National Adoption Day

For me, today is a bigger holiday than Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter rolled into one. It’s a day to celebrate my four blessings and to express my gratitude to the Edna Gladney Center. My babies are now in their late forties, early fifties, and adoption has changed a lot in those fifty years. Our story would not be possible today.

A confession: I never gave much thought to having children. I just figured it would happen, and when it didn’t, I wasn’t that upset. My ex-husband, now gone from this world, was desperate to be a daddy. So we applied for adoption, and we were an odd couple before we even got there—I was Protestant, not very active, and he a non-practicing Jew. We went to information sessions, etc., filled out the paperwork, and settled in for a long wait.

Less than thirty days later, the people at Gladney called to do a home visit. I stammered that I didn’t have curtains in the baby’s room yet, and the reply of “The baby won’t know” went right over my head. That night we rushed to borrow a crib and a changing table and some clothes from friends. The very casual inspection was the next day, and the day after that we had a baby—Colin David. Poor Colin—it’s a miracle he’s as wonderful as he is, because he landed with two people who knew zilch about babies. To this day he swears I caused his Crohn’s by feeding him undiluted formula.

Seventeen months later along came Megan who taught us more than we wanted to know about colic. Today she’s a healthy, vibrant woman, but you’d never have anticipated that from the baby who drew her little legs up and screamed in pain. Took lots of love and hours of walkng, walking, walking.

Gladney policy was that if you have one child, they would help you complete your family; at two, your family was complete. Joel and I tried to be active at Gladney—we invited residents for holiday dinners, and we often went to talk to groups of girls who wanted some idea about the people who would raise their babies. Joel, gregarious and generous, would say, “I don’t care what color your baby is. Give it to me, and I’ll love it.”

So one day when Megan was seventeen months (and much healthier), Gladney called and asked what I was doing. I said the usual—I wasn’t working, although I think I was writing, and I had two babies. They had a mixed-race baby—Eurasian (half Chinese, half Greek). I said the world’s dumbest thing: “We’ll come look at him,” kind of like, “Are the tomatoes fresh today?”

I know from Jamie’s wife and others that women of his age find him most attractive—he’s happy, playful, handsome, fit, all those good things. He was not a pretty baby. Skinny, forceps marks on his face, a straight Afro. I named him immediately, and he came home with us the day after we first saw him. By now, the two older ones knew where babies came from: you went to the adoption agency and brought home a baby. I had three under three and three in diapers. Those were the days

Gladney promised to round out our family with one more dark-headed baby (Colin and Megan were blonde, Jamie dark like Joel). It was three years before we brought home Jordan, who they told us was half Hispanic. Not until she was in her forties did she do the DNA thing and find out she is 98% northern European.

So there we were—a family of six. Today we are a family of sixteen, with seven grandchildren in the mix. To me, we are an example of how the joy of adoption spreads. No, none of the four have ever gone looking for their biological parents. I know accepting such is the modern attitude, but I am pretty fierce about the idea that they are, though grown and out in the world, my babies.

The big blessing is that they truly love each other—and me. They can’t wait for family get-togethers, so this weekend we are anticipating Thanksgiving. The Alters are known for being a bit rowdy when they’re together—somehow each of them married someone from a two-child family, so sometimes we catch spouses with a look on their faces that says, “How did I get here?”  And I have contemporaries who are a bit wary of the confusion, but I love every noisy minute of it.

Today, Edna Gladney’s mission is still the same—creating loving families—but their work is entirely different. I am so grateful to Gladney for letting us be one of their special families.

Trees, flowers, and memoirs

    

My flowers and Jordan's Little Red Riding Hood basket

The neighbors behind my cottage are adding a screened porch to their house, a pool, and a cabana/guest house. Behind me is close—the cabana will maybe be ten or twelve feet from the wall of my cottage. These neighbors are good, responsible citizens, and they have bent over backwards to assure I am not disturbed. I am not. The only time noise would bother me is when I want to sleep in the afternoon, and my bedroom is pretty much like a cave.

 But there is one noise that sounds worse than scratching on a blackboard to me, and that’s the saw that tree trimmers use. So this afternoon, just as I lay down to nap, someone started to take out a whole tree. Have you ever tried to sleep with that high-pitched whining? I closed the bedroom doors, confining Sophie with me. That worked for about two seconds, and then she protested. I think she must be claustrophobic, because when I opened the sliding door into the kitchen and told her she could do what she wanted, she settled down and slept next to my bed. Serendipitously, the whining noise stopped, and I did get a nap.

