Posts Tagged ‘ fathers ’

A Moment Like Any Other

By | September 29th, 2011 | Category: Featured 2, HeatherEO, Memoir, Thursday 2 | 13 comments

{by Mitchell Brown}

(photo source)

It was a familiar spot and a moment like any other. It may have been yesterday. It may have been last year.

My reflection in the window looked old. The light bulb above me and the absence of light outside worked together to show my face drawn and dramatic in the shadows. I hadn’t bothered to pull the curtains yet and I stared at myself for a moment. I laughed without a sound thinking of how much I have aged over the last four years. I barely resemble who I was then. My hair is long now and noticeably grey. The skin around my eyes speaks of late nights and early mornings. Wrinkles born of worries and joys I never before knew trace my mouth. I look old, but I look happy. And I look tired.

I pulled the curtains shut and turned on the water.

An old friend once taught me about reconnecting with myself as I travel through my day. He would stop as he walked through a doorway to be aware of his body. Feel your toes, he would say. Remember they are there. Wiggle them. Think for a moment what your pinky toe feels like. Then move up though your legs, through your hips, through your belly, your chest, your shoulders, your ears. Reconnect. Center. Then move on. I stood at the sink and thought of him, as I often do, and thought of my toes. My poor, neglected toes. Shoved into shoes because barefoot on my feet all day makes my old knees ache. I allowed my awareness to move past my entombed toes and climb through me, feeling every inch of my body. Every weary muscle and sore joint recalled a moment. My hips were open and loose from squatting down to speak with my girls on their terms. My belly felt empty because it was not the one I was focused on filling at the dinner table. My throat was dry from all of the stories and answers and explanations and singing.

I felt my body. It felt tired.

The steam from the water, now hot, felt like a warm cloth as it reached my eyes. I held my head still to let my face absorb the heat. This is my spa, I thought. Each moment is what you make it. The weight of the water gathering on the sink full of dishes caused them to shift and I grabbed the sponge, returning from my little vacation.


10,000 mistakes

By | August 29th, 2011 | Category: Featured 2, HeatherEO, Memoir, Monday 1 | 4 comments

{by Wolf of Just Add Father}

Don’t open the door to the study.
Take down a lute.

Rumi

I wake up too early and lie in the dark, thinking. I have eight unfinished ToDos from yesterday. I go downstairs and open the study door.

On one shoulder sits a little man, saying, Lute! Lute! Play the lute!

On the other shoulder is another little man. This one says, Are you good enough yet? There’s work to do.

I think the lute man was there first, at least that’s the way I remember childhood. But the other man soon followed. He’s pretty much run my life since the first grade, and maybe before that. My wish for Nick, my eight year old son, is that he listen to his own lute man for as long as possible.

My fear is that the other man is already whispering to Nick. The idea that I can help Nick put this man in his place is a great seduction for me. Perhaps all it means is that I want to help him to be me, doing it right.

Nora and I try not to mindlessly praise Nick, avoiding “Good job” and such when we can. Instead we say things like, “Look at that yellow line you’ve drawn there. It’s twisting like a river.”

Nick likes to draw. But he worries that he’s lousy at it. This worry used to stop him cold, but now he draws and draws anyway, I’m glad to say. For the moment the lute man is winning.

A couple of years ago I got him a book about mistakes that turned into useful inventions. Not-sticky-enough glue that led to Post-Its, and so on. But the book was more for me than for him. It gave me something to say when he complained about himself. I told him he needed to make 10,000 mistakes to get good at something.

“It doesn’t look like it’s supposed to,” he’d say, showing me a drawing.


I hope I’m wrong

By | November 15th, 2010 | Category: Featured 2, Jennifer (Playgroups are no place for children), Tuesday 1 | 9 comments

{by Jennie from She Likes Purple}

I can’t remember if my relationship with my dad has ever been really easy, has ever been really good. I think so, I hope so, but still I can’t remember. I remember plenty of good times, sure — the way he used to swerve the car to the beat of the music on the radio, how he’s always up for a donut, when he drove so far out of his way last summer to see me another time before my plane left California. He appreciates good music and art and movies. He is whip smart and funny, too. When he’s on, he’s one of the most enjoyable people to be around. He’s not always on.

He can tell you who won the World Series 10 years ago and by how many games and who the winning pitcher was, but he’s forgotten my birthday more than once. I laugh because that’s funny, right? I laugh because what else am I going to do? “Remember when you forgot my birt….” I try to joke. “Don’t go there,” he warns. He means it.

I remember being so proud to be his daughter when I was much, much younger, but that feeling faded into something else entirely when I caught on to all the cheating and then it was smashed to smithereens once he walked out for good.

