A few years ago, Laurie and I met a couple who said that they had “adopted” their birthmother when they adopted their child. She had become a member of their family, spending the night on holidays, even baby-sitting the child.
In foster-parent training, Laurie and I learned that, when you adopt from foster care, birth families rarely maintain an open relationship. When preparing to adopt our second child, as a newborn, our agency taught us about the benefits of contact to everyone involved.
When we met M, we loved her immediately. She relaxed us with her sense of humor, and thrilled us when she told us that the baby in her tummy was ours. “I want you to be in the delivery room with her when she’s born,” she said to us. “I want her Mom and Dad to name her.”
Our relationship blossomed over the first year. After we brought Vivi home, we met with M every few months. In between visits, we exchanged phone calls, e-mails, and texts. We even spoke in training sessions together, to couples interested in adoption. Our agency told us that hearing our story alongside M’s gave new families a good perspective on open adoption.
Then, some time after Vivi’s second birthday, that relationship changed. As M became comfortable with us during our visits, she began to make more personal remarks, including some that contradicted what she had told us earlier about her pregnancy. Eventually, Laurie called our agency to explain the situation, and we had to involve our lawyer to confirm that the adoption was unassailable.
While our worst fears of something disrupting our family settled down, our hurt at M’s actions took a while to process. We never considered ending the relationship—M is our daughter’s birthmother, and, because of that, she is our family, too—but we decided we needed to pull back a little. The summer passed, and we remained out of contact with M.
One night Laurie was on the computer when she received an instant message from M. It read, “I’m so sorry for everything that happened.” Laurie responded that we were hurt by the events that had transpired, and that we had needed some time to work through it. M's response was quick, “Well, I hope you all have a good life. Take care.”
We sensed that M was reacting this way to keep herself at a distance, should we decide to break off contact, so we quickly explained that, while we were disappointed, she was not going to get rid of us that easily. She was family. M said she couldn’t believe that we still wanted to maintain a relationship. Her family had been telling her that one day we would stop all correspondence, and she thought this was it.
The next time we met, we told M that family members have fights and disagreements, but that doesn’t mean they never speak to each other again. These days, we visit less frequently, but continue to send photos almost monthly. Through this experience, Laurie and I learned that an open adoption is an evolving relationship, requiring patience, love, acceptance, boundaries, and communication.
When I think about the couple who “adopted” their birthmother, I wonder whether we missed an opportunity. They said they thought they would receive one addition to the family but, to their delight, they got a second. I don’t see M that way. Laurie and I hoped for a child, and we got one, with Vivi. The bonus is that we have one more person in our life who cares deeply about her.
This article can also be read at http://www.adoptivefamilies.com/.
Showing posts with label disagreement. Show all posts
Showing posts with label disagreement. Show all posts
Monday, February 7, 2011
Call Him Mommy
Once Isaac reached three years old, I suddenly became aware of my language and temper. I remember vividly the day he said his first curse word. I was sitting on the couch watching the news while Isaac played at my feet and Laurie prepared dinner. She called out from the kitchen, “Honey, we don’t have enough potatoes for everyone.”
Isaac looked at me and said, “Dammit, we need to get some more.”
Laurie leaned her head around the corner, and we shared a look that said, “Did I hear that correctly? Did he just say that?” She came into the living room and kneeled on the floor beside him. “Isaac, what did you say?”
He responded, “We need to get some more.”
“No, but what did you say before that?”
He said nothing, just gave her a confused look. We waited for him to come up with an answer, but he clearly had no idea what he said.
“Do you think he really said it?” I asked her.
“I don’t know. Do you?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe he said, ‘Dang it.’ We say that all the time.”
Laurie rolled her eyes. “You know he didn’t say ‘Dang it.’ You say the other thing sometimes.”
“No I don’t.”
“You don’t say it all the time. But I’ve heard you say it once or twice.”
Isaac chimed in. “Are you guys fighting?” His voice was stern and authoritative—a dead-on impersonation of his mother and me.
“No, Isaac,” his mother and I said in unison.
We waited until after we put him to bed to continue the conversation. Laurie told me I needed to watch what I said around him. I said I’d already tried my hardest to phase out everything but “shoot” and “fiddlesticks” but sometimes those just didn’t do the job. I suggested he might have heard it anywhere—my parents, someone in Bible study, that kid at the playground with the Marilyn Manson T-shirt. I reminded her that he had recently learned how to operate the remote control. “Maybe he changed the channel when we weren’t in the room and heard it then.” Laurie didn’t buy any of it.
I couldn’t help but feel a little on the spot. We didn’t discuss any of the ways she was a bad influence on him. I didn’t mention his whining, crying, or constant compulsion to ask me for money. A few weeks passed before a better option would occur to me. Isaac was eating his breakfast as I was leaving for work. As his mother called to him from the next room to drink his milk, I kissed his forehead and said goodbye. He said, “Bye, Dammy. Love you.”
