Anyone But You

There was an open adoption roundtable last year that asked what you don't want shared in your open adoption relationships. I started a response but never published it. In a nutshell, it said that there's not much I wouldn't want shared with me if it were shared honestly. If folks were willing to trust me with something, I would want to hear it. We all know that a relationship in which everyone just pretends everything is peachy keen is about as deep as a rain puddle, which is not what I want for our open adoptions.

Everything that is, except for this one thing.

I didn't ever want to know that one of the kids' first parents regretted placing their child with us. Us specifically, not adoption in general--not that they wished they hadn't placed their child at all, but that they wished they had chosen different adoptive parents. If Beth, Ray, or Kelly feel that way, they have every right to their feelings, I just want to live in ignorance. If there are issues to raise with me, raise them; specific things I could change, by all means let me know. But if deep down you feel that you picked the completely wrong parents for your child and nothing will ever change that, I hope I never know. It's hard to imagine any good coming out of knowing; I wouldn't know where to take a relationship from there.

Four months after that roundtable and the post I never published, we learned that Eddie had a little brother whom Kelly placed for adoption. And it felt like I was indirectly being told the thing I hoped never to hear.

I didn't know then, and still don't know now (nor do I think she has any obligation to tell me, to be clear) why she didn't ask us to raise BabyBrother. In my head I know there could be any number of reasons. But the deep, tender (and self-centered) part of me read it only as rejection of me and her decision to entrust Eddie to us in the first place. Because it is not that Kelly would never place another child for adoption, it's that she apparently did not want him adopted by us. She got her chance for a do-over and picked better this time around.

And that is what tears me up inside when I think about BabyBrother's adoption, what I'm still searching for a way to process: that if I had done something differently, said something differently, been someone different during the five years we knew Kelly before BabyBrother was born, that Eddie would have one of his biological siblings here with him, a brother in more ways than one. But she didn't want him with us.

There are very few true failures I feel I've had in my life, failures that couldn't somehow be at least partially made right. But this is one of them. And I've been astounded by how deeply it's shaken me.

(Again, I want to make it clear that my feelings are my own and I don't hold Kelly in any way responsible for them.  Nor am I questioning the decisions she made around BabyBrother, which she had every right to make completely independent from our family. This is about my emotional reaction to the adoption, which hit me intensely and has not lessened over time. This is me trying to understand it and process it for myself so that it doesn't affect my long-term relationship with my son's first mother. I owe it to Eddie to have the healthiest relationship I can with Kelly and this is work I need to do on my side in order to have that.)

Our Day With Ray, Continued

The first part our our day together is here

"Can Ray come to family movie night, Mama?"

"Yes, of course!"

Eddie is the driving force behind our family movie nights, when we pile on the couch together, make a popcorny mess, and watch a kid-friendly flick. He is always excited when once of his (frequent) requests for movie night is granted. We had planned one for that evening, thinking it would be some good down time after the excitement of the beach and seeing Ray. Now Eddie wanted to know if his first dad could join us.

Ray was enthusiastic about the idea, as were we; Eddie was beaming. We made plans to pick up burgers for dinner. He decided to run home to change clothes first after our day at the beach, so we packed up our things and parted ways in the parking lot where we had met that morning.

Eddie, still in his carseat, looked to me for reassurance as Ray walked away. "He's coming to dinner tonight, right?" he asked

"He is, buddy. He's just going home, then he's coming to our hotel and we'll spend more time with him."

Eddie buzzed with happy excitement. We cleaned up the hotel suite a little. Eddie got out his special blanket and stuffed animals and arranged them in the overstuffed chair by the television. We queued up the Netflix movie he picked out. As the time came for Ray to arrive and call to be let in to the complex where we were staying, I saw Eddie--my little boy who normally fights every single bath--take himself into the bathroom on his own initiative to bathe before Ray came.

Todd's cell phone rang. "He's here, buddy!" I called out to Eddie.

Only he wasn't. Something had come up with his mom, he told Todd over the phone. He wouldn't be able to make it.

I felt my heart sink. It would be months before we saw Ray again and Eddie hadn't even gotten to say goodbye.

I was the one to break the news to Eddie, the one who saw every inch of him crumple. Hugging him on the bedroom floor as he wailed, I looked over his back at Todd. "Get Ray on the phone. Now."

Ray and Eddie had a brief conversation that would break your heart. The chance to at least say good bye, to say I miss you, didn't make the disappointment less, but it was something. We cuddled as he cried some more and then quieted down a little. We moved out to the front room and Eddie curled up with his blankie in an armchair while I sat on the floor at his feet, rubbing his back.