It’s the biggest conflict of my entire life, how to reconcile the very, very good with the very, very bad. There have been plenty of both.

I don’t blame him anymore for what he did all those years ago. What good would that do? But I have held out hope he would change, that he would stop doing it over and over again, year after year. I hoped he would get it, would see that his temper and jealousy has polluted every good relationship he has ever had. His temper has knocked so much over, left it broken on the floor. There was always so much wreckage left in the wake of his fury, wreckage I spent years sifting through. I’m done sifting now, and I’ve forgiven him, but, my god, I can’t fight anymore. I’m too tired.

I’m struggling, fumbling, tripping over myself to figure out how to have a relationship with a parent as a parent. “We’re both adults,” he said to me recently. Yes, we are, I thought. But I’m still your daughter.

I write here knowing anyone could read, imagining everyone I know is, just to be sure I don’t say anything to end friendships or make dinner parties especially awkward. He could find this space with one quick Google search. He could already be reading it. I’m fine if he is, if he has. I’ve said all this to him and then some. This is my therapy, this is how I heal, how I figure shit out, how I rise up out of the wreckage of all the broken dreams left shattered below. It’s not what you’d do, I’m sure, but write through it is all I can do. Those who love me will allow me that.

There’s been another fight, another long string of heartfelt, wounded emails, sleepless nights of thinking about what’s best, what I need, what I want. I wonder if it’ll ever end. I hope less these days.

One thing I used to say to Kyle when I was pregnant, when I’d be lounging, beached-whale-like, on the couch, was You don’t have to give back, you never have to give back. I’m not having you for me. I’m having you for the world. I’m not made of steel, but I mean it. I don’t have to be his first choice or his last call. He can prefer people over me and live a life apart from me. People have already gasped at how easily I hand my kid to anyone who wants him, how little it bothers me when someone else sees him roll over for the first time. God, I could never do that. I could never leave my kid! I don’t know how you do it! I’m not heartless. I just love him enough not to pin my happiness on him. That’s a heavy burden for him to carry, don’t I know.

I’ve often felt my dad has done things for me in order to have something to sling at me when we’re arguing. He wants to give, give, give, so he can remind, remind, remind. So I overcompensate. I tell Kyle as I rock him to sleep, Loving you is enough for me. You owe me nothing.

I try so hard to be different that I forget how much there is to love. My dad will hand money to any stranger in need, he’ll take me to In N Out Burger whenever I visit, he raised me to accept all people for exactly who they are, regardless of their race or who they choose to have sex with. He’s a good man with a good heart, and, yet, I can’t remember if we’ve ever really had a good relationship.

I’m afraid we never will.


Bennett Ryan

By | October 13th, 2009 | Category: BN Channel Pregnancy, Birth, Adoption, Featured 1, Tuesday 2 | 4 comments

Blog Nosh Magazine Pregnancy Birth Adoption{Originally published on Weddings by Heather}

It would be impossible for me to describe the emotion that I witnessed today with Jason, Kelly and their families. They entered the hospital with a terminal diagnosis for their son and the anxiety and emotion leading up to his delivery was difficult to process. But I can tell you this, in no uncertain terms, I witnessed a miracle when I heard Bennett cry as he was born. He was able to breath on his own. A MIRACLE. This is Kelly getting her first good look at her new baby.

Pittsburgh Newborn Photography

To capture these first, precious moments of Bennett’s life for Jason and Kelly is an absolute honor and I cannot thank them enough for allowing me to share in this very special, very private moment.


The Dying Season

By | July 27th, 2009 | Category: BN Channel Overcoming Adversity, Featured 1, Monday 1 | 1 Comment »

Overcoming Adversity Blog Nosh Magazine{Originally published on Chicken and Cheese.}

Not too long ago, we bathed The Poo while chatting about all the people who love her.

We listed off all her grandparents, and then spent time explaining how we, her parents, were also children.

“Your grandma and grandpa are my mommy and daddy,” Mr. Chicken told her, as he sluiced shampoo from her hair using a small container of water. “And meema is Mommy’s mommy.”

Suddenly, without warning, The Poo realized a new truth about our extended family.

“Mommy!” she exclaimed, the gears in her head grinding away. “You don’t have a daddy!”

I winced, her words hitting me as hard as any blow. My father’s been on my mind of late.

This is, you see, my season of loss.

*****

Even as we welcome a new soul to our household, my mind wanders – dreadfully – to this date on the calendar. Four years ago today, at 3:30 in the afternoon, my father drew his last breath.

