My Life at the Moment

Bullet-point re-cap of the insanity of my life at the moment:

 

• When I was taking the beginner’s yoga classes in February-March I did a move that hurt my left wrist. I just assumed I could let it go and it would get better. But, it was still aching after months and seemed to be getting worse. So, finally about 2 weeks ago I contacted the chiropractor who helped me with my carpal tunnel 5 years ago. She did an assessment and sent me for x-rays because she thought I might have a hairline fracture. Last Monday the results of the x-ray were shown to be inconclusive, so on Friday I had an MRI. My wrist could be broken or I could have a cyst. At this point I just want answers so my wrist can get back to normal. It seems to be hurting more from all the attention….
• Things with Primero are still in a constant contentious place. He screamed such horrendous things at me last week I felt physical pain from it. We talked later but his attitude still sucks and he still wants to be an adult but doesn’t want any responsibilities. I don’t know how much more I can take!
• Not this past weekend, but the weekend before Primero, the older brother of Toxic Friend and I replaced the toilet and floor in the bathroom. It was a very long project. The little ones were visiting with their grandmother, so it seemed like a good time to tear the bathroom apart. We worked from 11:30 am until 1:30 am on Saturday. We only have one bathroom and by the time we ripped out the toilet and tub and replaced the flooring under the tiles we pulled up, it was very late.
• From our time working on the bathroom together, the older brother of Toxic Friend developed a crush on me and so that began a whirlwind of things. He spent the weekend at our house again this past weekend. We are talking but it’s weird and hard and strange and I need more time to sit and think. He is young, a good deal younger than me, but mostly responsible and mature. He broke up with his girlfriend but she is still living with him. He has a young daughter in foster care. And he is Toxic Friend’s brother. Friends with Primero. My life should be a TV sitcom….
• Esperanza brought a kitten home the same weekend we were working on the bathroom. She got the kitten from her youngest sister. Primero brought the kitten’s sister home a few days later. They are adorable but have been dumped on me to take care of because both young adults have an aversion to staying home. The little one’s love the kittens so I’m trying to keep my cool about it.
• Primero got a tattoo by his former step-father who is his youngest sister’s father. His boys go to our daycare. The tattoo is on the outside, under his pinky finger, of his left hand. It’s a single rose. I don’t love it and he doesn’t either. He wants it to be thicker. He wants me to get a tattoo with him later this summer. I have exactly zero tattoos. I wanted to get one when I was 18 (a tramp stamp before I knew what they were called – they were cool when I was a teenager) but I never did and I’ve always been glad for that. At this point, it seems more original to not have a tattoo because literally everyone and their mother has a tattoo. And I have seen more ugly tattoo’s than ones I like. I will probably pass… But, it is kind of a nice thing to do together….
• Primero’s friend, who is dating Toxic Friend, is staying with us. She brought a dog along with her. She kept leaving her very anxious dog at home for me to look after. On Sunday they were going to leave to spend the night at Toxic Friend’s house and made no plans for the dog; they didn’t talk to me about watching him, they had no plan for the dog when no one was home on Monday, nothing. It really made me mad (see above with Primero shirking responsibility). Plus, there were a multitude of people in my house off and on all weekend and I feel worn out from it all.
• Speaking of this friend, it was such a mess when she left her mom’s place because she basically packed up and ran away. A friend dropped her off on our doorstep Friday afternoon. Her mother called the cops and reported her kidnapped, even though she left of her own accord and she is of age. Her mom posted on Facebook and even got a snap of Primero’s Facebook account to accuse him of kidnapping her. It was insane. The cops came to our place after she called to tell them she was not kidnapped. They made her call her mom, which she didn’t want to do when I told her to do it, and that seemed to resolve the issue.
• Primero’s aunt (former neighbor) has started asking me for money. At first, it was just $20 so she could buy food when she took her daughter to the medical center an hour away. They had to ride the bus and it was a long day. Now, she’s asking for money again and cigarettes. Time to say no politely….
• Primero and I were supposed to drive to Atlantic City last Thursday to see Demi Lovato in concert, on the beach. Only, she apparently overdosed on heroin and was hospitalized, so she wasn’t going to be there. It’s so sad to see someone struggling with their demons publicly. It’s hard to deal with them in private but when the whole world knows about it, that’s an extra layer to deal with. Hopefully she will make a full recovery. Primero asked for us to find an alternative to go away for a night somewhere. I’m working on figuring that out.