Eddie is just five years old. The quintessential oldest child, he has a definite way he wants things to be and often does not get his way, in additional to the regular disappointments that crop up in a child's life. He's disappointed a lot in the course of the day. We've witnessed how he processes being let down, have learned how to come alongside him and what seems to comfort him. This time was...different. The sorts of reflective things that normally help him regain his emotional footing ("You were really looking forward to tonight. I was, too. It is so sad and disappointing that Ray can't come. You don't see him often and when he went back to his car you didn't even get to give him a hug.") had helped some, but he was still troubled.  We sat without speaking for awhile, Eddie curled into himself, sad and unsettled.

Something told me maybe this was about something bigger. Not just sadness about cancelled plans with someone very special, but about the way things are.

"I bet it's hard to live so far away from your birth dad," I said into the quiet. The response--it was immediate, it was powerful. Like a water breaking through a dam. Eddie fell on me with huge, gulping, visceral sobs. We clung together for a few minutes like that.

And then it was over. I felt his entire body release as he sat up on my lap and said, "I want to watch the movie now." The sadness not over or resolved or behind him (how could something so big be), but back in his grasp enough for that moment that he could relax into the couch with us and laugh at a favorite movie.

Brothers

Eddie wanted to talk about his brother the other week. BabyBrother had turned one year old, a little smiling, curly-haired boy. Eddie and I looked together at a new picture of him his adoptive mom had linked to on her Twitter account. I wondered why I felt like a stalker, looking at a public picture someone had put out on their public Twitter stream.

"Do you think he knows how to walk yet?" Eddie wanted to know on another day. "I don't know," I told him. I find myself saying that a lot when Eddie asks about him.

What little I know about BabyBrother comes from what his parents tweet here and there. As I feared, Kelly's parents clammed up and wouldn't answer even the small questions I tried to ask about him after that afternoon last fall when they burst out with the news of his existence. As he turned one year old I was still wrestling with how to deal with the strange limbo of us knowing but Kelly still not having officially told us about him.

I can see that BabyBrother is less real to Eddie than Kelly's other child, Robin. Robin he has seen and played with. He readily claims her as a sister alongside Mari. "Why is BabyBrother my brother again?" he wanted to know last week. "Because Kelly is his birth mom, too," I answered. "You and Robin and BabyBrother all grew in Kelly's uterus." "I have a brother and Mari has a brother but Mari doesn't have a sister," he said, sorting it out in his own way.

That's where we are with siblings right now in our house. Some people are your brothers and sisters because you grew in the same uterus and have the same birth mom, some people are your brothers and sisters because you are growing up in the same house and have the same everyday mom and dad. I can sense the bigger questions of why around the bend for Eddie. Kelly isn't raising any of her three children right now, which I think delays perhaps the question of why Eddie is here and not there, since none of them are there, if there is with Kelly.

There has been sadness over the last year, though, expressed in the way Eddie expresses it, about his brother and sister being far away. Some sense for him that you should know if your little brother knows how to walk yet or what he likes to play with or what he sounds like. Because of course he does know these things about Mari and, to some degree, about Robin. And siblings should grow up together, generally speaking. I've been trying lately to open up space for him to talk about his feelings when he is ready by acknowledging that I have my own. "I'm glad that we have these pictures of BabyBrother to look at. His smile makes me smile," I say. "I hope we get to meet him someday. I feel sad that we haven't met him yet."

"It's a long life," a friend in an open adoption recently shared, a phrase that is swiftly becoming my mantra. Things change. People grow. Feelings shift. It has been good for me to be reminded to take the long view in coming alongside Eddie as he grows up apart from his siblings by birth. I don't know what those connections will look like in the future. But I know it will not be just as it is now. I'm holding on to that.

Read other bloggers' experiences with talking about siblings in open adoption at the open adoption roundtable

Speaking of Machatunim

At some point in the middle of last week, Kelly's parents (who are currently raising her second child, Eddie's sister) called to say they would be coming to our state this week and could they swing by for a visit on their way to their destination? Of course we said, "Sure!" We hadn't seen Eddie's sister--who really needs a blog name; she's named after a bird, so let's call her Robin--since she was a newborn, so a visit was long overdue.

I didn't know what Eddie would think about seeing them, since it had been so long and Robin hasn't really been present in his life in any form. But as Sunday drew near he quickly went from matter-of-fact to super-excited. I was prepping in the kitchen right before they came when I overheard Eddie--who was anxiously watching at the bay window for their arrival--say to Mari, "Do you know who Robin is? She's one of my sisters! She's a baby, so you can play with her!" I knew then the afternoon would be really good for him.

