Tuesday, August 30, 2016

A Different Kind of Journey

Now that I'm back in Boston, I decided it's time to start another kind of journey. Unlike my last epic trip, I have no idea where the roads will take me.

Thirty-eight (ok, soon to be thirty-nine) years ago, a young woman had to make a decision. She was pregnant. She hadn't planned on starting a family yet. She hadn't gone to college yet. She hadn't started a career yet. She had plans. And having a baby wasn't really part of those plans. So she had a decision to make.

So she decided that the baby needed a family that was ready for her. A family that desperately wanted a baby. A family for whom a baby was part of the plan. So she planned to have the baby put up for adoption. She was given families to choose from. She chose one. The baby was born. And a family was called to be informed that their prayers had been answered. The baby became part of that family, and grew up to live a pretty wonderful life. She was raised by people who loved her very much, and everyone's plans seemed to work out pretty well.

And now the baby has four babies of her own. Yeah, if you haven't guessed it by now, that baby was me. I was adopted as an infant, raised by wonderful parents, and was aware of my adoption from an early age. I always figured that I'd try to find my biological mother some day. I wasn't sure when that day would come. But it would. Eventually.

Having kids really makes you think about family. Whose nose does she have? Whose ears? HeyMama looks an awful lot like BestestHusband's Aunt Marilyn. And LittleFritter looks a lot like me. HurricaneDebbie looks a lot like HeyMama. Who the heck does MeToo look like? No one on BestestHusband's side... So by process of elimination, she must look like someone I'm related to. But who am I related to?

Life is really busy. I'm really tired. Why am I starting this journey now?

I've been getting a lot of gentle nudges over the last few years. Friends who learned of the death of estranged family members said, "One day it will be too late." Friends asked "don't you want to know?" Friends linked blog posts about adoptions. It came up repeatedly in conversations. All of this was from completely unrelated people. This wasn't one person encouraging it. The encouragement has been coming from everywhere lately. Ok, but why now?

A few years ago, I had a counseling session with a social worker specializing in adoption relationships. This kind of session is a prerequisite for the organizations that organize match registries and help with reunions. We talked about different scenarios, different hazards and twists and turns in the road. Anything can happen, and she had seen a lot. I had to be prepared for a wide range of outcomes. 

It is possible that the woman closed the door on that part of her life, never to revisit the events, and would prefer to never think about the child again. I have to accept and respect that. I can't imagine how difficult it would be to bear and give up a child. I can't imagine what would be required to just lock up that time of my life and move on. To force that door open would be cruel. I wouldn't want to do that.

It is also possible that the woman thinks about that baby every October. It's possible that she wonders if she made the right decision. It's possible that she thinks about that little girl and imagines what she's doing now. Does she have children of her own? Is she ok? How have things turned out?

I have the answers to those questions. And if she wants them, I'd like to provide them.

Why right now? 

I have a baby. A very sweet baby. She's squishy and cuddly and has one little dimple. She likes to be kissed. She looks a lot like I did. I have three other sweet little girls. If that woman wonders what she missed when I was growing up, I can show her. I can't give her back those years, but I can give her the happy ending, with a hint of those missing years. None of us are getting any younger. I can't wait forever to start this process.

If nothing else, I want to say "Thank You." The woman had other options that she didn't choose. She didn't have to choose life. She could have had me removed from her body, never to bother anyone ever again. Abortion was legal then. But she didn't choose it. And for that I owe her a debt of gratitude.

I'd love to have a relationship with her and her family. Or I can remain a shadow of her past. I can accept either outcome. But I have to at least find her and let her know everything turned out ok. 

I don't know where this journey will take me. Not every road leads to somewhere nice. But I do know this is the right time to get started. The adoption happened in Nueces County, TX. I have reason to believe my biological family, including siblings of my biological mother, is still living in TX. I appreciate any help you can give in my journey, and any prayers you might have for my ride!

Friday, August 26, 2016

Coming Home

We're home. We're back in our own beds, back under our own roof. And a bit tired of driving. 
Ok, really tired of driving. 

