Just keep swimming

We travelled last week to Isle of Palms outside of Charleston, SC for our annual Shaylor family beach trip. We were lucky enough to get to all stay together in a house right on the beach that also had it's own pool, which was really awesome. As a child we did this for a week every summer. Some of my fondest childhood memories are from going to this island, playing for hours in tidepools. Dripping wet sand all over my grandmother's feet, eating homemade peach ice cream, swimming in the ocean. Running free over the sand. But the beach there is no longer the beach of my childhood. The constant crash of the waves has worn it down, changed it. In fact, at high tide, there is practically no beach at all. The tidepools that I loved so much as a kid were no longer there. That is, of course, what the ocean does - it is an unstoppable force for change. Everything, all of us included, are changing all the time. Morphing into new versions of ourselves.

Gus is so fully himself. I am absolutely in awe of it. It makes me wonder if I was ever like that. I'm not sure I was. I try to always be my most authentic self, but I find it quite difficult. Sometimes I don't have any clue where to even start being Me. Time and the tide have left their mark. Gus on the other hand, has no idea how to be anything but. He doesn't know yet that there is any other option than for him to be completely himself, all the time. I love it. My most fervent hope is that I never do anything to screw that up. That I can always support him of course, but also get out of the way so he can go on being himself.

I think he may be part fish. (Also part dog. But that one I've known for a while.) I knew he loved the water, he always has. But this past week I was amazed. This kid isn't even two and he can pretty much swim. He is fearless. He jumps right in. What's more, he stays underwater with his eyes wide open and a giant smile on his face as he's swimming. It's really kind of unbelievable.

Every morning when I'd go in his room he'd sit up and say, "Beach!" Out in the ocean, he kept wanting to go further and further past the breakers, asking for bigger and bigger waves, all the while swimming out of our arms saying "Fish, Fish, Fish." I wish I had that kind of confidence. I wish I were that fearless. I know that we will have to teach him a healthy respect for water, especially the ocean, but there's time for that when he is a little bit older. Right now we are obviously going to be right with him anytime he's in the water. Right now, I don't want to do anything to stifle his audacious spirit.

On top of being so fearless, Gus also just really digs life. He is so happy all the time. He really LIVES every minute. He is my little extraverted party animal. He loves everybody. In fact, sometimes he loves a little too persistently - in the form of hugging. He loves to give hugs. To dogs, his cousins, friends, strangers, it doesn't matter. Sometimes he doesn't realize he's bigger than those he's hugging, or that perhaps not everyone wants a hug all the time. That's another challenge for me. Sometimes other parents aren't so keen on Gus' over-eager cuddling. But I really don't want to discourage him from being loving and effusive. He's a toddler. He's all emotion and impulse. All he knows is that he has a lot of love to give and by golly, he's going to give it! In this world, how can that be wrong?

I hope that Gus will always feel comfortable being his most true self. With us and also out in the world. His experiences in life will shape and change him of course, just as surely as the ocean shapes the beach. But I hope that he will be able to not be pulled completely under, beaten down, when a huge wave comes at him. Or at least that he'll be able to come up mostly unflustered, and take a breath, ready for the next wave and the next one and the next one. I hope he will always be able to keep swimming.

Love

Love. Love. Love. I feel sometimes like I might be swallowed up by all the hate out there in the world, but I have to remember the only way to fight back, the only way that will ever make a difference, is love. But it's difficult. When there are people saying things about my family? When they don't even know us?

I don't think Gus has a hateful bone in his body. He loves animals, and kids on the playground who hit him, and homeless people, and just about anyone who seems scared. Even when he was a tiny tiny baby, (like only days old still in the nursery at the hospital tiny) he seemed to tune in to other kids who were upset. I would hold him and whisper that he was okay, that it wasn't happening to him, that the other kid who was crying would be okay too, and he would settle down. Maybe (big possibility) I was projecting stuff onto him, but I don't know. He does seem to be empathic. He goes up to kids who are crying and comforts them. He puts his arm around kids in his swim class who are scared. 

Gus, on the other hand, doesn't seem to fear much of anything. He got 4 shots at his 18 month appointment and didn't even flinch. He goes down the big slide by himself at the park. Sometimes he falls because it's so fast - but he hops right up and starts climbing the stairs, ready to go again. He's been okay being dunked under water (at swim class) since he was about 7 months old. He goes to sleep at night in a completely dark room all by himself (that's new and we are sooo proud!).  Maybe there is a connection between his fearlessness and his big-heartedness?