And it was. The kids happily played together, the adults snapped photos. Kelly's parents passed on information from the past two years that cleared up all sorts of questions I've had. This was the first time we'd ever spent with them without Kelly there and I think it was a pretty significant step forward in our relationship with them. As our afternoon together ended I was feeling good.

They waited until we were beginning to say our goodbyes in the entryway to drop the bombshell.

Eddie has a brother.

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(I really don't like using the password for anything other than picture posts. I will likely make the full post public in the future, but I'm still sorting out what is bloggable and wanted to err on the side of caution for now. Please email me if you'd like the password. I've never deliberately denied it to anyone who's asked, but I'm awful at managing my personal email and I know there have been folks whose requests have accidentally gone unanswered. It is the source of much guilt for me; I mean that seriously. All that to say, please feel free to ask or re-ask for the password.)

Our Time With Kelly

We spent the afternoon of our last day in L.A. with Kelly, meeting up at a park with an interactive water feature where the kids could cool off and be entertained. We ended our time by eating dinner together on the grass (the kids and Kelly chose McDonald's; Todd and I ate the fast food of the gods).

Puppy was comfortable around Kelly, despite not having seen her or really heard from her for over a year. He smiled and went right up to hug her legs when we first arrived. Earlier in the day he had come up with some questions he wanted to ask his first dad ("What was your favorite thing when you were four? What did you do for your fifth birthday?") and later in the afternoon he posed them to Kelly, too. He looked at pictures of his younger sister (Kelly's daughter) and declared them funny. Everyone says Puppy looks a lot like Ray--which he does--but Puppy and sister-baby really look alike.

Kelly spent a whole lot of time tapping on her phone, often a ways away from where Puppy was playing. I freely admit to some very minor meddling this time to encourage interaction. Just small things: Puppy would ask me to push him on the swings and I'd suggest that Kelly push him instead, for instance.

A few hours together every year or so is hardly the stuff of a close relationship between Puppy and his first mom. I have no illusions about that. We're hampered by living in different states, of course. But there are ways the connection could continue to grow between our trips down south, yet for the most part our attempts to communicate by email, phone, and post go unacknowledged. Talk of visits up our way doesn't materialize into actual plans. This is all Kelly seems to be able or willing to offer to Puppy right now. So we do what we can to maintain an atmosphere of openness and see what grows.

Patrēs

Going about the day--making pies, washing dishes, fixing hair--on Sunday, I kept thinking about the fathers in my family.

I thought about a great-grandfather run out of town by two steely great-great aunts after my great-grandmother's death, never to be heard from again.  And about my maternal grandfather, the one who by age four had lost his both his parents, one to death and the other to the efforts of the steely sisters. A special needs parent before the term existed, he doted on my uncle with tenderness and pride, giving him as much of the world as he could in what ended up being a too brief life. When taking my uncle's casket to the family plot, the family story goes, he couldn't bring himself to travel in the same train car as his body, so devastated was he by what he had lost and what he still had to do.

I thought of my paternal grandfather, a man so selfish and distant that his son--my dad--would decide he never wanted children, for fear of that he would be like him. And of my own father, who when faced with an unplanned baby (wee me), wrestled those fears to the ground and became a loving, devoted dad. He was in grad school when I was born and spent many, many hours with me snuggled up against his chest in a baby carrier while he studied. When I woke crying in the middle of the night as an infant, it was my dad who would come cradle me his arms, taking me back to my mother so I could nurse.

I thought about the blank space on Firefly's first birth certificate where Kevin's name should be. Remembering Beth interrupting the hospital social worker briskly moving through form to say no, wait, I want to add her father's name. I thought of how incredibly strong she was in that moment, the culmination of so many months with her counselor working through Kevin's very real wrongs against her until she came to a place in which she could ask to give his name the same standing as her own: I want his name there for my daughter's sake. I remember how swiftly the social worker snatched that bravery from her: Are you two married? Is he here to sign? There's nothing I can do. The law is very clear. Men need to be protected, because women could lie.

I thought about Puppy's first dad and the love Puppy has for him. About how he has had to stand up against all the people who think that his consenting to the adoption automatically puts him in the category of men who bolt from responsibility. What ignorance that is, how utterly blind to the commitment Ray has made to staying part of Puppy's life no matter how hard it can be for him at times. I wish they could see the two of the together and the easy way they have with each other, the pride Puppy has for "my Ray," as he often calls him.