Jordan made up for my interrupted nap by bringing me flowers. She stopped at Central Market for the feta I need tomorrow. After declaring she didn’t want to run around looking for a lot of things, she confessed she overbought—including flowers, Cotswald cheddar, a new flavor of yogurt, and other delicacies.

She was cooking dinner tonight since I wanted to attend a six o’clock Zoom meeting, but all the ingredients for supper—chicken/pesto pasta—were in my fridge. So she loaded up a basket and announced, “I am Little Red Riding Hood.” The picture above combines her basket and the flowers she brought me.

The Zoom meeting tonight, sponsored by Story Circle Network, featured two authors—one a novelist, the other a memoirist, talking about the requirements, advantages, and drawbacks of each genre. I have, as I’ve mentioned, been interested in memoir in a sort of distant way. I always thought a memoir was the story of your life. My first novel, After Pa Was Shot, was fiction based on a memoir by the mother of a friend. The woman, probably in her eighties in the fifties or sixties, sat down at a typewriter, wrote “The Story of My Life,” and created a fascinating manuscript. But these days some people are writing several memoirs. The thought today is that memoir covers one episode, say three to five years. I can’t wrap my head about that. I want to look at the whole of my life put together. One author tonight said if you write about your life, as Michele Obama has done, it’s biography—I would correct that to autobiography. But the difference to me is that autobiography recites the facts; memoir invests those facts with emotion.

Both authors have written books about adoption, which should have hit home to me—but didn’t, because their experiences were so different. Julie McGue’s memoir, Twice a Daughter, is about her experience as an adoptee seeking information about her birth family so that she might have some family health history. The Sound Between the Notes, by Barbara Lynn Probst, is a novel based on her experiences with her adopted daughter and the daughter’s affinity for music and the health history that intervened. One great line: “You can’t create music when you are angry.”

But both are about searches for birth parents, and that’s foreign to me. My four children have never expressed any desire to search, even in the face of such health concerns as epilepsy, Crohn’s disease, and possible effects of maternal drug use. I suppose the two authors wouldn’t understand my feelings—Probst, for instance, knows her daughter’s birth mother. For me, I am more than content that my children are mine. I am grateful to their birth parents, aware of the sacrifice they made for the child’s sake, but I see no need to share them. We are an unusually close and happy family—no small trick with four adopted children and a mostly single mom.

Memoir to me would involve what one author tonight called “working through stuff.” I would want to recall my life, to figure out its patterns. I’m not fooling myself that the world is waiting breathlessly for this story. If I write it, it would be for me—and perhaps for my children.

Enough. I’m going to read a mystery and forget the thornier problems of life in general or writing in particular.

Of laundry and motherhood

Happy mom with her four children

I am growing weary of hearing about Amy Coney Barrett’s seven children. Some days I really wonder if she is being considered for Mother of the Year instead of a seat on the highest court of the land. In fact, I wonder if she’s such a dedicated mother how she will have time for the judiciary

Today I heard that a senator even asked her who does the laundry at her house. Are we kidding? And do we care? Truth we all know is that she has hired help to do the laundry, in spite of her proper reply that she encourages the children to each take responsibility. Can you imagine seven children fighting over whose turn it is to have the washing machine?

When my four (see I can understand her a bit—she just outdid me!) were young, they were on a kid’s TV program called “Hobab” which, so they told me, meant helper. The moderator asked each in turn what they did to help their mommy at home, and my little angels reported that they made their beds and picked up their clothes and did any number of other household chores.

Until the moderator came to Jordan, the youngest and then maybe four or five. She looked at her siblings with amazement and said, “The maid does all those things.” Then asked about the role of policemen, she brilliantly said, “Policemen are your friends. And if you don’t have a Cadillac, they will help you get one.” We have not let her forget those answers to this day, though she has had some hard lessons on who does the laundry and makes the beds and washes the dishes. And she now knows that policemen won’t get you a Lexus (today’s version of the Cadillac).

Last night a friend was telling about a woman who complained that she could barely raise one child, while my friend and neighbor made raising four look so easy. As the mother of four, I had the quick answer to that one: “Tell her that raising four is always easier—they entertain each other.” I didn’t add that with four you don’t have the time or energy to helicopter over one.