I turned around and asked, “What was that?”
“Oh. I mean, bye Daddy.”
I considered calling to his mother who was in the bedroom folding clothes. I wanted to tell her what he said—that the morphing of our two names sounded both humorous and blasphemous. But I thought twice about telling her. I imagined her saying, “You still need to watch what you say.”
At that point in both his and his little sister’s verbal development, I was used to being called Mommy. I tried not to let it hurt my feelings. As a stay-at-home mom, Laurie got significantly more face time with them. But at times it really bothered me. It seems like anytime I was nice or treated them in a nurturing way, they addressed me as “Mommy.” Then, one day Laurie called me at work and said, “Your son cracks me up. I just got on his case for something and he called me Daddy.”
I told her I didn’t understand.
“He was sassing me and I told him, ‘You do not talk to your mother like that. Do you understand me?’ and he said, ‘Yes, Daddy.’ Isn’t that funny?”
I thought about it for a second. When I’m nice to him, he calls me Mommy and when his mother disciplines him, he calls her Daddy. Great.
His verbal skills skyrocketed and for a while he consistently called his mom and me Dammy or Moddy. Vivi is now three and has inherited this morph. She’s so used to my leaving for work that whenever Laurie leaves the house, Vivi says, “Bye, Daddy.” While her mom is out shopping, I make dinner and, as I rush back and forth from the kitchen to the table, Vivi says, “Thank you, Mommy.”
Isaac looked at me and said, “Dammit, we need to get some more.”
Laurie leaned her head around the corner, and we shared a look that said, “Did I hear that correctly? Did he just say that?” She came into the living room and kneeled on the floor beside him. “Isaac, what did you say?”
He responded, “We need to get some more.”
“No, but what did you say before that?”
He said nothing, just gave her a confused look. We waited for him to come up with an answer, but he clearly had no idea what he said.
“Do you think he really said it?” I asked her.
“I don’t know. Do you?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe he said, ‘Dang it.’ We say that all the time.”
Laurie rolled her eyes. “You know he didn’t say ‘Dang it.’ You say the other thing sometimes.”
“No I don’t.”
“You don’t say it all the time. But I’ve heard you say it once or twice.”
Isaac chimed in. “Are you guys fighting?” His voice was stern and authoritative—a dead-on impersonation of his mother and me.
“No, Isaac,” his mother and I said in unison.
We waited until after we put him to bed to continue the conversation. Laurie told me I needed to watch what I said around him. I said I’d already tried my hardest to phase out everything but “shoot” and “fiddlesticks” but sometimes those just didn’t do the job. I suggested he might have heard it anywhere—my parents, someone in Bible study, that kid at the playground with the Marilyn Manson T-shirt. I reminded her that he had recently learned how to operate the remote control. “Maybe he changed the channel when we weren’t in the room and heard it then.” Laurie didn’t buy any of it.
I couldn’t help but feel a little on the spot. We didn’t discuss any of the ways she was a bad influence on him. I didn’t mention his whining, crying, or constant compulsion to ask me for money. A few weeks passed before a better option would occur to me. Isaac was eating his breakfast as I was leaving for work. As his mother called to him from the next room to drink his milk, I kissed his forehead and said goodbye. He said, “Bye, Dammy. Love you.”
I turned around and asked, “What was that?”
“Oh. I mean, bye Daddy.”
I considered calling to his mother who was in the bedroom folding clothes. I wanted to tell her what he said—that the morphing of our two names sounded both humorous and blasphemous. But I thought twice about telling her. I imagined her saying, “You still need to watch what you say.”
At that point in both his and his little sister’s verbal development, I was used to being called Mommy. I tried not to let it hurt my feelings. As a stay-at-home mom, Laurie got significantly more face time with them. But at times it really bothered me. It seems like anytime I was nice or treated them in a nurturing way, they addressed me as “Mommy.” Then, one day Laurie called me at work and said, “Your son cracks me up. I just got on his case for something and he called me Daddy.”
I told her I didn’t understand.
“He was sassing me and I told him, ‘You do not talk to your mother like that. Do you understand me?’ and he said, ‘Yes, Daddy.’ Isn’t that funny?”
I thought about it for a second. When I’m nice to him, he calls me Mommy and when his mother disciplines him, he calls her Daddy. Great.
His verbal skills skyrocketed and for a while he consistently called his mom and me Dammy or Moddy. Vivi is now three and has inherited this morph. She’s so used to my leaving for work that whenever Laurie leaves the house, Vivi says, “Bye, Daddy.” While her mom is out shopping, I make dinner and, as I rush back and forth from the kitchen to the table, Vivi says, “Thank you, Mommy.”
This article can also be read at Wearegoodkin.com.
Card Stock
Last Valentine’s Day, I was shopping in the card section at Walmart a few days before the 14th. I must have looked at thirty cards; according to many reliable sources, I am picky. It’s a label I’m willing to embrace if it means I’m the type of guy who wants to pick a card that says just the right thing and doesn't cost nine dollars. When did greeting cards become so expensive?
