I AM in control

As I lay in ER, listening to the electronic beeps that signified my heart and the numbers that illustrated my breathing, I had but one thought: I'M IN CHARGE HERE. And therein lies the problem.

Being a working mom of two children is challenging. Starting a new business is challenging. Have a child with learning differences that take time and conscious effort each and every day is challenging. Having health issues that point out your age and your heredity is challenging. Being a caring partner in the midst of the madness is challenging. But for me each one of these challenges was just that - a thing to be overcome, to be surmounted, to be willfully crushed into submission. And then reality and my body took over, and on a Tuesday afternoon I found myself in the ER, trying to use my mind to will my heart and lungs into submission as various doctors determined that no, it was not a heart attack. As proud as I was of being able to will my blood pressure down and my respirations into a low enough state to set off alarms, I realized that perhaps the thing that needed to be crushed into submission was my mind.

As mothers and women, we feel like we should be able to do it all. We are flawed or weak or somehow Less Than if we let the "usual" stresses of life get us down in anyway. We should be able - in one day - to get snacks for the soccer team, take kids in for vaccinations, fill in required school forms, shop for all the meals in the week, get dinner on the table and still earn the income, calm the clients and every once in a while do something brilliant to remind ourselves, our colleagues and our clients that we are The Bomb. Failure is not an option. Or is it?

The day after The ER Incident, I was back it - up at 5:15am to work out, at my desk at 7:30 and butt-in-seat until 6pm, when it was time to slap a quick dinner on the table and run out the door to a committee meeting. Both kids got teary as I left, asking me why I had to leave and why I was working so much that I no longer sang to them at bedtime. I tamped down my guilt and headed out the door, only to be hit with more guilt in my meeting as I realized that there was more to do for that group as well....everyone was missing their bedtime song, or in this case their strategy, their X need that only I seemed to be able to fulfill. And there it was, in front me...failure. But perhaps failure was not a fallback option or a gaping pit into which I could tumble. Perhaps I could actually rename "failure" and leap into it - shouting GERONIMOOOOO as I jump into the great unknown option that I would call...my new life.

My new life focuses on those things that I cherish the most: my children, my husband, my basic need to use my brain, and my need for salty snacks. It means singing at bedtime, not checking email after 8pm or before 8am, and ensuring that weekends are about downtime and cuddling in bed and easy dinners that may not make it into Gourmet magazine but will give us all the energy we need to have fun together. It's no longer about squeezing in a few hours to work while Gregg teaches the kids to ride bikes or throw a football as I teach them about absentee parenting. It's not about putting together proposals and sending out invoices or creating strategies for time-crunched clients. Yes, it needs to happen and it will...but during the week when the option to sing to my kids isn't available, when my husband isn't patiently waiting for me to climb into bed only to ignore him after immediately saying "watch me, watch me sleep..." as I drop off in 10 seconds or less.

I'll need to relinquish my need to be the one to "save the day" by getting a project done more quickly and better than someone else. I'll need to walk away from leadership roles that I felt I needed, that I felt defined me. I'll need to work like someone who actually has a life to live away from their office.

We'll make less money. We'll cut back on those little luxuries we had been clinging too. But we'll be richer in time. In those moments when Gregg and I can look at each other over our children's heads and know they just did or said something we can be proud of...or even dismayed by and perhaps need to consider therapy for. But we're there together to experience it, and I'll have enough energy at the end of all of it to at least spoon my husband before I say "Watch me. Watch me sleep".

To believe or not to believe

My son is deeply troubled by the kids in his class who have decided to mount a "There is no Santa" campaign in the second grade classroom. They have yet to create posters or a campaign slogan, but they are slowly cutting kids from the herd to individually tell them that Santa doesn't exist. Shawn Joaquin isn't questioning whether Santa exists — come on, what really bright kid starts questioning THAT gift horse weeks before Christmas? — but he's bothered by the campaign.

"X said it and then Y said 'yeah, I think that's right' and then two more boys decided to believe him," he reported at dinner. "I think they're trying to be cool." I would have to agree with him; these are the same kids who will have that first beer or first puff because X is the self-proclaimed cool kid who will be there to offer it to them. In fact, he's probably packing a candy cigarette deep in his backpack, just waiting for the opportunity to strike it up with a gummy match and say "hey, wanna drag?"

It pains me that peer pressure exists in a second grade classroom, but I am heartened by my son's firm belief that their anti-Santa campaign is just a sad commentary on their lack of imagination and general creativity. Madelena has dismissed them as future recipients of sticks and rocks in their stockings. I hope they get a can of whuppass with said sticks, simply based on their desire to rob other kids of their belief. But I also have to reflect on all of the magic that Santa represents, and if at the tender age of seven these kids are letting it go...what does their future look like?

Dear X and Friends:

By saying goodbye to Santa at seven, you are letting go of one of the easiest bits of magic to believe in. Here's how it goes: You believe in a guy that brings you a gift on Christmas. One that you've fervently wished for and written down in crayon on a piece of recycled paper, shoved in an envelope merely addressed "Santa, North Pole", and left in your mailbox. And POOF, on Christmas morning, said gift appears. Living proof of that magic's existence. X = Y. The Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy have similar X = Y stories, but none so fully supported as the man in the red hat's. But if you can't buy off on that and start to question it even before you can type his name into Snopes, what else will you miss out on? What else requires faith, a belief in magic and ignoring the loud voices of disbelievers?