I do think there's some lesson in there. Because hate is driven by fear. So the best response would seemingly be to show the haters love. But, damn, that is hard. Especially when they are hatin' on me just for being myself. I think I may be too old and cynical to be able to respond with love. The best I can do is walk away. But Gus, I think, could be a little ambassador of love. I think kids often are. I know many stories about icy relationships melting once kids are involved. But it doesn't seem fair to him, to be put in that position. Then again, he has to live in this world. Hate and fear are taught. So is love I guess. I'm not sure. All I know is that I want to do my best to encourage him to continue to be confident, to be fearless where it counts: to love.

Obstacles? I don't see any obstacles.

I've been thinking about obstacles while watching my son. He doesn't know what they are. Something is on the floor in your way? No matter, you crawl over it, force your way under it. There is a step, or a piece of furniture, or a cat in your path? Just keep going. If only it were that easy for the rest of us. One of his favorite games at the moment is to have Mama (me) crawl around behind him on the floor. He crawls a few feet, then stops and turns to make sure I'm following. I'm usually closer than he expects, I guess, and he bursts into peals of laughter, his right cheek dimple on full display. Then he takes off again. Usually under the dining room table and chairs. Despite the bruises on my knees and the pain in my wrists, I kind of love it. But I can't make my way through the chairs like he does, I have to move them. I can't fly across the floor with abandon - I need to move the toys and pots and pans. I choose to go around the cats.

Psychologically speaking, I feel like I come up against a lot of obstacles. Many I put there myself. (I'm working on this) Some were put there for me. Some, quite frankly, are put there by this kid - the one who seems so rarely hindered. I'm not necessarily complaining about this. It's all a learning opportunity - and on the days where I'm feeling okay and I've had enough quiet, introverted time to myself and I've eaten as often as I should, I dig learning opportunities. But obstacles are still hard. They trip us up. Make us falter in our stride. Change direction.

As much as I sometimes think, "How can I encourage him to continue to be blind to obstacles?" I ultimately think that would be doing him a disservice. Not everything should be easy. Learning opportunities are vital to growth. Changing direction is how we deal, how we stay alive, really. But I do hope that he will continue to be mostly unfazed by them, or at least that they won't throw him as far off his path as they sometimes do me. I want him to learn. To grow. To cope. And to get up and keep going if (and, most assuredly, when) he falls down. I hope I can foster in him an ability to meet his obstacles with less anxiety than I meet mine. I hope he will always be willing to try. If his personality now is any indication, I think (fingers crossed) it's a real possibility.

What do you mean I don't fit under here with this pack on my back?

Connections

I've been struggling with how to write this post for a while now. I can't seem to come up with a metaphor that does justice to this part of our journey. Maybe there just isn't one. I've been thinking a lot about connection. In a myriad of ways, really. I am kind of a neuroscience geek and love reading about the brain. And the brain is all about connection. In fact, there are more possible connections between the neurons in your brain than there are atoms in the universe! That is absolutely mind-boggling and utterly fascinating to me. The thing about connections, though, both in your brain and in your life, is that you must maintain them. Sure, we all have a few close friends that we can go for months and months or perhaps longer without interacting with and then just "pick up where we left off" with them, but generally, those connections have to be nurtured. It takes work. It takes time. Sometimes we don't feel like doing it. Sometimes there are connections we'd be better off pruning. But, for the most part, when we have connections we are committed to, we're going to have to pull our weight.  Why the heck am I going on and on about this, you ask? Well, dear reader, I'll tell you.

We are matched! We have made a connection with a brave young woman who is committed to an adoption plan. We spent the month of June getting to know K over email, Facebook, phone and Skype.  And now, she has moved down to SF so that we can build an even stronger connection. We are excited. We are nervous. We are unbelievably busy! But most of all, we are committed to building and maintaining this connection with K for the sake of the kidoodle that's on its way.

Shelley's mom was adopted back in the "baby scoop era", when it was believed that cutting all ties between adoptees and their birthfamilies was the best thing for everyone. But there are fundamental, evolutionary reasons that humans desire to know their roots, where they come from, who they look like - and it is no longer believed that cutting those ties is healthy for anyone. Open adoption, though not perfect, is a way of maintaining those ties - that biological, fundamental connection.

It will be difficult at times, I'm sure. K will have to choose again to follow through with her adoption plan after giving birth, which will be excruciatingly hard. She may decide to parent, which is absolutely her choice, and one in which we will support her, but that, of course, would be difficult for us. This thing we're doing is not easy, and often daunting, but we have to stay committed and focused on why we are doing it:

This tiny human - he is the reason.