I imagined giving Laurie’s reaction when I gave her something more practical, like a five-dollar box of chocolates with “Love You, Sweetie,” written with a sharpie all over the shrink-wrap. I’d say, “I thought you’d prefer the money spent on sweets.” She’d put her arms around me and kiss me. “You’re the smartest husband in the world,” she’d say. Do I know my wife or what?
As I walked up and down the crowded card section, I noticed that I was surrounded by women. This is a sharp contrast from my shopping experience last year, when I worked a late shift the day before Valentine's. I stopped at Walmart on my way home sometime after midnight, and was surprised to see the card section was full of guys, each of whom held a bouquet of flowers and nervously paced the sparse card selection. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who waited until the last minute.
I saw guys in ties and guys in coveralls. Regardless of class or race, we formed a band of brothers, each of us haunted by the Ghost of Forgotten Valentine’s Past. However, this year, I was an entire week early. This, to me, explained all the women in the card section. As I was looking through the "to her from him" cards, I noticed how so many of cards are apologetic: “I know I don’t tell you often enough…” “I don’t know how I got to be so lucky…” “Sorry this is late…” “For the woman I don’t deserve…” “You’re always so patient with me…” And I couldn’t help but feel a little offended.
Now that I’ve been married long enough to no longer be considered a newlywed, I figure I now have enough credibility to resent the image of husbands that sitcoms portray, specifically that men are bumbling, insensitive idiots? Sure I feel as lucky as the next guy to have a terrific wife, but I don’t feel the need to apologize for anything. Laurie knows how much I love her. Then again, there was that incident the previous week about the chocolates.
Laurie had returned home from grocery shopping at Walmart. She walked in the door, came over to me, and kissed me on the cheek. “I saw the box of chocolates I want you get me for Valentine’s Day,” she sang. “Well, if you were already there, then why didn’t you just buy the stupid things yourself?” A split second before she started crying, I asked myself, “Did you just say that?” It sounded a lot funnier in my mind. And yet I heard the words said in a voice that sounded a lot like mine.
We finished putting the groceries away in silence. Then she retired to our bedroom while I spent the rest of the evening sitting on the couch, half-concentrating on whatever was on TV, and trying to think of a way to justify what I said. But I couldn’t, at least not without feeling like a bumbling, insensitive idiot. I tried to think of how to make it up to her. She’s so good at showing me how much I mean to her. She tells me she loves me with little gifts and little gestures and spending all day cleaning the house because she wants me to come home to a nice house.
I tell her I love her when I pay the utilities bill. Why can't I be creative like her? And now I couldn’t even buy her the box of chocolates because now they’re tainted. Oh God! I thought. Why am I such an idiot! It was sometime the next day that I found myself at Walmart where I made my way straight line to the card section. I weaved in and out of the women perusing the cards they would buy their husbands, along with dainty little treats. I felt their eyes on me and wondered if they thought I was really sensitive, the kind of guy who always remembers to tell his wife how special she is. And for a moment, I allowed myself the fantasy.
That’s right, Ladies, I’m buying my wife’s Valentine’s card a week early because that’s just the kind of guy I am. Then I tried not to be too noticeable when I started looking through the “I’m sorry” cards.
I imagined giving Laurie’s reaction when I gave her something more practical, like a five-dollar box of chocolates with “Love You, Sweetie,” written with a sharpie all over the shrink-wrap. I’d say, “I thought you’d prefer the money spent on sweets.” She’d put her arms around me and kiss me. “You’re the smartest husband in the world,” she’d say. Do I know my wife or what?
As I walked up and down the crowded card section, I noticed that I was surrounded by women. This is a sharp contrast from my shopping experience last year, when I worked a late shift the day before Valentine's. I stopped at Walmart on my way home sometime after midnight, and was surprised to see the card section was full of guys, each of whom held a bouquet of flowers and nervously paced the sparse card selection. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who waited until the last minute.
I saw guys in ties and guys in coveralls. Regardless of class or race, we formed a band of brothers, each of us haunted by the Ghost of Forgotten Valentine’s Past. However, this year, I was an entire week early. This, to me, explained all the women in the card section. As I was looking through the "to her from him" cards, I noticed how so many of cards are apologetic: “I know I don’t tell you often enough…” “I don’t know how I got to be so lucky…” “Sorry this is late…” “For the woman I don’t deserve…” “You’re always so patient with me…” And I couldn’t help but feel a little offended.
Now that I’ve been married long enough to no longer be considered a newlywed, I figure I now have enough credibility to resent the image of husbands that sitcoms portray, specifically that men are bumbling, insensitive idiots? Sure I feel as lucky as the next guy to have a terrific wife, but I don’t feel the need to apologize for anything. Laurie knows how much I love her. Then again, there was that incident the previous week about the chocolates.
