Vindauga

I did not cry at my son's kindergarten graduation today.

But I will have to make a concerted effort to hold it together tomorrow night when Rory graduates from the 8th grade. It won't be the typical "my baby is growing up" lament. Because while my children are growing with amazing speed, I find myself liking them more and more the older they get. I will cry because Rory will leave the wonderful little school that has been her community for the past eight years. I will cry because the last year has been one in which her teachers and classmates nurtured not only her brain, but her heart and soul. I have seen her take leaps and risks creatively that I didn't know a 13 year-old, let alone my 13 year-old, could be capable of.

She'll do fine in high school. All of my concerns about that were blazed and worried through with Mallory. Like all first-borns she is my test model, my sample kit. I work out the kinks with her, face my parenting fears and foibles, conquer what I can, forgive what I can't and move on. She is the mountain with the scary unknown summit that allows me to ski down the flip side with my other kids.

That's what I'll try to remember tomorrow night. Rory will be fine, just like Mallory was, and there will be a new adventure waiting for her, just like there was for her sister.

That is why I didn't cry at Mason's graduation today. All the first time parents were lamenting the loss of their children's babyhood.I know ,experiencing it for the fourth time, ultimately it's not the ending but the beginning of the next great thing.

Or at least that is the bullshit I keep telling myself to distract from the Munch like scream that is going on in my head.

And truth be told, we are all emotionally exhausted this week. Three of the kids will be in a new classroom (or school) next year and they've all loved this past year. There is a version of good-bye on this last day of school for my children. I've never seen them all mourn this much. I didn't cry, but tonight Mason did. Rory sobbed saying goodbye to some of her friends, and Lin did when reading a letter from her teacher.

Pass the tissues.

St. Patrick's Day- Wearing O' the Green

Reposted from 2005-

St. Patrick’s Day is a major holiday in my life. Not in the parade, green beer drinking way, but as a part of my family.

My grandfather was first generation Irish American. His father and mother immigrated to Wisconsin from Ireland. My grandfather proudly proclaimed his Irish heritage at every turn. He was a stereotypical Irishman, short legs, round belly, vivid blue eyes with black hair that later turned into beautiful silver. He drank hard, he chased women, he loved children and was a lifelong Catholic. He definitely lived by the motto “The sinners are much more fun.” He took his sinning so seriously that he never went to communion after the age of thirty. I think he believed that God could forgive him, but the Church couldn’t, so he acted accordingly.

He and another Irish brother-in-law used to torture the straight-laced German family they married into with practical jokes. While all the adults rolled their eyes at the antics of “Frank and John,” the kids squealed with delight and proclaimed them their favorite uncles. My grandmother always said, “You know you are German too? Why do you always talk about being Irish, but not German?” We would always have some smart-ass comment about Hitler and she would suddenly get quiet.

My grandfather was proud to be Irish all year long, but especially on March 17th. So when St. Patrick’s Day came, you put thought into what you were wearing. It had to be green of course, but it also had to be pulled together. He better not have caught you in jeans on St. Patrick’s Day. That was fine for Christmas, but not St. Patrick’s Day where one must be the Irish role model for everyone around them. We got gifts, sent cards, took treats to school and always capped off the evening by going out to dinner.

No corned beef and cabbage, because you didn’t work on St. Patrick’s Day. You went out where others would work for you on this holiest of holy days. And where would you eat dinner on the 17th of March every year? Why the Chinese restaurant, of course.

My grandparents lived in a very small town where the only decent restaurant served ham-fried rice instead of colcannon. So every year we would happily make the 30-minute drive to their house and head to the Cathay Café and get Harry’s special chow mein and egg rolls. Those are still the best egg rolls I have ever had. We always came in the back door, through the kitchen, because my grandfather preferred parking in the alley to the street. As we walked through the kitchen he would always tease the cook about frying up a cat for the special chow mein. They would laugh and mutter something in Chinese. It probably translated to “go out and slice the old racist bastard’s tires.”

We’d order dinner and then my grandfather would say he had to wash his hands. This was code for “head to the bar next door “ and down a shot or two. He’d return to the table a little glassy-eyed and always encouraged us to order another Shirley Temple and ask for extra cherries. After dinner we were stuffed, but we always had to order his favorite dessert, spumoni ice cream. What else would you have at a Chinese café on an Irish holiday but an Italian desert?

We went to the Cathay often, not just on St. Patrick’s Day. The last time we went was the night before he died. He encouraged me to steal the Chinese hot mustard that came with the pork and seeds. When I pointed out that we could buy some at the cash register, he said it was too expensive. Then he left the waitress a $20 tip on a $25 meal. I wish I had taken that bottle of mustard. It would have delighted him that I took part in his hijinks. It would a testament that I was truly Irish and not some straight-laced German in his eyes.

Today I know, I have been a bad granddaughter. My children barely remember they are Irish, even on St. Patrick’s Day. Last year one of them even wore orange. My grandfather would have kicked that kid’s butt for even reminding him of the other Ireland. But they still would have gotten their gifts and cupcakes and Chinese food. So today you will find us eating fried rice and breaking open fortune cookies. 

Some traditions have stood the test of time, we're heading out for egg rolls tonight.

Shoveling Snow

It is a really glorious day here. It snowed a couple of inches, and it is sunshiny bright and warm. So warm that I am sure the snow will be gone in a handful of hours.  I went to breakfast with my uncles and aunt this morning (as I do every Sunday) and on the way home I was treated to the most spectacular scenery.  Everywhere I looked ordinary streets were now winter wonderlands. The mountains were particularly breathtaking. They all looked like they had received a downy coating of marshmallow. 