Amusement ride?

The awesome 10 year old that I get to hang out with most mornings and afternoons each week visited the Santa Cruz Boardwalk last weekend. She rode the Giant Dipper for the first time (the famed roller coaster featured in the great '80s vampire flick - before vampires were as trendy as they are now - The Lost Boys). Anyway, she was quite proud of herself for this accomplishment because, as she told me, she's "not really a roller coaster person."

And I realized, I'm not really a roller coaster person either. At least not of the emotional variety that we've been on lately. I used to really like them - the unexpected twists and turns, not being able to see what comes next at the top of the hill, the heart-pounding, stomach dropping into your feet adrenaline rush of it all. They never lasted long enough. I always wanted to go again. Now, I just feel like stop-the-dang-thing-I'm-going-to-puke-I've-had-enough-of-this-let-me-off-let-me-off-let-me-off! 

Listen, I know what you are thinking. The roller coaster metaphor is overdone when it comes to adoption and specifically waiting for placement. I once thought that too. Come on, how bad can it really be? Roller coasters are fun! I get it. I know. But believe me, there's a reason people use this example over and over again. Because a roller coaster is exactly what it feels like. You're up, you're down, you're all around. One day, you think you could have a baby soon. Then, it's Mother's Day and it feels like you'll never be a mother. Then, you get a call from the agency and there may be someone who might pick you. Or not. It's like the longest roller coaster ever and you're stuck on it for the foreseeable future with absolutely no sign the ride will ever end and the adrenaline rush is no longer fun but just makes you feel all anxious and panicky and exhausted.  At least that's how it makes me feel. 

I think I may have misrepresented the truth in one of my earlier blog posts. I may have made it sound like Shelley was the only one with control issues, the one having a hard time with this whole waiting thing. I don't think I meant to lie. I actually think I was okay. I think my Calvinist upbringing (I was raised Presbyterian) had me convinced that things would happen a certain way because they were predestined to. Huh, that was total autopilot. Now that I've stopped to examine it, I'm not so sure.

I am no longer amused by the "fun park" we seem locked in. I'm over all the merry-go-rounds, ferris wheels, and roller coasters. I feel old. I feel tired. I feel frustrated. I feel like I'm searching for someone in a crushing crowd of revelers - sometimes I think I catch a glimpse of them disappearing around the corner over by the corndog stand so I pick up the pace, dodging around the folks lined up for cotton candy, the happy couples strolling along holding hands, the over-tired toddlers in mid-meltdown - but then once I catch up I realize, nope, not who I thought it was. And I have to start looking all over again. Frankly, it's exhausting.

But what I have to remember, and this isn't always easy, is that my life - our life- is pretty freakin' great. We live in an amazing place. I have a "job" that allows me to spend time with one of the most creative, intuitive, funny kids I've ever met. We have friends, resources, access to healthcare, a yummy Indian restaurant that delivers on a Friday night when we don't feel like cooking. We are not making the unfathomably difficult choice to have someone else parent our child. And, not only do Shelley and I love each other, but after almost a dozen years together, we still dig each other. In fact, there is no one I'd rather have beside me on the thrill ride of life. But for now I'm going to hope it's more like a slow kiddie train than a roller coaster.

Swimming with Sharks

When Shelley and I were in the Galapagos last summer, we had the opportunity to swim with sharks. Now, I'm not a super phobic type person, I have no problem with spiders and heights and flying and such things that many people fear. I've done some daring, risky things in my youth. But sharks freak me out. In fact, the thought of them is always in the back of my mind when swimming or snorkeling in the ocean. I have no idea why, but there it is.

A few days after the last post, we missed another call. Then, the bat phone rang again and this time... We answered it! We talked, then skyped, then flew down to southern California and met the couple on the other end of the phone. They told us they wanted us to be their baby's parents! We got excited. And anxious. And a whole lot of other things.

Something I fear more than sharks, though, is missing out on a rare opportunity. I absolutely can't stand the thought of being really close to doing something cool and then not going through with it. So I got on the panga (motorized raft) that was taking us out to the shark-infested snorkeling site. These were not Great White Sharks. They were Hammerheads and Reef Sharks and Galapagos Sharks. They are well-fed because people are not allowed to over-fish their habitat. They would not even notice us, the guides assured us. At this point, I was really freaked out and was wondering why in the heck I was on this boat.

After being matched for 3 weeks, the couple decided they didn't like the agency format and chose to go a different way - without us. This is absolutely their choice - and that choice is one of the fundamental tenets of real open adoption - but it made us really sad. And frustrated. And disappointed. And a whole lot of other things.