Laurie had returned home from grocery shopping at Walmart. She walked in the door, came over to me, and kissed me on the cheek. “I saw the box of chocolates I want you get me for Valentine’s Day,” she sang. “Well, if you were already there, then why didn’t you just buy the stupid things yourself?” A split second before she started crying, I asked myself, “Did you just say that?” It sounded a lot funnier in my mind. And yet I heard the words said in a voice that sounded a lot like mine.
We finished putting the groceries away in silence. Then she retired to our bedroom while I spent the rest of the evening sitting on the couch, half-concentrating on whatever was on TV, and trying to think of a way to justify what I said. But I couldn’t, at least not without feeling like a bumbling, insensitive idiot. I tried to think of how to make it up to her. She’s so good at showing me how much I mean to her. She tells me she loves me with little gifts and little gestures and spending all day cleaning the house because she wants me to come home to a nice house.
I tell her I love her when I pay the utilities bill. Why can't I be creative like her? And now I couldn’t even buy her the box of chocolates because now they’re tainted. Oh God! I thought. Why am I such an idiot! It was sometime the next day that I found myself at Walmart where I made my way straight line to the card section. I weaved in and out of the women perusing the cards they would buy their husbands, along with dainty little treats. I felt their eyes on me and wondered if they thought I was really sensitive, the kind of guy who always remembers to tell his wife how special she is. And for a moment, I allowed myself the fantasy.
That’s right, Ladies, I’m buying my wife’s Valentine’s card a week early because that’s just the kind of guy I am. Then I tried not to be too noticeable when I started looking through the “I’m sorry” cards.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Racism is Alive and Well and Living on the Blogs
My wife recently caused a storm on her blog when she wrote about a minor incident involving our son, Isaac, being called a “monkey boy” by some of his friends at school. The kids were far too young to understand they’d done something racially charged; in fact the incident seemed playful in nature rather than name-calling. Nevertheless, Laurie wrote about it on her blog and, as with any discussion involving race, the responses ran black and white, from absolute support and gratitude to outrage.
Coincidentally, another mother who had adopted a boy from Ethiopia a few weeks earlier had posted pictures of her son in a monkey costume for Halloween the same day Laurie published her post and started a similar controversy. Some of her readers, one of whom identified themselves as black, commented that they thought the costume was offensive while others supported her costume and rebuked those who were offended. The dialogue between bloggers frustrated and disheartened the mother and she wrote that she was considering taking down the blog.
I’ve had a blog for several years now and have had to confront a false sense of anonymity the Internet gives people. Many readers and writers feel free to write what they don’t have the courage to say in person. From the comfort of their computer, they can tell the black community to get over slavery, that whites have no privileges over anyone else, and that it is “reverse racism” when a black person is offended.
Bloggers need to realize that if your blog is a forum for your opinion, then it is a forum for the opinions of your readers as well. If you want to express yourself without dealing with opposing opinions, I suggest you start a new blog and make sure not to tell anyone else in the world about it.
So to the adoptive mother, let me encourage you to continue blogging. You are now a multiracial family and need to prepare yourself for a lifetime of discussions on race. White people, for the most part, don’t need to discuss race on a regular basis. In fact, discussing it seems to unnecessarily make a big deal about it. One reader posted on Laurie’s blog, “If we continue to teach children that ‘monkey’ is a derogatory term, then we’ll never get beyond it.” Ultimately, the comment implies that if we ignore racism, it will go away on its own. Laurie has been receiving racist comments from an anonymous reader. So is the writer’s advice to us to get over it and stop being so sensitive, or to ignore it and hope it goes away on its own, or is it reverse racism for us to address it?
You’re probably shocked to have to defend your family to strangers. But your blog can be a terrific place to connect with like-minded parents who know exactly what you are going through. If you encounter racism and negativity regarding your blog posts, then you’re going to get them at the grocery store, at church, and everywhere else you go. Laurie and I found the first few months with Isaac the hardest – both with our family and total strangers. We struggled to adapt to staring and inappropriate comments and questions. From other adopted families, we learned gracious and humorous ways to respond, and we’re much more prepared to defend our family. These connections were possible because we put ourselves out there, as did the families that saw our family and reached out to us.
While our parental instincts tell us to protect our children, we simply can’t protect them from everything. Laurie and I are committed to protecting our kids as best we can as well as mourning with them when we failed. Your son will not be able to run from his black skin, and the best thing you can do for him to model how to stand up for yourself.
One reader commented to Laurie, “You are arrogant to believe that what you say to a teacher or to other children is making a difference.” Maybe I am arrogant, but the alternative of remaining silent is too cowardly for me. If my kids grow up too proud of their race as opposed to too timid, I can live with that.
Coincidentally, another mother who had adopted a boy from Ethiopia a few weeks earlier had posted pictures of her son in a monkey costume for Halloween the same day Laurie published her post and started a similar controversy. Some of her readers, one of whom identified themselves as black, commented that they thought the costume was offensive while others supported her costume and rebuked those who were offended. The dialogue between bloggers frustrated and disheartened the mother and she wrote that she was considering taking down the blog.
