Mother Love

On this day I think, of course, of my mother.
Spontaneous spirit, generous heart, healing hands.
The one I still want when I am hurt, or sick, or afraid.
Always supportive of me, even when she cannot support my choices.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

And I think of my children.
My joy- and my work.
The ones who by their simple existence confer on me
the title “Mother.”
Their smiles and their tears give rich meaning to my life
now unimaginable without the presence of each one.
Bennett, Merrick, Giselle, Calder, Isaac, Jotham:
Mama loves you so very much.

Mostly though, today I think of two other mothers.
The first mothers of my children.
The mothers who nurtured and nourished them for nine long months
while I only dreamed about and prayed for my future babies.
They were already mothers, bringing up the brothers and sisters of my son and daughter
they knew the fierce strength of mother love
And yet they made the choice to sacrifice their parent-right
to raise the ones they placed in my arms.
Such a priceless gift
From mother to mother.
The gratitude I feel for the blessing of my children is inexpressible~ perhaps unknowable.
But on this day, I think of them.
To my children’s first mothers:
From the depths of my soul~
I thank you.

Happy Mother’s Day.
__________________

This sucks.

I have a special friend. We grew up in the same small town, and we lost someone who was important to us both. You might say that our relationship was tested through the fire of grief. We cried, we laughed, we danced. Then we left our small town on different roads, me to the city, him to foreign lands and back again. But I’ve kept track of where he is, and write a couple times a year. His presence in the world is a kind of marker for me~ a way to frame who I have been. It is comforting that we hold memories together. It is hard to express his significance in words.

And in a craptastically ironic twist, now he is leaving, too. He has been fighting, hard, for months, but his body can’t do any more. His eyes are still piercing, and so is his wit. (When his daughter asked whether they would keep his ashes in a vase he told her no, a butter dish.) His spirit is vibrant, but his breathing is labored. His doctors have told him it is time.

My faith says, and I do believe, that God has this. That it’ll all work out, in the big-E End. Everything will be renewed, restored, made right, holy, whole. All will be, then, “well with my soul.”

But right now? Every fiber of my being cries out with the injustice. I hate the broken-ness of our world. I abhor that disease can waltz in and feel entitled to whisk away someone who is not yet done living. I hate that my friend will miss seeing his children grow to adulthood. I hate that he will not have golden years with his wife on the porch. I hate the upside-down heartbreak of his mother, who will outlive both of her children. I hate that bad shit happens to good people.

When he is gone, he will leave a big, big hole in many lives. I will miss him. And it sucks.

(In Memoriam: JDG 12/17/71 – 07/17/2011)

On Planning Parenthood…

I have been pondering lately the idea of planned parenthood. (Not so much the organization as the philosophy behind it, though.) Here’s the thing: I totally agree that it is wise to consider when the timing of adding a baby to the family is appropriate/neutral/less-than-ideal. Ideally, every pregnancy would be desired, and every baby born into a family that could provide for every need. (As an adoptive mother, I can tell you that without exception every baby *is* wanted, by someone.) And yet, though I agree that planning for parenthood is a good thing, I am in the position of having had five (yep, five) UN-planned pregnancies. In fact, even though I am happily married and my husband and I did intend to have children at some point, each of our pregnancies was achieved despite our attempts to avoid conception.
Clearly, we are fertile folk. I realize we are in the statistical minority, that relatively small “failure rate” you see when looking at rates of pregnancy while using various methods of contraception. And yet, it illustrates to me that our desire and attempts to control this area of our lives are not fail-proof. Ultimately, we don’t “control” it… God does. (You’ve heard that saying, right? “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.”)
I believe that God is the great Creator… that, he “wove me together in my mother’s womb.” And that every child growing in the womb is known and has been purposed by Him. So, despite my trying to schedule the way my children would come into our family, God overrode those plans. He gave them to me, though I did not necessarily desire to welcome them at that time. It has been a lesson in surrender, and I have come to more deeply understand how to submit to God’s plans when they are not my own.
I do think that it is important to recognize that our sexuality is tied to reproduction. (Um, duh.) There is, for opposite gender partners who are not infertile (a whole ‘nother topic when it comes to trying to control), no such thing as consequence free sex. (Despite our culture’s ignoring this truth.) You will either abstain during fertile periods (and take responsibility to learn how to track those accurately) or accept a certain level of risk, whether of the possibility of pregnancy or of side-effects of contraceptives. (Or, if you are super-duper lucky like me: both!) These are simply the facts. And, really, it is a pretty fitting introduction to parenthood in my experience. So many times my expectations or hopes for how things would look with respect to my kids have been shattered by reality.
It occurs to me that we really, really like to believe that we control things. So we plan. But our attempts to control things can get into really murky ethical waters when it comes to reproductive rights and babies. Forced sterilization. Octuplets. Abortion. Prenatal testing. Selective reduction. Population control. Gender selection. And the vitriol that can get spewed when folks on one side or the other start debating the issue~ clearly these things are held close to our hearts.
I wonder if we can attempt to hold these things tightly while at the same time being open to hearing other voices… refusing to get caught up in “us vs them” thinking. Can we move beyond gut reactions to people’s actions or values that we don’t agree with (or even understand) to seeing the PEOPLE~ to seeing that of God in the other? It’s a lot harder than it sounds, at least for me… especially because it involves children. What about you?