I have never forgotten the time a nursery school mother called me to ask if my oldest daughter was free a week from Thursday. I’m sure I gulped. Who in the heck knew? I wasn’t sure what the child was doing in the next ten minutes, and I surely did not keep a social calendar for her. When that same child was ready for pre-school—oh so ready!—she wasn’t eligible for the TCU pre-school where her brother went because of the way her birthday fell. So I visited countless pre-schools. What I found was that many of them specialized in pandemonium. I ruled those out right away—she had that at home, and I sure didn’t need to pay tuition for her to get that at school.

My four kids, the product of a rowdy, happy, childhood, have been known to say to me that they couldn’t handle more than two children. I look at them in amazement, but then each married people who were from two-children families. Is this some kind of conspiracy against big families? Those who married into our family are generally, I think and hope, delighted with our frequent (until pandemic and quarantine) family get-togethers. But occasionally I see one or the other off in a corner with a look on his or her face that clearly says, “How did I get into this situation?”

The other line from my kids which used to crack me up when the grandchildren were little was, “Mom, you just don’t understand how hard it is.” Oh, really? That’s when my thought that four is easier than one or two came roaring back.

Politics aside, I admire Barrett if she is truly that dedicated a mother. Two of her children are multi-racial and adopted (do I have that number right?) and the media seems to invoke sainthood for that. My four children are all adopted, a fact long since put in the past and never talked about because we are a family, a tight, close-knit loving family. And one child is multi-racial or whatever, although as his wife once said to me, “He doesn’t really believe that.”

I am the loving mom of four loving children, and I believe anyone can fill that role. Nope, Judge Barrett, I don’t give you any special chops for having seven children. And, seriously, I don’t think you’re the Mother of the Year.

Some thoughts on adoption

An older picture but it shows a happy family

The families adoption can create

I read a moving piece today about a young woman, an adoptee, who devoted years to finding her biological parents. She was raised, as an only child, by loving adoptive parents but she always felt incomplete. And after her diligence, she had a joyful reunion with both biological parents, who could barely remember that they knew each other. I’m afraid the story moved me not in the direction she or the writer intended. I need to speak out about adoption from the viewpoint of an adoptive parent.

My four children were all adopted as infants. My husband and I created a loving perfect family for them for twelve years, and then he left us. I was terrified. My first thought was, “How can I raise four children by myself?” They then ranged in age from twelve to six. But you know what, I did raise them and, if I do say so, pretty successfully. Today there are wonderful people with solid marriages, happy families, and good careers—a CPA, a lawyer, an entrepreneur who outshines us all, and a luxury travel consultant. I could not be prouder of them.

Sure, we had our ups and downs. My oldest had something to discover about his dad and went to live with him a couple of times. The girls were sometimes horrendously difficult as teenagers, but aren’t most girls? I think the boys were equally difficult in a different way, but I was blissfully unaware of what they were doing.

But in all those difficult years, I never heard one of them say they wanted to find their biological parents. Sure, one once said in anger, “You shouldn’t have bought me,” but for the most part I think they were afraid of what they would find. One knew that her biological mother had done drugs, and she never expressed any desire to find her.

Adoption became, for us, something we joked about. Once Colin saw me talking on my cell phone, making a large gesture of moving it from ear to mouth, and he said, “Mom, you don’t have to do that. If I see you doing that in public, I’m going to say, ‘I don’t’ know her,’ and if someone knows you’re my mom, I’m going to say, ‘I’m adopted.’” When Jordan’s son was born, her obstetrician kept saying the newborn favored me, and I finally had to say, “You do know that Jordan is adopted, don’t you?” Then again, they say that people who live together begin to look alike, and these days, as Jordan matures, I think I see my mother in her. She was Mom’s baby, and they spent a lot of time together.

I am the envy of many women my age because my children are close, affectionate, loving, and oh so independent. I’m often told I did a good job of raising them, which amuses me because all I can think of is the many mistakes I made, things I shouldn’t have said, things I overlooked. Jordan says I was a strict disciplinarian, but I think many parents would have been appalled at my laxness. Once when she was a latch-key kid, another mother refused to let her daughter come home with Jordan after school because of the lack of supervision.

I don’t know why they turned out like they did. A combination of love, trust, and damn good luck. But I want to speak for the other side of the adoption triangle. Finding biological parents is often a major disappointment, a disruption of life rather than the solution to all problems as some seem to believe. Not all adoptees pine for their biological parents, and some biological parents don’t really want to be found. It’s not as simple as taking a DNA test.