I’ve had a blog for several years now and have had to confront a false sense of anonymity the Internet gives people. Many readers and writers feel free to write what they don’t have the courage to say in person. From the comfort of their computer, they can tell the black community to get over slavery, that whites have no privileges over anyone else, and that it is “reverse racism” when a black person is offended.
Bloggers need to realize that if your blog is a forum for your opinion, then it is a forum for the opinions of your readers as well. If you want to express yourself without dealing with opposing opinions, I suggest you start a new blog and make sure not to tell anyone else in the world about it.
So to the adoptive mother, let me encourage you to continue blogging. You are now a multiracial family and need to prepare yourself for a lifetime of discussions on race. White people, for the most part, don’t need to discuss race on a regular basis. In fact, discussing it seems to unnecessarily make a big deal about it. One reader posted on Laurie’s blog, “If we continue to teach children that ‘monkey’ is a derogatory term, then we’ll never get beyond it.” Ultimately, the comment implies that if we ignore racism, it will go away on its own. Laurie has been receiving racist comments from an anonymous reader. So is the writer’s advice to us to get over it and stop being so sensitive, or to ignore it and hope it goes away on its own, or is it reverse racism for us to address it?
You’re probably shocked to have to defend your family to strangers. But your blog can be a terrific place to connect with like-minded parents who know exactly what you are going through. If you encounter racism and negativity regarding your blog posts, then you’re going to get them at the grocery store, at church, and everywhere else you go. Laurie and I found the first few months with Isaac the hardest – both with our family and total strangers. We struggled to adapt to staring and inappropriate comments and questions. From other adopted families, we learned gracious and humorous ways to respond, and we’re much more prepared to defend our family. These connections were possible because we put ourselves out there, as did the families that saw our family and reached out to us.
While our parental instincts tell us to protect our children, we simply can’t protect them from everything. Laurie and I are committed to protecting our kids as best we can as well as mourning with them when we failed. Your son will not be able to run from his black skin, and the best thing you can do for him to model how to stand up for yourself.
One reader commented to Laurie, “You are arrogant to believe that what you say to a teacher or to other children is making a difference.” Maybe I am arrogant, but the alternative of remaining silent is too cowardly for me. If my kids grow up too proud of their race as opposed to too timid, I can live with that.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Dream Job
"Things move from order to chaos."
-The Second Law of Thermodynamics
The transition from working a traditional job to a stay-at-home mom is tough on anyone. But for my wife who worked as a nanny before having kids, she had a particularly difficult time. For over twelve years, she mothered other people’s children. She changed diapers and cleaned up toys full time. These may have been long days but at least she had a paycheck and the end of the day to look forward to.
Her first job after college was working full-time for a wealthy family of lawyers. This was before we had met and she’s mentioned this experience to me several times. “The husband was horrible. He turned me into a housekeeper. Every day I had to run the dishwasher even if there were only a couple of things to clean and then empty it before they came home from work. I had to fold all the clothes and towels a specific way and position them in the closet facing the same direction on wood hangers. In the winter, I had to vacuum the ashes out of the fireplace every day. He would yell at me if I didn’t do things exactly the way he wanted. It was the worst job I ever had.” Despite being offered a raise to stay, she quit after working for this family for a year.
My wife has a family of her own now – a toddler son, an infant daughter, a fifty-pound Australian Shepherd, and a little Pomeranian/Chihuahua puppy. She’s been trying to cope with the fact that cleaning the house is a losing battle. I came home from work the other day and all the children ran to greet me, including the furry ones. My wife was sprawled out on the couch and was the least enthused to see me. “Sorry about the house,” she groaned. I surveyed what was left of the living room. It looked like the cave of a pack of wild animals. The floor was littered with toys, granola bar wrappers, and clumps of black dog hair. The coffee table was strewn with the day’s mail, multiple board books, and overturned sippie cups. Sitting next to my wife on the couch was an unopened package of diapers. I put my keys on the kitchen table and noticed several used diapers next to the laptop.
I headed to the bedroom to take my shoes off and get comfortable, I saw a layer of toys on the floor and another layer in our bed, along with some folded laundry and a few snack wrappers. I made enough room on the bed to sit down and took off my socks and, as I threw them in the hamper, I saw the dirty clothes piled up to my waist.
My wife walked into the bedroom. “Honey, I know the house looks bad and I don’t want to hear it,” she said.
“I didn’t say anything.” But I couldn’t help but think back to the obsessive lawyer and his dishwasher and wonder what he did right that maybe I was doing wrong. I decided to say, “I’m sure you’ve had a rough day,” which I thought would be a neutral statement. However, she received a different message – You are not doing your job – and felt the need to defend herself.