The Great Pearl…

“Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it.” Matthew 13:45-46

I am a storyteller in a Godly Play classroom at my church. One of the things I love about Godly Play is that rather than the adults telling the children what the stories in scripture mean, we invite them to wonder about the stories, and explore what the Spirit is teaching them directly. It is a wonderful way to worship, and often I am astounded with the depth of what I learn by being with the children and the stories in this way.

A few weeks ago I told the parable of the Great Pearl from the above verses in Matthew. It is the shortest of all of the stories I tell in Godly Play. It takes a little while, though, because while I tell it I move the merchant as he seeks the pearl, and when he finds it, I move EVERYTHING HE HAS (all of his possessions, including his house) so he can trade it all for the pearl.

As we wondered about the story, I heard what I had been taught as a child about this parable.

I wonder who the merchant could really be? “I think it is me. I think it’s Christians. I think it’s people looking for God.”

I wonder what the pearl might really be? “It’s God. It’s Jesus. It’s heaven. It’s being saved.”

And then, a quiet little voice said “I think it might be me.” And that parable all of a sudden got turned upside down.

What if *I* am the great pearl… so valuable, so desired by Christ, that he would (he DID!) give everything for me? What if my child… with his lack of perfection (like my own), his *dis* ability (like my own), his “special needs” (like my own) is the great pearl? (He IS!!)

Oh, what a remarkable truth I was given this day, such wisdom from a child.

By the grace of God…

We have been reading through James this month in our home fellowship. I’ve always liked the first chapter of James… reminding us to “consider it pure joy” to face trials. Let me tell you, with six children, it feels like I am constantly facing trials. And James gives us the hope that these things are used by God to grow us in our faith, to bring us closer to perfection in Christ. So whether it’s a small trial like lost keys or a big trial like a scary diagnosis, we know that we can rejoice, that God will work it for our good, and to God’s glory. This, I like. This place, I can live in pretty easily.

But read a bit further on, and you start getting into that bit about our works (attitudes, behaviors, etc.) being evidence of our living faith. And late in chapter two comes this humdinger:
“You foolish person, do you want evidence that faith without deeds is useless? Was not our father Abraham considered righteous for what he did when he offered his son Isaac on the altar? You see that his faith and his actions were working together, and his faith was made complete by what he did. And the scripture was fulfilled that says, “Abraham believed God, and it was credited to him as righteousness,” and he was called God’s friend. James 2:20-23

Yikes.

I can tell you, I’ve never been that fond of the story of Abraham taking Isaac up to Moriah and offering him to God. I mean~ this wasn’t a Hannah-offering-Samuel kind of deal, where at least she knew he was being well cared for and could visit once in awhile. This was him fully agreeing to sacrifice~ to kill! his son… the longed-for fulfillment of God’s promise to make him the father of nations. I admit that I am suspicious of Abraham’s complete obedience… did he perhaps plead with God to spare his son? Did he pray the whole long trek up the mountain that there would be another way? Did he dare to hope that, as he told his son before tying him up and laying him across the altar: God would provide the sacrifice? He was, after all, human. And a Daddy.