When I got home I gave my children a hard time because no one had been out in it yet. I grabbed the shovel and started to clear our driveway. Bert came out a few minutes later and offered to help. We have a big driveway; it fits 8 to 10 cars. I told him I could handle it, and he went next door to get our neighbor's driveway.  The snow probably would have melted soon anyway but it was exhilarating to be outside. Coats weren't needed and the snow was surprisingly light for the amount there was.

As we were shoveling I remembered one of my favorite stories about my grandmother. She was an elementary school teacher for 30 years, mostly 2nd grade. In retirement, she was very active and always shoveled her own driveway and sometimes her neighbor's. When she hit 80 she slowed down and no longer got out there first thing to get it done and would wait until later in the morning. One day she went out and it was done. No one fessed up to doing it. Over the next few storms it happened again and again. One day she caught the young man who lived a few houses down doing it.

She went out and thanked him but told him it was not necessary. He told her it was a repayment. He explained that she had been his father's second grade teacher and that she had taught his father English. His family were migrant workers who had settled in the quiet little town when his father 5. The first grade teacher hadn't tried to teach his father anything and told his parents that the boy was likely "retarded".  In second grade my grandmother stayed after school and played word games with him and went over and over Dick and Jane, teaching him not only English but also how to read. The young man said his father always credited Mrs. Fleming for changing his life. 

My grandmother never shoveled her driveway again. When she died, the young man brought over a turkey with all the trimmings to my mother and I and told us the story. My grandmother never had.

It still makes me cry to think about it.

December 1st Again

It's World AIDS Day. We have come so far in the treatment of AIDS, compared when it touched my life. For those who can afford the drug regimens, it's more like a chronic condition. But for those who cannot afford the very expensive treatments, AIDS is still a death sentence. It's 25 years since we first began hearing about AIDS, and I still feel powerless when thinking about what I can do. I have no presumption to tell you what to do. Educate your children both about prevention and compassion for those suffering. I think today I will remember the men I loved and think of those still suffering.

Out of the blue

When I was 14 I babysat for a woman across the street. She had a 6 year-old, 2 year-old and beautiful little 3 month-old baby. The two older kids were "no neck monsters" in my opinion (I read too much Tennessee Williams as a teenager). But I loved that baby. She had big brown eyes, curly brown hair, ivory skin and chubby cheeks. I thought she was the most beautiful baby ever. I babysat for them a lot. They were looking for a new house, and it seemed they were constantly meeting with real estate agents and builders. Sometimes I would go take the baby even when I wasn't babysitting, because I loved playing with her. Her mother was glad for the break and the baby loved playing with me. I became friends with the mother, in spite of our 12 year age difference. She was glad for a mother's helper and an almost adult hanging around when her husband worked late. When they moved across town, they still came and got me to babysit. Their family became my second family. My boyfriend became close to them as well. Patty became an adult friend who I confided in. She treated me as an equal.

I continued to grow closer to her baby, Carrie as well. I would dress her up and take her to the park or to see Santa or pick cherries at my grandma's. When I was 20 and we no longer lived in the same state, Patty would fly Carrie to see me for a week every now and then. I gave her my huge doll collection. My daughters are still bent out of shape about that one.

Carrie came to Bert and I's little civil ceremony, one of a handful of witnesses. She commented that it was nothing like the wedding in "The Sound of Music" and then gave me a disappointed look. She visited us often. We spoiled her. We bought her toys, we took her to the circus, on vacation, to the movies. Things that didn't happen a lot in her family with four siblings. We were childless, but trying. We enjoyed "playing parents."

Shortly after we adopted Apple, Patty told us Carrie was miserable at school. They were trying to find the funds to send her to a private school. She wanted to go to boarding school. They couldn't afford it. Bert and I agreed she could come and live with us, and try school up here. She was 14. I had been a mother to Apple for 6 months. Carrie came and in many ways thrived. In other ways she didn't. She was moody, quiet, she sometimes didn't do what we told her. We moved while she was with us. Instead of letting her stay at the school she had adjusted well to, we moved her to one closer to our new house. Big mistake. I didn't know it at the time. I was inexperienced. I thought she adjusted well once, she will do it again. She and Bert began having a tense relationship. She had a sense of entitlement instead of gratitude that Bert thought she should have. He was inexperienced too.

Finally she told us she missed home. We sent her back in a heartbeat. She said things that were true from the perspective of a 14 year-old, but untrue when you looked at the big picture. Her mother and I quit speaking.This led to the demise of my relationship with Carrie. I never  got the chance to speak to Carrie again after I put her on the plane. Carrie is mostly deaf, she lost most of her hearing around 7. Talking on the phone was always an exercise in torture for both her and the caller.

Last night a girl with a strange accent called me. I was impatient that I had to repeat myself several times, thinking it was a telemarketer. It was Carrie. Her voice finally has taken on the tones of someone who no longer heard themselves speak. After about 5 minutes she put her surprised mother on the phone. She had no idea Carrie was calling me. We caught up. I got Carrie's email address. She had found me through the internet.

Her life has not turned out the way I thought/hoped it would. And it kills me. She emailed Bert and I both today. We both immediately wanted to rescue that little curly haired child we remembered. But she isn't that girl. She is 28. She lives at home. She has had a number of problems. And I can't help it, I want to fix them. I want to give her the life she should have had. She was smart, funny, beautiful. How can she be this different person than I imagined? I wish I knew more about what happened. I wish I knew what was realistic to expect. I wish I knew what to do next. I loved her for half her life. I feel awful about the half that I have missed and how it has treated her.

So the only thing that is keeping me from sending a plane ticket to my "first baby" is the fact that I have four others, and I am already spread so thin. When I think about it, I know she was the child that led me to adoption. I knew I loved her as much as any child who came out of my body. She opened doors for me. I want to open them for her again.