I wrote something this year that ended up in a magazine (I'm still shocked), something I started thinking about a year ago today. It was about Ray, Puppy's first father, and the love I see in him for his son and how that love grounds Puppy in a deep, real way. If I never publish anything again (which, let's face it, is likely) I am proud that was the thing that I put into the world.  Something that said that birth dads need a seat at the table in open adoption, because adoption is about them, too, and because their presence offers something unique and vital to their children. Fathers are important to us and influence us, both in the ways they are present and the ways they are not. And I bet the reasons they are absent are often more complicated than we expect.

Quick Birthday Follow-up

I forgot to tell you we came home one night last week to a message from Ray saying that he wanted to wish Puppy a happy birthday. Just to close the birth parent birthday loop that I thought was closed but was apparently half-dangling.

It was late, so Todd called him back on another evening. Ray and Puppy had one of those five-sentence conversations before Puppy decided he was done, which is so typical of his phone skills right now. Very charmed by the idea of talking on the phone, not so great with the execution.

My reaction was...neutral, I guess? Relieved a call eventually come, but not so much that it erased my disappointment from two weeks ago. All in all it was rather anti-climatic. But, really, my reaction is quite beside the point. What matters is what kind of building blocks Ray is laying down in his relationship with Puppy right now, and this was one of those. Puppy has been planning his fifth and sixth birthdays since pretty much the minute after this year's party ended. So that idea that someone was calling about the birthday that just went by was a little "huh?" for him. But he bounced up the stairs with with a goofy grin when I asked if he wanted to talk to Ray. And surely that is worth something.

An Adoption Photo

Football has always been something Ray and Todd shared in common. They were both coaching high school teams the year Puppy was born; I remember Ray coming back to the hospital room late one night after a game (which he and Todd promptly spent the good part of an hour dissecting play by play). Every phone call between them eventually turns to football.

Puppy recognized this commonality early on. Not surprising, given that it's nearly impossible to miss. I think it's important to him as a way he can connect with his two dads at the same time. Footballs and football teams and football shirts and football love are something the three of them can share, an overlapping space all of them can comfortably occupy.  They throw the ball around in some fashion every time we get together.  He can pick out Ray and Todd's favorite teams on the television and roots for them by color.

This picture is from Ray's visit in August. Football was a major theme of the visit. The three of them tossed a ball around in the yard more than once and went to one of Todd's practices together. On this evening, a pajama-ed Puppy had toddled over to where Ray and Todd were talking with this helmet in his hands. I love the symmetry in Ray and Todd as they gaze at Puppy, they way they share the same tilt of the head, the same proud smiles.

I treasure this picture because it reminds me that, as bittersweet as it sometimes is, open adoption makes this sort of overlap possible and real. It's not just us telling Puppy that his birth dad likes football, too. It's him experiencing that for himself, seeing the similarities and differences between his fathers, watching them enjoy each other as peers.

(I'm password protecting the picture because I'm shy like that, but just contact me for the secret code if you don't have it already.)

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See other entries in the latest GIMH Adoption Carnival here...

If Only

Nothing.

This is parenting in a nutshell, isn't it? Bearing witness to the hard and to the good in our children's lives and not being able to do a damned thing but be present with them in the middle of it.

Back when we were hashing out the details of our open adoption agreement with Beth, I was thinking a lot about things I wished we had done differently in our first adoption. I got fixated on this idea that the agreement needed to somehow reflect the fact that child centered open adoption is a two-way street. (Which morphs into a multi-lane intersection as the child grows up.) I didn't want the agreement to only be about protecting Beth's rights to visitation and communication, as important as those things were. I wanted her commitment to stay in Firefly's life written down the same way as our promises.

Todd and I decided that, worst case scenario, we hoped Firefly would at least hear from Beth on her birthday and at Christmas. Nothing like that was in the agency's standard agreement template, so we asked them to add it. And there it now sits, in sparse legal-ish language, right after our promise to let Firefly to send and receive communication from Beth: "Beth agrees to provide the child with a letter at least two times a year."

As it turns out, Beth is the type who not only never fails to have a present at appropriate points for Firefly, but brings one for Puppy, too. Even so, that one stupid sentence relieves me of a lot of worry. Not that we'd ever actually haul Beth into mediation if she missed a few birthday cards. But at least I'd be able to say, "Hey, you promised."

I suppose it's obvious why I'm thinking about that tonight.