I know that for me, one of the hardest things to do in my day to day life is to let go. To fully accept that the Creator of the universe also is the Creator of my child. He is loved by God~ more than he is loved by me. And while I have been blessed with the task of guiding and loving and raising him~ he really belongs first to God. And living fully into that truth is a result of my faith, and evidence of it.

Would I be able to surrender so completely to the will of God that I could sacrifice my son? I hope I will never have to find out. Should I, every moment of every day, surrender to the truth of God’s love and control over the life of my son? I hope that I do, by the grace of God.

Kinda like this…

I went to a baby care class today. It’s offered by our local adoptive families support/resource organization to families waiting to bring home a child through adoption~ it’s sort of like a childbirth preparation class, minus the birth part. And there are lots of topics covered, from basic newborn care and babywearing to international travel and lifebooks. I volunteer to lead a breakout session on adoptive breastfeeding. (Yes, you can breastfeed your adopted child.) They also have adult adoptees come to share their experiences. I listened in as one young woman, transracially adopted from Korea at 7 months, talked about her journey processing her adoption. She said “I had thought that once I worked through this stuff with my therapist, that I would be over it… that I could ‘be done’ with the adoption work. And what I realized is that when I go on to have my own children, the fact that I am adopted will affect them, too. They won’t look like the cousins or the grandparents, either. And I realized I won’t ever ‘be done’ with it. It’s raveled up in all these other parts of who I am… and that’s okay. And it ebbs and flows. So sometimes, my being adopted is up on the shelf, and I’m busy with my work and my husband and my life, and I just don’t think about it. But then something will happen, and I’ll take it down, and hold it, and think about it… and it can become pretty encompassing for awhile. And that’s okay… it’s all okay, because it’s part of who I am.”

And I thought… yes. It is like that. And I realized, Down syndrome is like that, too. Some days, my son’s diagnosis just doesn’t occur to me, because I’m busy feeding, playing, bathing, changing… just going about life. And then, something may happen… (or *nothing* may happen) and I’ll take it off the shelf again, and hold it, and worry it, and it can become pretty encompassing. But we all have things like that, right? Whether it is being adopted, or having a diagnosis… or anything that we claim as part of our identity. It’s part of who we are… a piece of what makes us uniquely us.

What labels do you wear? Which one did you take off the shelf today?

A quick lesson…

So here’s the mini-summary of how Down syndrome happens. In humans, a cell nucleus contains 46 individual chromosomes or 23 pairs of chromosomes (chromosomes come in pairs, remember? 23 X 2 = 46). Half of these chromosomes come from one parent and half come from the other parent. Down syndrome is a chromosomal abnormality characterized by the presence of an extra copy of genetic material on the 21st chromosome, either in whole (trisomy 21~ about 95%) or part (such as due to translocations or mosaicism~ between 3-5%). So, basically, folks with Down syndrome have a little bit “extra”… that bonus chromosome, bringing their total to 47. Make sense?

And here’s some links to show you what people w/an extra chromosome can do:

Swim across large bodies of water. (and start a foundation, become a motivational speaker…)

Become a sought-after rap artist

Create, share, sell artwork

Star in the Tribeca award-winning documentary about being in love and planning your wedding

Dance at a respected performing arts school… and model on the side

So… the same things everybody else does… and sometimes, a little bit extra.