My second son travels often on business to the city where his birth mother was raised. I asked if he wanted to meet her family, and he said, “I’d like to see them from a distance.”

So next time you read one of those DNA miracle stories, stop for a minute and think of the many other sides of that story. And remember my wonderful family.

Memories of a long-ago marriage

Yesterday was an anniversary that you’d think I’d have long ago forgotten, but not so. It marked fifty-four years since I married Joel Alter. We were married in my brother’s backyard, by a hedge that barely separated us from the neighbor’s goat pen. My brother gave me away, and my mother stood looking stoic. My father did not attend. My parents did not approve of me marrying a young Jewish boy—their disapproval turned out to be well founded but for all the wrong reasons.

We were so poor that the wedding punch had Everclear in it, and though I can barely remember all the people who attended I do remember that the 14-year-old son of Joel’s mechanic got blotto on the punch. We did have a cake, and at the time it seemed a fairly festive occasion. My dress was made by a close friend—a straight shift of lace with a beige/pink background material. I do remember that our closest friends came from Kansas or Nebraska—I’m not sure where they were living—and the four of us spent the night at the local Holiday Inn. They are still close friends today.

The date got me to thinking that unless you’re careful, the end of relationships can blot out the memories of the good times. Our divorce belonged to Joel. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he had a mistress he wanted to be with. When a man tells you he wants the house and the children, and you’re the only part of the package he doesn’t want, you can’t help but being angry and bitter. I was all those things and more, though for some time I’d fantasized about life without him. Because I had four children, six and under, I was afraid to take that step, afraid I could not support them. As it turned out leaving was the best thing he ever did for us.

We had been together twenty years, married for seventeen of them, and in honesty I would say we were wildly happy for the first ten or twelve, moderately so for the next five, and miserable for the last two. And those last two tended for years to wipe out the memories of the good times we had together.

In the medical community in which we lived, we were the “alternative” couple, smiled upon indulgently by his older partners who turned a blind eye to his “hippie” decoration of his office and my tendency to wear blue jean suits with macramé belts—how dated! We were slightly outrageous but never outré, and we enjoyed that role, played it to the hilt. We lived in a big old house, adopted four kids, gave outrageous parties, and loved life. Where and why it all went wrong is a long tale. From my point of view, it has to do with a mid-life crisis, a career that didn’t soar as he though it should have, my preference to be a stay-at-home mom instead of a happy traveler. Joel has been gone several years, so he can’t give his viewpoint. But Jordan told me tonight she once saw what he’d been writing on his computer and it included apologies, confessions of guilt, and other regrets. He tried to apologize to me a couple of times, and I brushed him off. Now I wish I’d listened.

It took me a long time, but now I am able to remember the good times and downplay the anger. And I owe him a debt. He brought me to Texas, encouraged me to get a Ph.D. while he did a residency, encouraged me in the outrageous idea that I wanted to be a writer. And oh yes, four wonderful children and today seven grandchildren. I hope in our years together I did as much for him, though I’m not sure.

I’ve finally comes to term with that gratitude, the memories of happiness and joy, and mostly but not completely worked beyond the anger. Time does indeed heal.

Birth, weddings, death, and all the glories of life

A welcome visitor in the cottage tonight

even if he didn't talk much

One of the most engaging videos I’ve seen lately: Prince William bringing his children to the hospital to meet their baby brother. Love it that he drives himself and the children around London—no driver, no nanny, just daddy. Princess Charlotte was charming, waving at the crowd, while Prince George was a little more solemn. And not long after, William and Kate appeared carrying the as-yet unnamed baby. She looked smashing, considering she gave birth just hours before. And to send mother and baby home so soon—one supposes she has lots of help at home. Still, Kate strikes me as a hands-on mother, one who wants to do those middle of the night feedings herself. I wish them much joy with this new baby.

I am a big fan of the royal family. Barring that episode of Charles and Diana, for which we will not cast blame, they conduct themselves with grace, dignity, and a concern for others. Lord knows w e need such examples in our lives these days.

And sad but not surprising news that George H. W Bush is back in the hospital. I suspect he held on to get through Barbara’s funeral, but all the starch has left him with her death. I fear we’ll have a state funeral before long. Prayers for your peace, sir, from this lifelong Democrat.