This summer's journey was epic, in many ways. 

It will take several blog posts to truly unpack that statement. I likened it to natural birth and marathon running. It's uncomfortable and exhilarating, and I feel a bit more accomplished for doing it. And I learned a bit about myself. Will I do it again? Probably not with a baby ever again. But in a few years? Once the crying baby PTSD wears off a bit? Possibly. 

The topic of "coming home" is a surprisingly loaded one. 
I found myself crying when I realized we were back in the Eastern time zone. And again when we were on the Mass Pike, for the final hour of our journey. 
Boston is where BestestHusband was waiting for us. And two aging and neurotic shelties. "Home" is the 130 year old construction project we moved into last summer. Boston holds some of our dearest friends, and all of the plans for our immediate future. 
Why did "coming home" make me cry?

I couldn't help but notice, driving through the vast spaces in the middle of our country, how much I felt at peace. The sky was big. The roads were straight and wide. The people wherever we stopped were friendly. The expanses of green, the cornfields and forests, were soothing. 

It's important to know that I've never actually lived on a farm. Other than Boston, I've lived my life in small towns and moderate suburbs. There's no reason that the farms and ranches of the American heartland should make me feel at home. But they do. I felt a peace that I don't often feel here in Boston. Why should I feel at home driving through farmland in flyover country?

I spent my childhood near the Gulf coast, in Louisiana and Texas. Most of my memories are rooted in and around Pearland, TX, a suburb of Houston. My parents moved from there not long after I graduated from high school. My dad, a pastor, accepted calls in different churches that moved them further away from major airports. This is inconvenient when you go to school 2000 miles away. And consequently, I've only once since graduation been to the town that hosted most of my childhood. It's no longer a moderate suburb. It's pretty major now. I'm not sure I would recognize it as "home" even if I did go back regularly. Obviously, I enjoy my visits with my parents. Very much. But I call it "visiting my parents". It's not "visiting home". 

My husband's concept of "home" is very different. He spent his entire childhood in one house. This house is the one he returns to when he visits his parents. His childhood bed is the one we sleep in when we're in Minnesota. Well, actually the girls slept there this visit. But it's the exact same mattress he slept on. With some of his mementos still gracing the walls. 

BestestHusband sat on the sofa in his parents' living room, and looked out the window to the field across the street. "When I look around, nothing from this view has changed in 20 years. Except maybe the size of those trees out there." His concept of "home" is a pretty stable one.

Mine is not. I've come to terms that we won't be moving to Texas any time soon. We keep trying. But, other than just moving with no jobs waiting for us, it doesn't seem to be a reasonable option. My plan is to raise my daughters somewhere in Texas. God seems to have other plans. The job options for BestestHusband are consistently in Boston. Not Texas. So we've consciously been setting down deeper roots in Boston, establishing a stable concept of "home" for our girls. (Hence that construction project we bought last summer.) Because God seems to have plans for us in Boston. He has given us a stable livelihood, great friends, a wonderful church, a cozy school, and a bright future. It's never been my plan for us. But I work to accept God's plan for us here, and have come to terms with the idea that I might always feel a bit like an outsider, no longer how long I live here.

Somewhere during the trip, MeToo started asking questions about Heaven. What would we do there? What things would and wouldn't be there? Would we sleep? What if we really like sleeping? Would we get to eat our favorite foods? Could we watch TV? Have pets? 

I obviously don't have those answers. But we did talk a lot about it, imagining how great it would be and why. We had very different notions of a place of eternal joy.  But I've become convinced of one thing since this trip:  When I get to Heaven, then I will finally feel like I'm home. 

Saturday, August 13, 2016

Yogurt Revisited

I like to make my own yogurt. I have for quite a while now. 
Partly because I'm cheap. Partly because I'm picky. 
Mostly because it's not that hard and it's pretty cool to do. It's kitchen alchemy that makes me feel like I'm gaming the yogurt industry. I can get vanilla yogurt. Thick or thin. Without added sugar. A gallon at a time. 