“I have had a rough day. The baby’s been crying since she woke up this morning at 6am. She cried anytime I wasn’t holding her. When I picked her up she either thrashed around or hit me. The dogs got into the trash again. All your son ever says is, ‘Can I watch a show?’” She paused for a moment. I thought she might have been done but she was only considering how to go on.
“I know I should straighten up when they take their nap but I’m so tired I just need a break. You get to leave your job and come home. I never get a break. Even when you’re here, they’re still constantly all over me. They start before the sun comes up and don’t stop until bedtime.” She took a breath and put her arm over her forehead and lay on the bed quietly.
I waited a few moments to make sure she was done. When I thought it was safe, I said, “I’m sorry you’ve had a hard day. What can I do to help?”
“I don’t know. Just keep everyone out of the kitchen so I can make dinner.”
She got up and headed to the kitchen. I sat on the edge of the bed for a few moments. I thought about what she said and tried to sympathize. I’d worked a long, hard day but I had something to show for it. I felt bad for her because the house was in such bad shape that I couldn’t even notice what she had done.
I realized the difference between the lawyer’s home and our home was that she was being paid for her work. Keeping their home clean was her job. Mothering my children was not just her job, it was her whole life. It’s futile to think that I could pay her an adequate salary for the tireless work that she does or the endless hours she puts in.
I remember a story my wife told me about another family she had nannied for. She had been taking care of the boy, Jarrett, who at the time was probably three. The two of them had had a perfect day together. They played games and read books all day. He hadn’t had any tantrums and she hadn’t lost her temper at him once. At the end of the day, they were watching a show together when his mom came home from work. My wife and his mom debriefed the day while Jarrett went into the next room. After a minute or so, Jarrett’s mom and my wife looked over and saw that Jarrett was naked from the waste down and lion-taming the family dog with his step stool. My wife said, “So we just looked at each and laughed. Then I grabbed my keys and said, ‘See you later.’”
I would think incidents like this as well as things like diapers and the countless hours without adult engagement as a nanny would have worn her out before she even became a mother. But it hasn’t. She’s so glad to have kids that she rarely complains about that stuff. It’s the clutter that stresses her out. And it’s not because she doesn’t notice or care. That’s what I love about her. She does notice the pile of laundry and the dishes. But she’s just one person who is drastically outnumbered. I may be home only a few hours everyday, but even I see the children pull toys out of their toy bins just to pull them out. They don’t even play with the toys, they just move on to emptying the next bin. I think about the lion-taming incident and consider how my wife took for granted her job as a nanny where at least she could look forward to going home at the end of the day.
-The Second Law of Thermodynamics
The transition from working a traditional job to a stay-at-home mom is tough on anyone. But for my wife who worked as a nanny before having kids, she had a particularly difficult time. For over twelve years, she mothered other people’s children. She changed diapers and cleaned up toys full time. These may have been long days but at least she had a paycheck and the end of the day to look forward to.
Her first job after college was working full-time for a wealthy family of lawyers. This was before we had met and she’s mentioned this experience to me several times. “The husband was horrible. He turned me into a housekeeper. Every day I had to run the dishwasher even if there were only a couple of things to clean and then empty it before they came home from work. I had to fold all the clothes and towels a specific way and position them in the closet facing the same direction on wood hangers. In the winter, I had to vacuum the ashes out of the fireplace every day. He would yell at me if I didn’t do things exactly the way he wanted. It was the worst job I ever had.” Despite being offered a raise to stay, she quit after working for this family for a year.
My wife has a family of her own now – a toddler son, an infant daughter, a fifty-pound Australian Shepherd, and a little Pomeranian/Chihuahua puppy. She’s been trying to cope with the fact that cleaning the house is a losing battle. I came home from work the other day and all the children ran to greet me, including the furry ones. My wife was sprawled out on the couch and was the least enthused to see me. “Sorry about the house,” she groaned. I surveyed what was left of the living room. It looked like the cave of a pack of wild animals. The floor was littered with toys, granola bar wrappers, and clumps of black dog hair. The coffee table was strewn with the day’s mail, multiple board books, and overturned sippie cups. Sitting next to my wife on the couch was an unopened package of diapers. I put my keys on the kitchen table and noticed several used diapers next to the laptop.
I headed to the bedroom to take my shoes off and get comfortable, I saw a layer of toys on the floor and another layer in our bed, along with some folded laundry and a few snack wrappers. I made enough room on the bed to sit down and took off my socks and, as I threw them in the hamper, I saw the dirty clothes piled up to my waist.
My wife walked into the bedroom. “Honey, I know the house looks bad and I don’t want to hear it,” she said.
“I didn’t say anything.” But I couldn’t help but think back to the obsessive lawyer and his dishwasher and wonder what he did right that maybe I was doing wrong. I decided to say, “I’m sure you’ve had a rough day,” which I thought would be a neutral statement. However, she received a different message – You are not doing your job – and felt the need to defend herself.