Yesterday I went to a lovely dinner party and stayed so late I myself had no starch for blogging when I got home. The Burtons and I joined neighbors Dennis and Margaret Johnson to honor Sue and Teddy and their upcoming wedding. We dined at the Johnsons’ house. They are consummate hosts, and everything was lovely. The meal was a collaboration, and my compliments to Margaret and Jordan who, together, recreated one of my favorite recipes: a leg of lamb set on a cake rack over a vegetable gratin so that the lamb juices drip down into the vegetables. It’s a bit labor intensive, as you baste the lamb every twenty minutes. I made smoked salmon tartare for an appetizer, and Jordan made tossed salad, while Margaret did asparagus. A lovely meal.

The best part about it was the dinner-table conversation We talked about ideas and concepts and such, not just who did what. I relish good conversation and regret that I get it too infrequently. We all seemed wrapped up in “So what did you do this weekend,” and not the stuff that makes the world go around—or that you fear will stop it. Two of us at dinner last night are adoptive parents, and that was a big topic, with Jordan coming in for many questions. When asked when she knew she was adopted, she said, “I always knew.” I pointed out that all her siblings knew where babies came from—the adoption agency—because they were veterans of trips to bring home another baby. Lovely evening with people I’m really fond of.

Yesterday also marked the beginnings of my adventures with adoption and children. It was, gulp, Colin David’s 49^th birthday. Of course, I didn’t know it at the time—he was eight days old before I met him. Neither did I know or understand how much adoption and children would change the course of my life. But, for me, it was a monumental turning point. I never thought much about children until I had them, and then they became the focus of my life. I always say I’m a mother first and then an author and publisher.

I worried a lot about Colin, because he bore the brunt of all I didn’t know about raising babies. But he survived nicely to become a settled, happy adult, a dedicated family man, a religious man, and a professional—CPA. He is often the rock upon which I rely. He seems to have overcome my blundering into parenthood with grace, and I could not love him more nor be prouder of him.

Stories of that day 50 years ago abound, but they will have to wait for that memoir I’m threatening to write about motherhood, adoption, and being a single parent.

Now I’m going to prowl through not one but two cooking magazines that arrived today. Such bounty.

Rant, Rave, and Dismay

I am so dismayed by the ignorance of the attacks on Planned Parenthood and the gullibility of those who swallow the false information they are being fed that I feel I must speak out. Today was the final straw when I read that PP had sliced through a dead baby’s face to retrieve its brain. I am neither anatomist nor pathologist (I did work for one for a while) but I feel quite sure that’s not the path to the brain. It’s one more outrageous fabricated lie that Pro-Life people are falling for, like photo-shopped and staged videos.

Let me say up front that I am not in favor of abortion. I was unable to bear a child, but through God’s grace I have four wonderful children, all adopted. They are the foundation of my life, and raising them was pure joy (well, most of the time). I would have been heartbroken (but silent) if either of my two daughters or two daughters-in-law wanted an abortion. But I know there are circumstances where that is the wisest course—a defective embryo that would have a short, miserable life; a pregnancy that endangers the mother’s life; even a baby with no one to care for or love it once it enters this world. The big point is that’s an individual woman’s decision—it’s not one to be made by men who will never know the trauma of abortion, the heart ache. Pro-life advocates seem to think it’s a birth control method; I assure you that for mothers who make that decision it is much more of a life changer than that. I bless the women who gave birth to my children, and each year on each child’s birthday I saw a prayer for that birth mother who must remember and wonder and long for her child. I want to tell her how well he or she is doing. But those women were fortunate to have an alternative—a reputable maternity home, few of which exist today. Poor women in that day often resorted to back alley, coat-hanger abortions which often rendered them sterile and sometimes robbed them of their lives.

Back to Planned Parenthood, abortion is only 3% of their mission. Most of it is providing preventive health care to indigent women and contraceptive and other counseling. By so doing, they have prevented thousands upon thousands of abortions—that’s their main mission. If a woman comes to them determined to have an abortion, they make sure she has the safest procedure possible. And only if the woman voluntarily releases the fetus, do they donate fetal tissue, from which they make no profit. But you and I and our families and friends profit immensely from the research that results.

Those stories about live fetuses, selling body parts, all those exaggerated stories are propaganda and those who fall for it should be embarrassed. If you really want every fetus to be born, even defective ones, then step forward, say you’ll raise and care for and love and provide medical attention for each and every baby. Otherwise, please educate yourselves on the distinction between reality and scare techniques.