True love. The belief that there are one or two people in this world who will really see you, love you, support you and want to be there from your best years through your more challenging years and future incontinence. And the faith that you will somehow find your true love through friends, happenstance or eHarmony.

Faith in other humans. Believing that most people, when given the chance, will actually do the right thing - regardless of what you'll someday read on CNN or have beamed to your brain remotely by whatever future news implant Rupert Murdoch's great-grandson has created.

Successful parenting. It is only through faith and belief in a little bit of magic that you and your future partner will be able to conceive, adopt or otherwise become parents to soft little creatures that you have the ability to break. Like an atheist in a foxhole, you will look for any glimmer of some higher power or guidance that will keep you from screwing up your child, somehow messing with those malleable little heads in such a way that they will move 3,000 miles just to avoid Thanksgiving dinner with you.

These are just a few of the things in front of you that require faith, creativity and a belief in a little bit of magic. Don't let go of it just yet, and don't take it away from the kids around you who are buoyed up by their belief in the big guy. Who rush from their rooms in the morning to see if their Elf on the Shelf has indeed returned from the North Pole after reporting their good behavior to Santa. Who write not just one or two but multiple letters to Santa, including one that just asks what kind of cookies he'd like to eat on Christmas night...knowing how tired he must be of sugar cookies with too much icing. Who will, on Christmas morning, awaken with more joy in their hearts than a mere present can be responsible for - the joy that comes from knowing that magic has visited their house in the cold, dark night. Leaving behind more than just a scooter or a book or a toy, but a reaffirmation that he or she has been a good kid that's been not just watched by but watched over by a jolly old soul all year...and all the years before.

Merry Christmas, X and Friends - here's hoping that you still hear the sleigh bells this year, and that your voices of skepticism don't drown out the sound of their magic for others around you.

The big day cometh...

For a year and two days, Madelena has been planning her 5th birthday party and wielded the event as a weapon: if on any given day you fell out of favor, you were NOT invited to her birthday party. At various times the entire family was banned from the hoopla, and she was going to enjoy it with her stuffed duck — Carmella — and Santa. On other days, her entire preschool class was also invited, minus two boys she referred to as 'bollies" and/or those not currently bending to The Will of Madelena.

Throughout the year, when turned down for any item, activity or food, Madelena followed up with "but on my birthday, I can have it, right Mama?" This phrase was used indiscriminately and often. Thus, "Yeah, sure" became a standard reply; if all requests were honored, today's guests could look forward to unfettered access to ravioli, trampolines, squirrels, feather boas, blue eye shadow, extra sharp scissors, gummy worms and unicycles. Performers would include face painters, storytellers, ballerinas and a pirate she became both enamored of and frightened by on the corner of Telegraph and Durant. The evening would end with a water fight and fireworks, and might then move on to Pump It Up for an after party. Alas, our backyard, pizza and a sparkly jumpy house will have to suffice.

No no no....thank YOU

Everyone expects a card or something made of macaroni on Mother's Day. What few expect is to have their heart broken.

The night before Mother's Day I had a date night with Gregg. When we came home, everyone was in bed and konked out and I was giddy with freedom and my unfettered access to DVRd programming beyond Wild Kratts. At 11pm I came downstairs, flushed with freedom and the joy that comes from watching TV without a single person asking "why", "what" or "can I have". Then I came downstairs and found the kids' very early cards for me. Though they stood between me and the sleeping pill I had been dying to take for weeks — finally banishing insomnia — I decided to go ahead and read them in advance of my actual day of celebration.

Madelena had drawn a variation on a spider and a birthday cake, two very popular themes in her portfolio now. Thankfully, these were not multimedia pieces; those have often left permanent stains or wounds after handling. Shawn Joaquin, the simpler artist, had created something on the back of a piece of paper recycled from work with the specter of the "Visa" logo shining through. I was ready for a battle scene with some hearts, maybe a picture of all of us in the middle of tall buildings or sunshine or grass. But instead I found a sentiment that immediately brought me to tears: "Thank you for adopting me."

Unless you are an adoptive family, perhaps the reason for the heartbreak is puzzling. After all, how often do our children thank us for doing anything? Do we not deal with entitlement struggles all the time, from their expectation that you will of course buy those stomp light shoes at an exorbitant price to yes, you will replace them in four months when they outgrow them?

As an adoptive mother, however, I deal with constant ignorance that calls into question my benefits from adoption; people often saying how lucky my child is to have been adopted by me, how nice it is that I can care for "someone else's child", how lucky they are to have a home with me instead of whatever their fate might have otherwise been. But the luck is mine, the gift is mine, and the gratefulness to the heavens, gods, energy, universal spirit or whatever brought these children into my life...is all mine. And never do I want my son to think that he needs to be any more grateful to have been adopted by me than another biological child might be grateful that his parents hooked up after a night out at a tiki bar. Never do I want him to think that he needs to thank me for becoming his mother. Thank me for washing his socks, for teaching him how to ride a scooter, for helping him to become a man that a woman can love. But never thank me for adopting him...that pleasure is all mine.