“I have had a rough day. The baby’s been crying since she woke up this morning at 6am. She cried anytime I wasn’t holding her. When I picked her up she either thrashed around or hit me. The dogs got into the trash again. All your son ever says is, ‘Can I watch a show?’” She paused for a moment. I thought she might have been done but she was only considering how to go on.
“I know I should straighten up when they take their nap but I’m so tired I just need a break. You get to leave your job and come home. I never get a break. Even when you’re here, they’re still constantly all over me. They start before the sun comes up and don’t stop until bedtime.” She took a breath and put her arm over her forehead and lay on the bed quietly.
I waited a few moments to make sure she was done. When I thought it was safe, I said, “I’m sorry you’ve had a hard day. What can I do to help?”
“I don’t know. Just keep everyone out of the kitchen so I can make dinner.”
She got up and headed to the kitchen. I sat on the edge of the bed for a few moments. I thought about what she said and tried to sympathize. I’d worked a long, hard day but I had something to show for it. I felt bad for her because the house was in such bad shape that I couldn’t even notice what she had done.
I realized the difference between the lawyer’s home and our home was that she was being paid for her work. Keeping their home clean was her job. Mothering my children was not just her job, it was her whole life. It’s futile to think that I could pay her an adequate salary for the tireless work that she does or the endless hours she puts in.
I remember a story my wife told me about another family she had nannied for. She had been taking care of the boy, Jarrett, who at the time was probably three. The two of them had had a perfect day together. They played games and read books all day. He hadn’t had any tantrums and she hadn’t lost her temper at him once. At the end of the day, they were watching a show together when his mom came home from work. My wife and his mom debriefed the day while Jarrett went into the next room. After a minute or so, Jarrett’s mom and my wife looked over and saw that Jarrett was naked from the waste down and lion-taming the family dog with his step stool. My wife said, “So we just looked at each and laughed. Then I grabbed my keys and said, ‘See you later.’”
I would think incidents like this as well as things like diapers and the countless hours without adult engagement as a nanny would have worn her out before she even became a mother. But it hasn’t. She’s so glad to have kids that she rarely complains about that stuff. It’s the clutter that stresses her out. And it’s not because she doesn’t notice or care. That’s what I love about her. She does notice the pile of laundry and the dishes. But she’s just one person who is drastically outnumbered. I may be home only a few hours everyday, but even I see the children pull toys out of their toy bins just to pull them out. They don’t even play with the toys, they just move on to emptying the next bin. I think about the lion-taming incident and consider how my wife took for granted her job as a nanny where at least she could look forward to going home at the end of the day.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Sad Gorilla
The other night, I lay in bed trying to go to sleep. It was August and the bedroom in our apartment was the typical ten degrees hotter than the rest of the apartment. While I tossed and turned in the bed, my wife sat in bed next to me reading the newspaper and making it harder for me to sleep. It wasn’t the lamp or her rustling of the pages that kept me awake as much as her reading me a headline every four minutes.
“Honey, did you read about what the health departments have been finding when they test the sanitation levels of public pools?”
“No,” I whispered, pretending to sound too tired to talk. She didn’t elaborate but I was already wide awake and thinking about the countless public pools we’d taken the kids to in the last few months. Then, for some reason, my mind wandered to a food handler class I’d taken a few years ago. I didn’t recall any facts but I did recall some of the anecdotes the facilitator shared with us.
“How many of you eat sushi?” he asked. Several people raised their hands. “I love it. But you have to make sure to eat it at a reputable restaurant. My sister got some bad sushi once and a few days later complained that her throat had a weird tickle. When she went to the doctor, he reached down her throat with a pair of tweezers to pull out five worms, about two-inches long each.”
As I lay baking in bed, rubbing my throat, and thinking about the moral of the food class – that anything can make you sick – my wife said, “Oh my gosh, Honey, did you see this article about the mother gorilla that won’t give up her dead baby?”
“Excuse me?” I said. “What was that?”
“This mother gorilla gave birth to a stillborn baby. She’s been carrying the dead baby on her back for days. The zoo is trying to remove it but she won’t let them.”
“What do you mean she won’t ‘let them?’”
“She won’t allow her handlers to get anywhere near her or the baby. She lashes out at them when they approach.” She read on as if searching for a certain piece of information. “What they need to do is give her a cat?”
“What?”
“That’s what they do with mother gorillas when they lose a baby. They give her a cat. It’s so she’ll transfer her grief by caring for the cat. Seriously, I think I’m going to cry.”
“You don’t know why she won’t let them take the corpse. When did you become an authority on grieving monkeys?”
She wiped her eyes and shot me a dirty look. “A monkey is different from a gorilla. This is not a monkey. It’s a gorilla and that’s how gorillas show their sadness. She’s grieving the loss of her baby. Haven’t you ever heard of Koko?”
“Who?”
“Koko, the gorilla. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you who Koko is. She worked through her grief when her handlers gave her a kitten to raise.” Evidently she was upset with me for what she considered my insensitivity on the issue. I knew it’s my job to be a good listener. But gorillas? Really? Admittedly, I had questioned the credibility of her knowledge of sad gorillas, but she was clearly overreacting. I didn’t want to be defensive, but I wasn’t about to be labeled insensitive over something like this.