When we got to the site, there was a tunnel through two huge rocks that was too narrow for the panga to go in; it would have to meet us on the other side. There would be no turning back - if I jumped off the boat, I'd have to swim through this dark, narrow, shark-infested tunnel.

And that's it, isn't it? One of the great truths of life: The only way out, is through. We have jumped into the cold waters of waiting and now we are stuck in the tunnel. It's freakin' scary in here! We thought we could see the light at the end, and now the waves have dragged us back in, crashing us up against the rocks. It feels like we will never get out, like we'll spend the rest of our lives caught in a riptide with sharks circling underneath us. 

I actually have no idea how I made myself jump off the panga into the water. I remember being pretty terrified. I remember Shelley telling me it was going to be okay. And then I was in the (very cold) water and into the tunnel and the guides were pointing out sharks and I was struggling to see them. And then there they were, about ten feet below me! The guides were right, the sharks had no idea we were even there. They were just going on with their lives as usual.

And I went from being completely afraid and freaked out to completely awed in a matter of seconds.

Everything about this experience of waiting to be chosen, of waiting to be parents, feels just as terrifying and impossible as jumping into that water and swimming through that freezing cold, dark tunnel full of sharks. But I have to trust that once we're on the other side, it will feel every bit as awesome, too. 

Missed connection...?

So... The bat phone rang on Saturday. Shelley was parking the car and couldn't grab it in time and has now convinced herself that this was the one and only contact we will ever get and because she didn't answer the phone in time we have lost out on our chance to be parents. Did I mention my wonderful spouse can be a *bit* of a drama queen?

This incident led to a conversation about how we each were handling (or not handling) this whole waiting thing. I don't know what it is, maybe I figure somewhere deep down that we can't both be losing it at the same time. Maybe the thought of actually getting the call freaks me out almost as much as not getting it. Maybe I'm dumping all my anxious, angsty energy into making stuff. But for some reason, I'm pretty content in the knowledge that this will happen when and how it's supposed to and there's not much I can do to control it one way or the other in the meantime. At least I am right now. Today.

Suffice it to say, that is NOT how Shelley is feeling about the whole thing. And I would hazard a guess that my weird zen-ness is probably irritating to her.  It's not an easy thing to do, this letting go of control. I definitely have areas in my life where I am not good at it. At all. I do think pouring my anxiety about this, or anything frankly, into my artsy-craftsy-creativey pursuits probably is one of the major ways that I am dealing with this right now. It's basically how I deal with most of my feelings - good or bad - so why not this, too? And it makes me feel like I'm *doing* something to prepare for this ambiguous kid that will someday, hopefully, be ours.

Only problem is, I'm running out of room in my studio for all the mobiles I've been making. Is there such a thing as a nursery with too much art?

Two words

If you start to follow this blog, you will quickly realize I'm a bit of a word nerd. I can get caught up in the meanings and implications and connotations of words, but I'm slowly learning that this is not always a wise tactic. Sometimes there is not an underlying meaning, sometimes people are just grappling to communicate with the vocabulary available to them. And that's okay.

That said, I do want to explore the definitions of two words that are significant to this blog and significant to the journey upon which my partner and I are embarking - the path to parenthood through domestic open adoption. I'm writing this entry before we are actually completely done with all of our paperwork and "in circulation" - though we are really, really close. (The mix of stress, anxiety, and excitement we are feeling is another entry for another day). I probably won't actually publish this post until we are approved and up and running, so to speak, at which point I'll introduce myself a little better. But for now, permit me to geek out...

o*pen [oh-puh n]

-adjective

1. accessible, as to apeals, ideas, or offers

2. unreserved, candid, or frank

-verb

1. to set in action, begin, start, or commence

2. to uncover, lay bare, or expose to view

There are many other definitions for the word open, but to me, these are the ones that best convey what open adoption is about, what it is we are trying to do with this blog, and how we try to live our lives in general.

The next word is one of my favorites. It is what we named this blog and what we really feel our life together is. And if I understand at all the intensity that is to come both in the act of building our family and then in raising a kid, I think it is just about the only word that could do the whole thing justice.

ad*ven*ture [ad-ven-cher]

-noun

1. a bold, usually risky undertaking; hazardous action of uncertain outcome

2. an exciting or unusual experience

-verb

1. to risk; to take the chance of; dare

Hazardous action of uncertain outcome? That's pretty much the definition of life, isn't it? So here we go...