Each year I think the hours will come and go like any other, just a pair of numbers and nothing more. I believe I will keep house and tend children, spending my time as I would on an ordinary day.

But this day, this terrible day, will never be ordinary again.

The immediacy of my grief has faded; that much is true. No longer do I wake in the heart of the night, veins pounding with dreams the color of blood. No longer do I wake each Aug. 26 precisely at 4 a.m., the time my telephone rang with the news that an ambulance was ferrying my father to the emergency room.

But when August begins to wane, a bruise rises to the surface, tender and easily irritated. The warm weather and the slant of the sun prompt recollections I’d rather forget – walking my parents’ dog in the late afternoon the week before my dad died, while they were away at The Mayo Clinic; the hope I felt when the doctors reported that the cancer was dead; the terrible tremor in my dad’s voice the last time I spoke to him on the phone.

I called to tell my mother I wanted to come out to Minnesota. I was on vacation, and something inside urged me to get on a plane and be with them.


The Missing Player

By | February 17th, 2009 | Category: BN Channel Pregnancy, Birth, Adoption, Featured 2, Thursday 2 | 1 Comment »

Blog Nosh Magazine Pregnancy Birth Adoption

{Originally Published on Production, Not Reproduction}

I haven’t said anything about my daughter’s first (birth) dad in awhile. Truthfully, I’ve not known how to comfortably approach it here. I am sorting through conflicting thoughts and feelings about him. It is hard to know what is appropriate to share.

After a chance meeting at a pizza place with an adoption agency social worker, he did go into the office to meet with her before Firefly was born. It was…less than positive. He had already made clear that he felt no obligation toward Beth (our daughter’s first mom), and as of now he apparently feels no obligation toward his daughter either. Nobody has heard from him since.

My husband and I have never spoken with him. We’ve never even seen a picture of him. We know his name and his age and some sketchy medical history. My amateur sleuthing hasn’t turned up any online presence for him, so I can’t peek at his life through Myspace or Facebook. He is a complete mystery to me. Yet he is one-half of my daughter’s genetic heritage.

This is uncharted territory for our family. Our son’s first dad, Ray, has been around from the beginning. It’s easy to include him in what we say to Puppy: “Kelly and Ray made you, they took care of you, they decided we would be parents to you. You have his smile, his hair, his eyes.” Ray underscores it all through his continued presence in Puppy’s life. I feel like Firefly’s story thus far has a glaringly missing player. What do I say about a man who chooses to ignore her? What do I say about a man about whom I know next to nothing?

One day before Firefly’s birth I sat down with Beth and laid how we had approached our relationship with Puppy’s first parents. Our priority has always been maintaining healthy relationships for Puppy. So our separate relationships with Kelly and Ray are our business and their relationship with each other is their business–we don’t take sides when there is friction between them and Puppy doesn’t get put in the middle of anything. I told Beth that we knew Firefly’s dad hadn’t done right by her. That we didn’t want her to think that us wanting a relationship with him meant we condoned that or didn’t care about it. Yet none of that changed the fact that Firefly still deserved to know him. The only thing we would expect from her would be to not to stand in the way if he ever started up a relationship with us.

It’s not that cut and dried, of course. It’s not like we can truly separate everyone into their own corners of our life. Beth is the one who is becoming our friend, who vulnerably opened up her life to us–and who received us likewise. She’s shown her commitment to this budding open adoption in myriad ways. Her opinions matter to us, including her opinions on Firefly’s dad…


Two Years and Counting: A Father’s Perspective

By | January 26th, 2009 | Category: BN Channel Pregnancy, Birth, Adoption, Featured 1, Monday 2 | 3 comments

Blog Nosh Magazine Pregnancy Birth Adoption

{Originally Published on The Playpen}

You know, there are a lot of articles, resources and links these days for expectant mothers, new mothers, old mothers, you name it. One of the things I realized when my daughter, Frankie, was born eight weeks prematurely was that there weren’t many resources available to dads. Even the books for new dads are all about how to keep your wife happy. What’s the deal with that?

I’ll be the first to admit that I didn’t know (still don’t know, come to think of it) the first thing about parenting. This is not a “how to” article by any stretch of the imagination. Its simply me, a young dad, looking to get some thoughts out there and maybe provide a little comic relief to other dads at the same time.

As I mentioned, my daughter was (is) a preemie. And she was little….real little. My wife had an emergency C-section after some difficulties with her pregnancy. Lets start there. Going through that process was no picnic. Getting your thoughts in order is virtually impossible. “What if my kid isn’t okay?” “What if something happens to my wife?” “How come that doctor over there looks unsure of himself?” “I didn’t paint the nursery yet!” “There’s a LOT of equipment in here…this is going to cost a TON.”