A few years ago, I wrote a blog entry with pictures and details. I'm at my in-laws house. I don't want to go digging online. I have doll hair to untangle. And Olympics to watch. It's faster to just type a summary. My SIL requested it. So you can have it too.

  • I start with a gallon of milk. I pour it in a big pot. 
  • I heat the milk until it's reached 180 degrees. 
  • Then I let it cool. 
  • Yogurt cultures between 100 and 120 degrees. 
  • So as soon as the milk gets down to 120, I add yogurt culture. You can add powdered freeze dried culture. I just add existing yogurt. 
  • My favorite is Stonyfield Farms, because I like the robust flora. But other yogurts work just fine. I add around 4-8 ounces. It's a dollop. The more I add, the less time it takes to culture. If you use leftovers of your own yogurt, it has a diminishing efficacy. So I frequently buy new yogurt in a big container, and use the last serving to make a gallon of my own. 
  • I wisk in the culture, and usually a splash of vanilla extract. I've used vanilla bean when heating the milk before. That was better. But I don't always have it on hand. 
  • Then I let the milk sit. I try to keep it above 100 degrees, preferably closer to 120, for 6-12 hours. The longer it sits, the thicker it gets. 
  • Often I preheat the oven to 200, then turn it off. I put the lid on the pot, wrap the pot in a bath towel, and put it in the warm oven. 
  • Then I write myself a note to not forget the yogurt. 
  • I frequently strain it to be more like Greek yogurt. I line a strainer with a thin dish towel, and pour the  cultured yogurt in. I recommend a large bowl under he strainer, as you can really strain out a lot of liquid. I've used it in place of buttermilk before, with good results. (I add a bit of yogurt to get the right thickness). I've also used it in smoothies, too. 
  • When you chill your finished yogurt, it will continue to thicken. 
  • And then you can add as much or as little as you'd like to it. 
  • While paying less than if you bought it at the store. 
  • With not much hands-on time required. 
  • This makes me extremely happy. I know, it doesn't take much. 

You can also get a fancy yogurt maker. If you like things even simpler. 
Either way, enjoy!

Tuesday, August 9, 2016

Crying a River

Wow. What a day.
I'm still self-medicating with chocolate.
There was So. Much. Crying.
And not much of it was from my 4 month old.

I had no idea 4 girls could cry so much. And I've been doing this Mom thing for more than a few years.

Reasons my children cried today:

I asked them to get dressed.
I asked them to go to the bathroom.
I asked them to put on shoes.
Their shoes were right where I said they were.
I asked them to pick up their dirty clothes off the floor.
I told them if they wanted new sneakers, they would have to choose from the 10+ options at the store we were currently at.
I asked them to wear a pull-up at nap time.
I asked them to take a quiet time after lunch while I ran a final errand.
I asked them to write in their travel journals.
I asked them to practice piano.
I reminded them they couldn't play outside until they practiced piano and wrote in their travel journals.
I insisted that bike riding required shoes.
I asked them to finish their corn.
I asked them to wait at the table for a few minutes while everyone finished eating.
I asked them to pick up the toys all over the floor.
I insisted that they actually DO what I asked them to do.
I asked them to wait until after I was done feeding the baby to read a bedtime story.
I only read one (long) story.
I asked them to either let her sister use her nightlight or unplug it so her sister could plug in a different one.

These are just the reasons I can think of right now. And when I say "cry", I don't mean "shed silent tears". No. We're talking full-out extended wailing behind a closed door.

When I announced that anyone heard crying would be assumed to be exhausted and would go to bed early instead of going to the library? The crying magically stopped. Stopped. After hours of crying at every provocation. Like magic.

Why do I threaten them at times? Because when all else fails, it WORKS.
Oh. And I always follow through. That helps.
If you can't listen to my Nice Mommy Voice, you get my Mean Mommy Voice.
My Mean Mommy Voice came out this evening.
I explained that crying uses up my patience and energy faster than a usual day. And it was all gone halfway through our library trip.
All. Gone.
Because there was So. Much. Crying.

I was told again that I'm the Worst Mom in the World. So no matter what you do, you're fine.
You're welcome.