Apparently, it’s way more fun to sing the clean up song than to actually clean up.
Oh, Lydia.
Why I’ve got a busy afternoon ahead of me
Archives for 2012
I am not a surrogate
This is a surrogate–a person appointed to act for another, a substitute.
This is what I am:
A parent–a person who brings up or cares for another (in my case, 4 others).
A mother–nurturer, caregiver, cheerleader, advocate, teacher, nosewiper, lunchmaker, clotheswasher, songsinger, bookreader, playmate, captive audience member, storyteller, memorymaker and memorykeeper, one held responsible for a child’s wellbeing.
Yes, I wasn’t her original parent. But, I’m certainly not a substitute mother just as she is not my substitute daughter.
We’re the real thing.
Hello there, this is my daughter.
So nice to meet you.
I’m her mother.
The real lesson in 5th grade math
Excitement filled my kitchen when the kids got home, and the story spilled out.
The fifth grade class had taken a math test. It wasn’t unique, just their regular math assessment. When they had all been graded, Evan’s teacher asked them to do something.
“If you think you did really well on that test, stand up.”
All boys stood up. Evan did not.
He’s always struggled in math. He’s gotten extra learning support. He’s had aides help him. But, it wasn’t uncommon for math homework to end in tears. It’s never just come to him, and he knows it.
“Evan, you don’t want to stand up?” She asked him.
He shrugged his shoulders and looked away, assuming that this test was like the others.
“Everybody sit down. . . Evan, stand up.”
I wish I could have seen his face as he stood and as she told him that he and a girl in the class were the only ones to get every. question. right. I wish I could have seen his smile when he heard her words and realized that he had gotten it.
I’m glad he got to see my face as he told me, because I think my face looked a lot like his when he experienced it himself.
Past performance is the best predictor of future behavior.
I took the Psych classes. I know that’s true. But, I also know that we can be free from past performance, that we can claim confidence in change.
It’s only a math test, one of many, I know. But, it’s a moment he won’t forget, the day he learned he isn’t bad at math, the day he learned that he can do this, that he isn’t marked as a kid who doesn’t get it, that he isn’t stuck and entrapped by what has been. It was the moment he saw hope in what is and what could be. There’s hope for great things, and he saw in that moment that we aren’t going to be surprised at all when we get to see those great things happen.
Somewhere Between
My head is literally hurting from thinking so much, sometimes to the point of tears.
With about a dozen adoptive mamas today, I sat in a comfortable theater chair and allowed a film–Somewhere Between–about four teenage girls who were adopted from China to make me very uncomfortable. I suppose that’s a good thing.
Girls sharing about their fear of failure, of feeling like they have to prove themselves of worth. Not physically resembling their families, not ever just blending in. Stares, unfair questions, the “kindness” of a stranger at the beauty shop welcoming them to America and telling them how lucky they are. The deep rooted desire to know something, anything, about their birth families. Another girl remembering the day she was left on the street corner. Finding a birth family and seeing the bedroom she didn’t grow up in. Saying goodbye to her birthfather, a redo of the goodbye they never got to have. The cries of a 5 year old when she realizes she’s leaving all she knows to come home with her adoptive family. I can’t get her crying face out of my mind.
You can see why my head is hurting.
I found myself driving with an urgency to get home leaving the theater tonight, wanting to scoop up my baby girl and take all the hard things away. Part of me feels so stuck that I can’t.
She greeted me at the kitchen door, sat on my lap, gave me lots of kisses and chattered away about her day. She’s sleeping peacefully now in our bed, all cozied up in a nest of covers. For now, right now, there are no hard things, only comfort. And, I can look at her and take a deep breath.
Tomorrow, next week, 10 years from now, Lord, help me to be the mother she needs me to be.
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