So you’re dealing with that side of things while at the same time trying to provide reassurance to Mom who, yes its true, is freaking out worse than you. Not an easy situation. As I was sorting all that out, and as I was sitting in the operating room, I made the biggest mistake of my life.

“Do you want to see your new daughter?”, my wife’s doctor asked me, apparently completely unaware that I was about two seconds shy of a heart attack.

“YEAH,” I said, and stood up from my stool, eagerly peering over the sheet that was placed over my wife’s mid-section.


Welcoming It All

By | November 5th, 2008 | Category: Deb on the Rocks, Featured 1, Wednesday 1 | No Comments »

Personal Blog Nosh Magazine {Originally Published on Recovering Straight Girl}

The smell of fall is in the air here in the Pacific Northwest. I’m not really ready to let summer go but fall is my favorite time of the year. More than January 1st, fall feels like the time to begin again–a new year–a new time of possibilities.

We’ve had a fun summer and I’m beginning to be ready to dive in to the world again. I’ve been cleaning things up in my office, my home, and in my head. Taking stock of what I have, what I need, and what to do next. It’s a little exhausting at times, but I know it will all pay off in the end.

I was having some apprehension about starting school again. HG and I decided that changing schools would be a good idea and I applied to the school I want to attend last spring but did not follow up on my admittance until just last week. I think I was having anxiety about it and figured if I put it off too long I could just take some online classes at the community college I attended last term. But I did decide to follow up and did send them the info they needed and did register for classes as a non-admitted student until everything is processed. Yesterday I filled out all of the financial aid info that I know they will need as soon as everything is processed, cleaned out all of my files, recycled an entire garbage can of paper, and got ready to mail two important items that will (yes, Universe, WILL) bring me some money.

I’m making room for great things to come my way.

In a few hours I will pick up my father from the airport for his visit here with us. I don’t think that I realized just how anxious I am about this visit until I woke up this morning at 2:30 a.m. and couldn’t go back to sleep. Usually when something is coming up that I’m not sure about I just put it aside and deny it awhile. It works out for me actually, because I think while I have it set aside in my denial I somehow process through it a little bit.

This visit brings up a lot of things for me. Obvious things like Why Now? Why Now, after all this time, does my father want to come and visit? I’m glad he does and I’m very much looking forward to it but I still hear that voice in my head that says, “What’s wrong with me that he didn’t want to come before?”


The Windfall of My Life

By | September 12th, 2008 | Category: Featured 2, Thursday 2 | No Comments »
The Windfall of My Life

Blog Nosh Magazine Pregnancy Birth Adoption

{Originally published on We Make Three}

If you’ve been reading this blog, you know that I’ve been married to Michael for nearly 20 years. This man saved me. I’m not kidding. And I will always love him for that.

I was only 20 when we got married. Even at that young age, I realized that I had everything to learn about life. We both understood that starting a family would wait while we developed ourselves, our careers, and focused on our marriage. We had nothing for our start together other than the china and crystal from our wedding registry. Not even a couch. It was a meager beginning, but still a heady time for us. We had nothing but each other and our independence. I love how we started our relationship, and I love that we sacrificed and made our way without any help.

Life happened to us. We bought our home, built our careers, and enjoyed our lives together. We got our dog, a little Yorkie I named Chester, who became the perfect vessel for my maternal outpourings. We talked about kids. A lot. Michael is very practical. Pragmatic. He looks at the facts and makes very accurate assessments. We discussed the commitment, sacrifice, and change in our lifestyle that having a family would require. We were ready.

(click for more)


Ignorance Can Be Bliss

By | August 26th, 2008 | Category: BN Channel Pregnancy, Birth, Adoption, Humor | 2 comments

Blog Nosh Magazine Pregnancy Birth Adoption

Originally published on Fuse Moms

The common denominator of first-time pregnant women is not distended
bellies or compromised bladders. It is not the fear of another human
being exiting their body. Instead, they pursue one goal – preparation.
Whether it’s stocking up on diapers or painting a nursery in a soothing
color, these gals feel the need to prepare for their new arrival. For
me, it was childbirth classes…

Stork_2

Round One

We are at the hospital’s four-session course about childbirth. The room is chock full of rotund ladies and their husbands.

The
nurse who is teaching the class has grown children. I’d prefer to talk
to someone who carries recent scars… I mean memories… of the joy of
childbirth. To chafe me even more, she is wearing a waist-cinching
belt. I don’t think anyone in this room can imagine fitting in a belt
again. This woman is cruel. I want to run her over with my car.

(click title for more)