Waiting, Watching, Hoping

There is just one link left in the paper chain hanging in Puppy's bedroom. We've taken a link off every night for over eighty nights, counting down the days until his birthday. We made the chain nearly three months ago to try to channel some of the constant birthday talk that was already coming from the little guy. This birthday is a Very Big Deal. The source of much planning and enthusiasm. He could barely stay in bed tonight, so wriggly with excitement was he at the thought that his birthday was only one more day away.

Meanwhile I am busy prepping decorations and designing cakes. Wrapping presents and planning parties. And holding my breath to see if this year his first parents will remember him.

"Remember him" isn't the right phrase to use, I know. I shouldn't question that. Of course they will think of him on Wednesday; I'm sure they could never forget him any day, much less his birthday. But when a birthday or holiday passes with no card or gift or phone call, forgetting is how it seems to come across to Puppy, a little boy for whom it's so very important to know that people miss him.

Some years either Kelly or Ray will call but not the other. One year Kelly was here in person. Once there was an unwrapped box, delivered two months late, with an unsigned card and its envelope tossed in the bottom. Christmas has been even more spotty.

Part of me understands, or tries to. People can be busy.  First parents have told me that birthdays and holidays can be difficult, as painful emotions and events are revisited. Maybe they think he is too young to care, although we've said as explicitly as we can that acknowledging his birthday seems to be more significant to him than anything aside from visits. But another part of me, the protective parental part, struggles when faced with a crestfallen child who sees all his other far-away relatives reaching out to him on birthdays and at Christmas, and notices who is missing. Notices and asks why. Asks me, who has no good answers.

I know not every child notices the way Puppy does, or as young as he started to. Firefly is closing in on her second birthday and couldn't care less about gifts or who they are from (she chooses to see everything in the world as hers for the taking). But not Puppy. As soon as he began speaking, he could tell you who gave him a certain item. He remembers long after I've forgotten something was even a gift. He thrills at mail addressed to him. He keeps his birthday cards in a special cabinet and looks through them from time to time.

We're only on our fourth birthday. I keep telling myself that. There is time for new patterns, for these few years to just be a blip. I'm trying to be hopeful. I'm trying really hard. And also thinking about how I'll talk with him this year if nothing comes.

After the Visit

Puppy's first dad, Ray, came to stay with us for a few days at the end of August. It already feels ages away, and I hate that I haven't had space to think or write about it in the last few weeks. Trouble is, I'm a slow writer. Sloooow. Slow like honey on a cold morning. But I want to get some thoughts down before too much time passes. So I'm going to force myself to write something out in one go--forgive me if it's a little jumbled.

There are two thoughts that keep coming to mind when I think on Ray's visit. First, Puppy adores his birth daddy. Ray hangs the moon and stars as far as Puppy is concerned right now. Then he comes and more or less spends all day playing with Puppy--it's a pretty good formula for attaining rock star status in Puppy World.

The evening Ray came in, Todd and Puppy went to pick him up at the airport while I stayed home with Firefly. I heard them come through the front door, came down the stairs to see Puppy proudly pointing out the "Welcome, Ray!" poster he had made. (The "welcome" was implied, as Puppy's writing still bears a striking resemblance to squiggles.) He told Ray he wanted to show him the new swing set in the backyard, shyly touching Ray's hand and looking up at him with a face that just glowed. 

I saw their sidelong smiles at each other during meals. The way whenever someone would mention a favorite food or color or something, Puppy would turn to Ray and ask him his favorite color, food, etc., like he was collecting data on his birth daddy. Ray's hand reaching out to caress his blond hair so many times as they played. Ray is his, and he's special to him. Every affection Ray shows to him, Puppy gives back tenfold. I am grateful these positive times together will be part of Puppy's foundational memories.

The second thought, which is not exactly the opposite of the first but is certainly correlated, is that this--this adoption, this loving--is hard on Puppy.

Todd wrote about the drive back from dropping Ray off for his return flight, Puppy's tears and quiet on the way home. I could see him drawing in on himself as the trip to the airport approached that day and he knew Ray was leaving. The several days after Ray left were hard. Really hard. He fell apart at the slightest disappointment. He was short-tempered and loud and easily frustrated. I think he was full up of emotions that even people far more emotionally mature sometimes have a hard time managing. All the joy and sadness and frustration that come from being with someone important to you, then having to say goodbye all over again. Todd bore the brunt of his outbursts, by far. It is only speculation on my part, but it its hard for me to look at that and not see a little boy testing the love of one beloved daddy while missing another. (It went on for a few days, then abruptly stopped over that weekend.)