“So she just carries the carcass around like a backpack?” I asked.
“Yes. She has to. That’s how she says goodbye.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“It’s not disgusting. It’s sweet. I’m going to clip this and save it.”
She got out of bed and came back with some scissors. I had my next argument ready to go. Actually, you’re going to stuff it in the pit you call your nightstand along with a bunch of unread books, stationary, and other random crap you’re never going to use or throw away. Deflecting the argument from her supposed knowledge about primates to her lack of organizational skills would have been a low blow. And besides, she knew she’d already won the fight. I was not only insensitive, but I was also wrong. Any further statements would have made me look worse.
I rolled over and tried to go to sleep but I couldn’t stop shifting. Maybe it was the stifling heat in the bedroom, the fact that it was late, or the imaginary worms crawling around in my throat. As I reread the script to the conversation in my mind, I wondered why it bothered me so much. What do I care if she’s right or not? Ultimately, I fell asleep sometime after I admitted to myself that what upset me was that I was wrong.
A few days later, I watched as my wife showed the clip to her best friend, Brandi, who took one look at the picture and immediately said, “Oh no. Don’t tell me that baby is dead. That’s so sad. It reminds me of Koko. They should get her a cat.”
“Honey, did you read about what the health departments have been finding when they test the sanitation levels of public pools?”
“No,” I whispered, pretending to sound too tired to talk. She didn’t elaborate but I was already wide awake and thinking about the countless public pools we’d taken the kids to in the last few months. Then, for some reason, my mind wandered to a food handler class I’d taken a few years ago. I didn’t recall any facts but I did recall some of the anecdotes the facilitator shared with us.
“How many of you eat sushi?” he asked. Several people raised their hands. “I love it. But you have to make sure to eat it at a reputable restaurant. My sister got some bad sushi once and a few days later complained that her throat had a weird tickle. When she went to the doctor, he reached down her throat with a pair of tweezers to pull out five worms, about two-inches long each.”
As I lay baking in bed, rubbing my throat, and thinking about the moral of the food class – that anything can make you sick – my wife said, “Oh my gosh, Honey, did you see this article about the mother gorilla that won’t give up her dead baby?”
“Excuse me?” I said. “What was that?”
“This mother gorilla gave birth to a stillborn baby. She’s been carrying the dead baby on her back for days. The zoo is trying to remove it but she won’t let them.”
“What do you mean she won’t ‘let them?’”
“She won’t allow her handlers to get anywhere near her or the baby. She lashes out at them when they approach.” She read on as if searching for a certain piece of information. “What they need to do is give her a cat?”
“What?”
“That’s what they do with mother gorillas when they lose a baby. They give her a cat. It’s so she’ll transfer her grief by caring for the cat. Seriously, I think I’m going to cry.”
“You don’t know why she won’t let them take the corpse. When did you become an authority on grieving monkeys?”
She wiped her eyes and shot me a dirty look. “A monkey is different from a gorilla. This is not a monkey. It’s a gorilla and that’s how gorillas show their sadness. She’s grieving the loss of her baby. Haven’t you ever heard of Koko?”
“Who?”
“Koko, the gorilla. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you who Koko is. She worked through her grief when her handlers gave her a kitten to raise.” Evidently she was upset with me for what she considered my insensitivity on the issue. I knew it’s my job to be a good listener. But gorillas? Really? Admittedly, I had questioned the credibility of her knowledge of sad gorillas, but she was clearly overreacting. I didn’t want to be defensive, but I wasn’t about to be labeled insensitive over something like this.
“So she just carries the carcass around like a backpack?” I asked.
“Yes. She has to. That’s how she says goodbye.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“It’s not disgusting. It’s sweet. I’m going to clip this and save it.”
She got out of bed and came back with some scissors. I had my next argument ready to go. Actually, you’re going to stuff it in the pit you call your nightstand along with a bunch of unread books, stationary, and other random crap you’re never going to use or throw away. Deflecting the argument from her supposed knowledge about primates to her lack of organizational skills would have been a low blow. And besides, she knew she’d already won the fight. I was not only insensitive, but I was also wrong. Any further statements would have made me look worse.
I rolled over and tried to go to sleep but I couldn’t stop shifting. Maybe it was the stifling heat in the bedroom, the fact that it was late, or the imaginary worms crawling around in my throat. As I reread the script to the conversation in my mind, I wondered why it bothered me so much. What do I care if she’s right or not? Ultimately, I fell asleep sometime after I admitted to myself that what upset me was that I was wrong.
A few days later, I watched as my wife showed the clip to her best friend, Brandi, who took one look at the picture and immediately said, “Oh no. Don’t tell me that baby is dead. That’s so sad. It reminds me of Koko. They should get her a cat.”
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