last night hockey finally ended for the season.  We were sad.  We shed tears.  We did NOT riot.

Those that did in no way represent me and my hockey loving kids. Nor my city. Nor my country. Nor my hockey team.

We have been to the beach, dodging rain drops that seem to have never abated this spring.

Two of my kids are still in school until the end of the month, two start their summer holiday today.  Two of the others are just so busy playing in the sand box to care much about school at all.

Things are have been good.  SO good.  I mean still hard and complicated and busy and crazy but good.  Stable.  I am all for stable.  Stable means kids wrestle and it's in FUN not because they are trying to kill each other.

We will travel this summer across the country.  Saskatchewan here I come.  Again. Did I mention 24 hours of driving ONE WAY. I have one more day of paid home schooling.  I think possibly it is one day too many.

Some days I feel like I have nothing left to say.   Others I wish I could share more.  But I am still here.  My kids are still amazing.  And I am beginning to see the light of a fun summer ahead.