My foot hurts…

Six weeks ago today, as I was rushing to pick up my daughter from kindergarten, I fell and sprained my left foot. As a child I was pretty clumsy, and broke several bones as well as spraining various joints. I haven’t had an injury this bad, though, since before I was married. I was a bit late, because I had been trying for five minutes to fish out a Hot Wheels car from the van door well where the one year old had dropped it. I never did get it out, just shut the door and prayed it wouldn’t get stuck. Crossed the street with the one year old on my back, the two year old on my hip. And came to the place in the sidewalk where the roots of the old growth tree had cracked and buckled the concrete… and just caught the edge of my shoe. I went down hard, not only damaging my foot, but landing on my right knee. I ended up with a big abrasion and ruined a favorite pair of pants. Thankfully, neither one of the babies hit the sidewalk… my Mama-protective-mode was fully operational. I limped inside, wiped off the majority of blood in the bathroom, borrowed some arnica from a friend to slather on my swelling foot, and hurried the kids back out to the van before I passed out. Made it home and started making calls to get some help watching the kids so the husband could get me to the ER for x-rays.
Turns out, I didn’t suffer a break, but the sprain has been perhaps even worse than a break would have been. I stayed off the foot for a few days as best I could. (Difficult, that, when you have small children.) Visited my chiropractor friend who used a cold laser on it (amazing!) which helped a lot. Ice, arnica, ibuprofen, crutches… limp, limp, limp. So now, six weeks later, I’m getting around pretty much normally. But boy, it still hurts. I have to be very careful how I step, and if it stretches the wrong way… ouch. I can’t sit cross-legged because resting my foot on the injured side is completely our of the question. (Additionally, I can’t kneel because my knee is still hurting, too!) I’m doing some gentle physio-therapy kinds of work, trying to strengthen it… hoping it continues to improve.
In the meantime, though… it hurts. And I am actually grateful that it does. Because every time I feel it, I am reminded how very lucky I am. I have been blessed with a well working body. I have eyes that see, ears that hear… feet and legs that support me and move me where I need to go. How often I have taken my body for granted. So they have been a good reminder, this sprained foot and bruised knee of mine~ and I limp from the furthest space in the parking lot (even in the rain) with gratitude.

Mister Blue Sky…

I saw this movie a few days ago, and am still mulling over it. I thought the actors were pretty good, though the writing could’ve been better… but the story itself was extremely compelling.
It is about three childhood friends, two girls, one boy. They are neighbors and “soul-mates”, the three playing and dreaming together. They grow up, grow apart, find their way back together, fall in love. The interesting bit? One of them has Down syndrome. The questions that arise when the boy realizes that he really loves the girl with DS, rather than the typical girl he’s been dating… well, like I said, it’s pretty compelling.
I wonder… why is it that the first reaction so many have is that he is “taking advantage” of her? Can we really measure whether that is true simply by knowing there is a difference in IQ? And if so, where is the line? Would you imagine that my husband has been taking advantage of me for 17 years if you knew that his IQ is significantly higher than mine? What if the reverse were true? And if we are, say, thinking less about IQ and more about self-help skills… well, then, what about the kid I went to high school with who was paralyzed in a car accident? Is his able-bodied wife taking advantage of him? Is it wrong?
Particularly thought provoking for me, because you see, I always get a bit misty when I see a sweet couple who happen to have Down syndrome madly in love… dating or getting married. It seems so *right*… and I think to myself: that could be my boy someday!
Yet, the truth is I have never really pictured him getting married to a ‘typical’ young woman. And I admit that I would be at least initially suspicious, likely, of one that might make advances.
Which, I realize, when I really break it down… is incredibly patronizing. It strips my son of his full humanity~ that which I want so badly for everyone to affirm.
I want to move beyond this place… and I want the rest of you to move with me. Who knows… perhaps in twenty years or so some really intellectually advanced woman will realize she has the social and emotional intelligence of a kumquat, and she will recognize in my son a tender heart and compassion for others that perfectly balance her weakness. After all, isn’t that really what a great marriage looks like? Complementary partners, journeying together, holding each other up… uniting in love to create a beautiful picture of the fullness of Divine character?
Who are we to say that the only way that can be “right” and “good” is if the two choosing to marry are within the same category… the same color/class/culture/religion/IQ range/whatever.
I want to embrace and affirm the right for my son, and for all people with Down syndrome, to live fully, and love fully. I pledge to work to make it happen. And if he falls for a gal with a really high IQ… I promise I won’t hold it against her.

Outcast…

I happened upon an oldish (2005) sort-of-parenting zine today called “hip Mama.” It’s a reader-written publication for progressive families put together in Portland, but with submissions from all over. The issue I came across had “Outcast” as the theme. In it was this poem by Jacqueline Meisel.

I am
as a white from Africa
living in America
as a Jew in the Diaspora
as a socialist in the oh so
material world

outcast
I am
as the mother of a labeled boy
a child with an extra chromosome
who looks odd
in a cute sort of
Down Syndromey way
those slanty eyes
that flat faced grin
he acts weird
but goddamit
he loves life

and reminds us to,
too.

He knows he is loved and does not feel
cast out.