In the calmer moments, just me pushing him on the swings, he was able to say quietly, "I miss Ray."

Puppy thus far has treated most conversation about adoption in a very nonchalant, matter-of-fact way. But he does have this, these two men who both get part of his daddy love. We spout platitudes about love being multiplied, not divided; or kids having enough love for multiple grandparents, so why not love for a birth dad and an adoptive dad. It's not that those sentiments aren't true--they are, and they can help counter mis-truths about adoption. Puppy has both Todd and Ray in his life, he is creating lovely memories with both,  he will be able to tease out someday things each one passed on to him. And he loves them both so very much. But the simple, unalterable fact is that he can't have them both with him all the time. His beloved birth daddy is in his life, but he is not in his home. His family will always be a jigsaw puzzle whose pieces he has to try to make fit together--something that becomes true for all of us as we move into life as independent adults (and for kids whose families aren't intact for reasons other than adoption), but has been true for Puppy from the very beginning.  Every time a visit ends it drives that point deeper.

It's a lot for a three year old to sort through. Hell, it's a lot for an adult to sort through. As Todd and I tried to meet Puppy where he was at in those rough days right after the visit, I think I understood in some small way the adoptive parents who freak out and cut off contact. Not understood in that I agree with what they did. But if all you've been told is that successful open adoption is about love being multiplied and children growing up happy knowing how much their birth parents love them, comfortably secure in their identity as an adoptee? Then stuff like this could scare the crap out of you. I can easily envision him a few years hence, feeling the same tumult of emotion after a visit, saying to us, "I don't like seeing Ray. I don't want to go visit him anymore." I've watched so many parents throw up a wall at that point and say "That's it. Visits are over."

Discomfort isn't always bad. Healthy doesn't always mean easy. There is a disconnect at the root of all adoptions, whether they're open or not. Out of an infinite range of possibilities, this is one way Puppy is experiencing that disconnect right now. I think open adoption pushes that to the surface while also being one means of addressing or exploring it.

You will never convince me that it would be better for Ray to not be in Puppy's life right now, that avoiding the hurt afterward is a worthy trade. That night Ray arrived, it was almost as if Puppy was breathing more deeply. Open adoption gives him so much. But closeness has its own harsh edge. It's not always easy trying to wrap our arms around that as his parents.

Rushing Around

We barely had time to send Ray off before turning around to get ready for Beth, Firefly's first mom. She's coming in for a quick visit, just staying one night. I want to write about our time together; I've been thinking a lot about discomfort and parenting and open adoption. (Todd actually wrote more about Ray's visit than I have, if you're interested.) Note to self: schedule debriefing/blogging/fill-up-the-introvert's-energy-tank time in between visits next time.

Firefly woke up itchy and miserable. I fear it may be my fault; I handed her some pesto-covered green beans yesterday at dinner, forgetting about the cheese in the pesto. All she wants to do is ride around in the Babyhawk, gnawing on a watermelon rind. (Puppy liked rinds at that age, too. So strange.) I'm hoping she pulls through before Beth gets here, or this will be one for my open adoption fail column. "That kid you traveled to see? I totally made her sick."

Layering

Puppy's first dad, Ray, arrived on Sunday night and leaves late tomorrow. It has been a very laid-back, easy-going visit thus far.

I don't know what, if anything, from these few days Puppy will remember years from now. But I watch him soaking up Ray's affection like a little sponge and I know it's worth it. Puppy is definitely beginning to develop an air of ownership of the relationship, a sense that Ray is "his."

We haven't been together in person with Ray all that many times since Puppy's placement, especially after we moved away. I can count the visits on one hand. But I know this visit wouldn't be so comfortable if Ray hadn't already stayed with us before, right before Firefly was born. And Puppy wouldn't have warmed up to him so quickly during that stay if he didn't remember him from our evening together the prior summer. And that evening wouldn't have been so enjoyable if we adults hadn't gotten to know each other better one summer day a year earlier, before Puppy was even a year old. And that early visit wouldn't have been as fruitful if we hadn't through that first awkward gathering when Puppy was just two months old.

It all builds upon itself, piece by piece. I know things will get harder down the road, as Puppy hits different ages and Ray's life (and ours) continues to change. But I have to believe this beginning, this foundation will still be there, underneath it all, carrying us in some small way.

Somehow I Doubt This One Will Catch On

This one is for those of you collecting data points of what kids call their birth/first/natural/bio parents in open adoptions.