As I look at my beautiful, dark-skinned children I see MY children. I don't see someone I took in, someone I chose to help. I see the children who, as I have often said, were born from my heart if not my body. And like nearly every other mother on Mother's Day, I know that underneath the expectation that we be lauded for our year-round efforts is our very own gratefulness to the very beings that made us mothers. However they came to be in our arms.

Awakening

In recent months I have begun to acknowledge things within my children that I had previously denied, especially as it pertains to common characteristics among children adopted internationally. I had always dismissed the ideas as something created to explain bad behavior, or as creating a pathology for what is simply common behavior among children of a certain age. It had nothing to do with being adopted, let along whether that adoption was international or domestic. But today one of those characteristics stood up, slapped me in the face, and then shook me until my teeth rattled.

My kind, sweet baby boy - who feels the emotions of all around him - had a debilitating panic attack as we walked through the streets of Mérida. He was so overcome with terror that he attempted to run across the street to escape, nearly running in front of a speeding bus before being scooped up by his father. Strangers turned, sure that we had kidnapped the beautiful brown boy screaming in this Anglo's arms. As we attempted to quiet him, people stopped to check out the situation and determine our intentions and assess his safety. But all of that was a peripheral blur, so focused were we on calming him down.

Shawn Joaquin has an aversion to crowds and to noise, and often covers his ears to escape things that are even visually frightening to him - all the while continuing to stare at it. But today there was no escape from the incredibly crowded sidewalks, the music blaring from the stores, the police megaphones squawking, the teeming crowds that pushed up against him in the humid Yucatán centro. His anxiety was overwhelming, and he had a death grip on our hands as he alternately sobbed and reassured himself...and we continued to tell him we were close to our destination. He could work through this. He was safe. He begged to take a cab, but we somehow felt he could just make it two more blocks.

Then we hit a block with not only beggars, but beggars equal to an Indian novel - missing eyes or feet, others with gnarled body parts and some with parts of their minds long gone, leaving them to bash themselves in the face with the same cup they used to collect the infrequent centavo sent their way. One such woman was howling as she hit herself repeatedly, sitting in her wheelchair with twisted, Thalidomide limbs and unseeing eyes. Upon first passing her, Shawn Joaquin - ever the polite boy - stood frozen in fear but didn't want to say why; as he told us later, he didn't want to hurt her feelings. Madelena simply asked "hey, what happened to her," ever the pragmatist.

But when we had to turn around and give up on our journey, planning to just hit an air conditioned, quiet restaurant, Shawn Joaquin lost it and begged us to just get an a non-existent cab. We attempted to take a circuitous route back, avoiding some of the larger crowds, as sweat dripped down his face. We tried to speak calmly, reassuringly...just two more blocks, and we'd be in the restaurant and would take a cab home. Then suddenly he was in flight and dashing across the street - yet another frightening person had appeared on his left, and he couldn't take it any more. As we struggled to calm him and hustle across the street, we payed no attention to anything but him and traffic...and before we knew it, the head-bashing woman was there in front of us, howling directly at Shawn Joaquin. What had we done?

After that, he buried his head in Gregg's shoulder, shaking and heaving, until we were able to finally find a cab. In the cab, he fell apart not from the fear but his guilt at having subverted our day. He apologized all the way home, overwhelmed by guilt and not hearing our reassurance that it was okay...we understood.

But honestly, I don't completely understand. At least I don't understand or know what lies in the heart and mind of this incredibly sweet boy that makes him afraid of loud noises of any kind. Of even "normal" people who look just like him but walk too close to him. Of anyone with a disability or a different appearance. Of the average homeless person. Of anyone who looks too long at him on the street or in a restaurant, when he's sure they're laughing at him or plan to do him harm. He has been loved and protected and cherished since his first day of life - when he was given to the foster mother and family who loved him as their own, and then to me, his true mother for life. What lies within him, what loss does he feel, from the first of three mothers who had no choice but to give him up for his own survival? It breaks my heart, challenges my own faith in my abilities as a mother, and makes me desperate to find some solution for him - something that will lead to a life without this debilitating fear within him. My boy who wants to explore the world and learn about all cultures, but fears a trip to Berkeley because two years ago a homeless man growled at him and changed something within him. Or simply awoke something.

I would like to say this has nothing to do with his adoption, international or otherwise, but as I read more and more about similar experiences with similar children...I have to wonder. And while there is nothing I can do to change that past nor would I if it meant he were not my son - I have to change his future. I have to figure out what I can do help him become the person he wants to be, the explorer, the historian, the cultural anthropologist. Or I have to help him find a new future that he will not just accept, but embrace. And in the interim, we will take taxis. We will be aware of anyone a block away who might panic him. We will spend more of our days here in the safety of our home, in the pool, or in the quiet areas outside the city where we can wonder at the ruins or the sites and ensure that history is in the forefront of his mind....not fear.  And we will keep him safe, from dangers real, imagined or deep within his heart.