Rant over. May be resumed at a later date.

Mother's Day thoughts

I've read lots of posts today about mothers, some so wonderful as to be angels and others pretty dysfunctional. It made me probe my thoughts about my mom, but that's for another post, another time, because the day got me to thinking about myself as a mom. I hope I was somewhere between those extremes--not an angel but not terribly dysfunctional.
I never thought much about having children. I just assumed they'd come along after I married. They didn't, and while it didn't bother me much, my then-husband was desperate to be a father. We began adoption proceedings after five years or marriage and too many fertility tests, and within a few short years I found myself the mother of four adopted children, two of mixed race. I loved it, reveled in it, adored those children, even though at one point I had three under three and all in diapers. There is nothing better than the child hanging on to your shoulder who is quite certain you are the center of his or her universe.
Flash forward a few years, and I suddenly was the single parent of four, ages six to twelve. Yes, I had envisioned life without that man but I was scared. I didn't know I could raise four children alone. I somehow did it, because today they are each happy, contributing citizens, successful in their chosen fields, loving husbands and wives and mothers and fathers. And so close to each other emotionally and to me. I am so proud I could bust my buttons. Other people heap praise on me for raising four wonderful children, but I shrug and say "It was dumb luck." And I think it was.
I was busy, working and trying to start a writing career. I thought they would put on my tombstone, "I remember her--she always said, 'Run ng now, I'm busy." They each began to work at sixteen--if they wanted cars they had to pay their own insurance. Then they griped, once doctor's children and expecting the world on a platter; today they are grateful for the experience.
I do know a few things I did right. Meals were always on time, well balanced, and home-made; chores were assigned; rooms were to be kept reasonably tidy (this was only successful with two of the four). But I think the biggest thing is that they knew I loved them and that I was there for them. I remember the spring night that my oldest didn't come home until daybreak--he found me, wearing a big t-shirt and undies, sitting in a chair by the door. His explanation that he'd been swimming in a quarry  brought a torrent of anger, but he knew it was fueled by love and concern. We struggled through the years when teen-age girls hate their mothers and survived, love intact. I heard stories later of things I wish they'd never told me--parties they gave when I traveled on business, etc. Then we were on to proms and too soon weddings, several of which turned into four- and five-day parties.
And then, belatedly, there were seven grandchildren, all close together in age.
Perhaps my proudest moment, the one that epitomizes the love and closeness of my family, was the party they threw for eighty of my nearest and dearest to mark my 70th birthday. Afterwards, many people commented on their strong affection for each other and for me.
I know I am blessed, but motherhood? I don't have a clue about it.

A walk back in time

I spoke to a book club tonight at a new restaurant/caterer/cooking school in Fairmount. Actually they're not up for restaurant service yet but the catering, cooking school and chef's evenings seemed to be doing great. It's called Bastion, and the fascinating thing to me is that it is housed in the complex built in 1918 for the Edna Gladney Home for Unwed Mothers. I know the place well--we made four trips there to bring home babies.
I'm pretty sure that the room we spoke in is the same one where my ex- and I used to go talk to the girls because they wanted to know what kind of families would be raising their children. I could picture those evenings, and I could see the room--in a wing to our left, I think--where they brought the babies to us. I remember them handing me Megan--she was crying furiously, and her little legs were drawn up to her tummy in pain. I thought if I could just get her home and love her, it would all be all right. It wasn't--she had severe colic for the first six months of her life. I'm not sure where the maternity hospital and nursery were though I remember going to the nursery. It was all nostalgic, and I began my talk recounting my history with Gladney. My children never asked, "Where do babies come from?" They knew: you go to the adoption agency and bring home a new baby!
Dinner was delicioius. The Bastion has gardens, with fresh lettuce, arugula, and herbs. We dined on a green salad, goat cheese tart, quiche Lorraine, and a bountiful offering of desserts--chocolate bourbon praline torte, panna cotta with raspeberry coulis, and baba rhum torte. I tasted but I didn't finish anything. I've spoken to this group before several years ago, and I know several of the women, so it was fun--and informal.
Other than that, I did not do one productive thing today--just seemed to float through the day. Emails, Facebook, kind of getting my feet back on the ground after having been gone for five days. That post-vacation effect was evident in Jacob this afternoon too--I could not get him to concentrate on spelling. He ran out of attention span, and I ran out of patience--not one of our better afternoons. Still, I think we parted friends. Tomorrow I'll work on my blog book, but excuse me now: I'm going to read.