Todd was giving Puppy the run down of the next few weeks at our house. We've got a long visit this week from a bunch of Todd's family (blurgh) and then several days with Ray, Puppy's birth dad (yay).

"I'm excited that Ray is coming to stay with us," Todd said to Puppy.

Puppy considered the news, then gave a little nod. "Ray is my old dad," he announced.

Todd said, "Sure, why not?" and--his mind perhaps automatically jumping back to when Ray made him the new dad--told Puppy a little "I remember when" story of the night Puppy was born. He got to the part where everyone is passing baby Puppy around like a slow, snuggly game of hot potato. And Puppy laughed and laughed.

The First Dad

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Pictures for Mom

A couple Sundays ago, on Mother's Day, I found Puppy coloring a picture at the dining room table. We had been drawing cards together all week to send off to the many grandmothers and first moms in our family for Mother's Day. I asked him what he was working on.

"It's a picture for my mom," he told me.

We play a game often, a game which ends in grins and snuggles. "Who's my baby boy," I'll ask. "I am!" he'll squeal happily, throwing his arms in the air. More often, Puppy is the one starting it off. "Am I your baby bear?," he'll ask. "Are you my mama bear?"

That Sunday as he colored in the afternoon sunlight, I smiled and asked him, "Who's your mom," slipping into our familiar routine.

"Kelly," he said, his eyes never leaving the paper, his tiny hands still coloring. "Kelly, my mom. Birthmom Kelly. My mom."

***

Puppy and I had a hard couple of days together right before Mother's Day weekend. Really hard. The kind that fill up with thunder and tears and end in quiet crowded with regret. The sort of days we never seemed to have when he was younger and less independent, when I was watching over one child instead of two.

Those kinds of days when I'm not the kind of parent I want to be--the kind of parent I want to believe I can be--tap into fears that normally stay tucked deep away. The little voice starts up that says your kids didn't have to end up with you, you were supposed to be better, you chose this, they could have had parents who never lost their temper... It is hard to even admit that I think those things. If I had birthed my kids, the little voice would probably find some other impossibly high standard to hold me to. But I am a parent through adoption, so this is what it says to me.

Hearing Puppy unexpectedly call Kelly "mom" that afternoon, something that would have been more of an interesting observation on another occasion, hit me in a spot that was already tender. What on another day would be just words, on that day made me draw up tight inside.

***

"This side [of the paper] is an elephant. And this [side] is us. This is Kelly [pointing to the largest figure]. And Daddy and Firefly and me [three smaller figures in a row]. We're kids. Here, I'll draw you in, too. You can be a baby."

"It looks great, buddy. Have you been thinking about Kelly today?"

"Yeah. You can color with me, Mommy. Draw a horse for me."

***

I can hit 'publish' on this finally because Puppy and I have had some wonderful days together since that week. We're back in our groove. Maybe that is small of me to admit that I had to have some of my confidence restored before I could share this, but it's the truth. We went back to our equilibrium almost right after that Sunday, in fact.

I've been thinking more about those hard days leading up to Mother's Day. The past several months, since a little bit before Puppy's sister's birth (Kelly's daughter, not Firefly) I've been struggling with a lot of frustration in our open adoption. Babies and marriages and the like change how we relate to the people already in our lives; that is just reality. We have less time available, less emotional energy. Those changes can bring up hurts we thought were behind us. But sometimes people deal with those shifting relationships and emotions by simply pushing out the people who were there before. It's a hard thing for me to understand, especially when the one pushed aside is so young. It was on my mind more than usual as Mother's Day approached.

At the same time, Puppy is getting older and starting to have expectations of the people in his life. He's sorting out, in a basic way, what it means to have birth family and reaching out more. It would take so little to make him feel loved and important. A birthday card. A phone call. Part of me now wonders how much that was in this thoughts with all the talk of Mother's Day. If my struggle to practice compassion and his questions collided beneath the surface.

***

If there is anything that is true about open adoption, it is that it's about our kids, not ourselves. We meet them where they're in at in in any given moment. That day we sat and drew and talked a little about Kelly. Puppy finished his picture and asked me to mail it off. We colored together as the sky turned pink outside and I wished that I could read his mind. And wished that loving people wasn't so complicated.

For All the Eagle-Eyed Readers

Some lovely people pointed out that I dropped a name in my last post (which, thank you for, by the way--I would hate to accidentally out someone). It wasn't an accident, but I probably should have said something first.

I was getting tired of all the initials floating around, and I know they make people less real to me on other blogs. Also, Puppy's first mom and Firefly's first dad share an initial, which would be uber-confusing.  I quite appreciate blogs where people are named things like Husband, OldestChild, MiddleChild, etc. Easy to follow. I'd give everyone fun-but-not-corny-yet-easy-to-follow nicknames here, but I'm not that creative.

So, names it is! Let me introduce you to my previously-initialed cast:

• Puppy was born to Kelly and Ray.
• Firefly was born to Beth. Although I'm rather fond of calling her Ms B, so that one might stick around. Her first dad's name is Kevin.
• I'm married to Todd. Who just told me he'd rather go by Tron on-blog. We'll see. (No, we won't.)
  

If you're worried I'm revealing too much, erm... don't.

And if anyone would like to suggest a tidy nicknaming system for the lot of us, please, by all means, do so. I'll send you a big box of cookies.

An Evening Conversation

Puppy: Ray didn't come to the house today.

Me: I know, sweetie. He was on his way here this morning and his car broke. He tried to find another way to see us, but it didn't work out.

Puppy: He can come tomorrow.

Me: No, buddy, we're leaving on the airplane tomorrow. So we wouldn't be here to see him.

Puppy: Why didn't he come after his car got fixed?

Me: He wanted to find a way to come, but he had to spend a lot of time dealing with his car. He was really disappointed. And I'm sad, too.

Puppy: Why are you sad?

Me: Because I like Ray a lot and it's been a long time since we've seen him. I was looking forward to seeing him today. And I'm sad because I know how much he wanted to see you.

Puppy: I want him to come.

Me: I know, buddy. I know.

Mixed Signals

We are in Southern California for Christmas II right now. The temperature here is over twice what it was the day we left home, so if you are trying to find us, we're the ones wandering around in short sleeves amidst all the people in puffy coats.

I'm writing this furtively on my in-laws' computer. My online world is super duper top secret as far as family is concerned, and I have every intention of keeping it that way. Which generally isn't that hard to do, until you are staying at their home.

Puppy's first mom came over tonight with her parents and the new baby. The conversation stayed pleasant. The sister-baby was passed around, presents were exchanged. Her mom engaged quite a bit with Puppy and seemed to genuinely enjoy the whole evening. Puppy and Firefly were their charming selves.

K talked with T and me, she talked with T's parents, she played some with her daughter and with Firefly. And she never interacted directly with Puppy except for the two minutes we asked to take some pictures.

Eeps, someone is coming down the hallway, so I must hide all evidence of my sneaky blogging. Puppy's first dad arrives in the morning and I am so looking forward to seeing him.

P.S. She was really excited about the hand-me-down shirts.

Revelations

I once joked with an online friend that our blogs would never be popular because we couldn't write a good rant. I rant rather decently in person, if I know you well enough. But I can't write angry.

Not that I don't try every now and then. In fact, I've been trying this week, writing and rewriting this post since Tuesday night, hoping to find some catharsis. But I could never bring myself to publish it.

Then I read Erin O's challenges for knowing when to speak about a difficult situation: "Is it kind? Is it necessary? Does it improve upon the silence?" And I realized that publishing what I had written would be little more than an attempt to make me look good at someone else's expense. Chastened, I erased it all and started over, trying only to leave what was necessary and removing what was unkind. Whether it improves upon the silence I will leave up to you.

Here is our latest family news: Puppy has a new baby sister, born to his first mom a week ago.

Puppy took in the surprising information in the same matter of fact way we presented it to him. "OK," he said. "Let's play trains."

I admit I'm not taking the news as well. Not because of the new baby (how can you be angry about a baby?) but because of some lies the birth revealed. It probably goes without saying now that the story I shared awhile back about K acting as a surro.gate was not true. I apologize for unknowingly giving you false information. I work very hard to be honest when I write. I believed it at the time, enough that I went through much heartache and fretting for K and for Puppy.

The surro.gacy turned out to be just one of many interwoven falsehoods told to us over the past several months. Stories I was expected to pass on to Puppy. Stories I am still expected to believe.

I once had a mentor who insisted that anger is never a primary emotion. There is always something underneath the anger and only by facing the thing beneath can you find release. When I dig down right now, more than anything I feel betrayed. Open adoption takes such a huge amount of trust to work the way it is supposed to. Over the past three years I have sometimes pushed myself to extend the benefit of the doubt when my initial response was skepticism, to trust that we all would put our concern for Puppy ahead of our own self-interest. Now I don't know if I'll be able to do that for awhile, or even if I should. I am unsettled and unsure about a relationship that seemed much more solid just a week ago. And so very sad about so many things.