A voice from the past

One of the wonders of Facebook is that you reconnect with old friends, some from a really long time ago. A few weeks ago a woman sent a friend request. I responded by asking if she was the Ellen I  remembered from years (forty or so) ago. She was. And she liked my mysteries. Better yet, she posted about how much she liked them. I remembered her and her husband, had two tags in mind--photography and dogs. I finally met them when I spoke to Rotary South in Fort Worth but we had no time to visit. Today, she and I caught up over lunch.
She remembered more than I did. We met in 1969 when she and her husband, still in their early twenties, moved to Fort Worth and bought a Cairn terrier from us--we were raising them at the time. We were, she said, their first friends in Fort Worth. I do remember tht we saw a lot of them for a while but then drifted  apart. She had new perspective on my ex-husband,  reminding me that Fort Worth was then still a small town, and she told me things people said. Nothing surprised me, except that it was such general knowledge--like, "Don't go into business with him. You'll lose your shirt."
But beyond that she's had an interesting life and she recounted stories of her trips to Scotland and Norway, apparently the lands of her heritage--well, Orkney to be exact. We shared stories of adoption--she was adopted but did not have the happy experience my children and I have had. We talked about writing and research and wannabe writers who get it wrong. And, oh yes, in this day of limbo, we talked about politics (she actually cheered me with her surness that the President will be re-elected). The whole lunch and reacquainting was lovely.
Tonight a friend came for leftovers, and we visited much longer than either of us meant to, but it was good and fun. And the leftovers were even better today.
No work done, but I've finished the draft of the novel and this afternoon I wrapped Christmas gifts. I can goof off with a clear conscience.

Life's Milestones

My oldest son, Colin David Alter, is 43 today. How did that happen, since I'm only 35? (They say there's an age where you always feel you are in your soul--mine is 35; my thirties were great.) I remember clearly so much about his entry into our lives. (The picture is Colin with his children, and two nephews, taken about four years ago.)
We had applied with the Edna Gladney Home, a maternity home/adoption agency, about a month earlier and were expecting a long wait. But there came this call: could the caseworker make a home visit the next day? Of course she could. In retrospect, I see that this lovely woman named Marie dropped hints that I was too dumb to catch. Me: I haven't gotten the curtains up in the nursery yet. Marie: The baby won't care. Galvanized by this visit, we rushed around to friends, borrowing crib, changing table and lots of tiny clothes that made me cry as I washed and folded them.
The very next day they called to say we had a baby boy, but there was one problem: he might have red hair. I laughed aloud. I'm blonde; my then-husband was dark and mostly bald. I drove to the hospital where he was a surgical resident, and ran across the parking lot shouting "We have a baby!"
I called my parents, but only Dad was at home. When I told him the baby was born on April 22--who knew it would be Earth Day?--he said, "That's Jeannie's birthday." Jeannie was my baby sister who died at six months. I was always told she had a congenital heart problem, but I wonder now if it wasn't SIDS. But each year on Colin's birthday, I say a small prayer for Jeannie--and for my parents who were so devastated by her loss. She would be 68 or 69 today, but I'm beyond imagining that.
I knew nothing about babies, hadn't read any books, had no idea what to do. Joel dropped us at home and went off to do a varicose vein surgery (not sure why I remember the type of surgery so clearly). A friend parked her 18-month-old with her mom and came to be with me. Together, we managed to feed him undiluted formula, which promptly gave him diarrhea--the worst sign in a newborn (he was eight days old). I called the pediatrician who was a friend and mother-figure to me, and she said she'd meet me at the hospital. Then, "No, wait, I'll come pick you up." He was fine, no weight loss, and we finally figured out the problem. But to this day, he says that's why he has Crohn's disease.
I'm not sure how women who give birth do it, but I was exhausted that first week. People came and went all hours of the day (by the fourth baby, that didn't faze me at all). To top it off, friends had to be out of their house for some reason and came to stay with us, bringing a toddler. That set the pattern for our lives--three more babies, always a houseful of people, more food served than I can now imagine. I did it all and loved it, but I look back at myself with amazement.
Colin David, I sure am glad you came into our lives. I love you a lot.
To the rest of you, thanks for letting me take this nostalgic trip. Forty-three? Can't be. It was only yesterday we brought him home, and yet it was a long time ago because so much has changed.