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Knight in Shining Armor

There is a great scene in the season 5, episode 18 (I think it was episode 18) on the show The Fosters where Stef is talking to her son Brandon. She tells him his worth isn’t in how he can rush to someone’s aide and take care of them. She chides him for always putting others before himself and forgetting to take care of his own needs. She apologizes for instilling this feeling in him because she was struggling with anxiety and her sexuality when he was young and he felt the need to take care of her. He recalled playing piano to help her feel better when her anxiety flatlined her on the couch. He was only 5 years old. When he shared this memory with his mother, it made her think of how that might have affected him. Stef expressed her worry about Brandon taking care of Grace and not following his own dreams for his life after high school.

 

This scene was especially poignant because it could have been me talking to Primero. In talking about his past, Primero has told me stories of how he took care of his mother and even saved her life when she tried harming herself. He still exhibits these traits with his family members and also his Toxic Friend. He wants to be the savior, he wants to help someone fix things even if the mess is of their own making. I think I might be the only person Primero does seem to express the need to ride in like a knight on a white horse and save the day. He did this for his mom on Easter Weekend, when she wanted to come stay with us (one of the few times I felt blessed to have a house too small to accommodate many people!). He used to exhibit those behaviors a lot with his sister, but that has seemed to lessen probably because it has been replaced with Toxic Friend. He wants to be everything for this kid even to his own detriment. It’s really hard to watch. And, I need to be mindful of my own boundaries and keep them firmly in place because I tend to be a people pleaser and sometimes have a hard time saying no. I don’t like not helping someone in need, if I can, but I’m learning to discern someone truly in need versus someone who looks for others to bail them out time and time again. It seems a lot of the people mentioned above fall into the later category. And, if I know one thing for sure it is this, you cannot save someone from themselves.

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Big Medicine

My mother had her fourth round of chemotherapy last Thursday. Because she has been struggling with severe dehydration with this chemo, the doctor decided to change one of her meds since it was one she seemed to tolerate better when they used it during her treatment for breast cancer. We had high hopes that this would mean one less hospital visit but Monday morning she was lethargic and weak. So weak she could not stand. My father called the oncology department who recommended she go to the emergency room because they would not see her unless her doctor was there. She has ovarian cancer and, according to the hospital policy, she can only be seen by a gynecological oncologist. Never mind that she doesn’t actually have her ovaries anymore. Or her uterus for that matter. And her issue was not a gynecological issue, but a chemo issue. Her blood pressure was super low and while she wasn’t as severely dehydrated as the previous times, she still needed fluids. She wisely (in my nonmedical opinion) chose not to go to the emergency room. She is immunocompromised due to the chemo and the omentectomy two months ago. The emergency room is a good place to find new health issues for someone who doesn’t have a strong immune system. Eventually, very late in the day, my mom received special permission to be seen in the oncology unit, without a gynecologist there, to determine her blood pressure was scarily low (it was 63/54, for anyone who knows things about blood pressure). This is especially disconcerting for someone who’s blood pressure generally runs high. My mom was so weak she could not stand on her own, she could barely stand at all. But, she was going to be turned away from the oncology unit because she had a cancer in one of her “woman parts.” It was infuriating and unacceptable. How is this even a policy when, to my knowledge, no other type of cancer is treated strictly by a specialist. Yes, she should have a specialist overseeing her care, but for issues stemming from a reaction to chemotherapy should be seen by any available doctor. No cancer patients should be sent to the general emergency room where there is a higher possibility for infection. Even a common cold could become an issue for someone with a weakened immune system.

 

So, I am writing a letter to the head of the department at the hospital because this whole episode was totally unacceptable. The entity that manages the hospital recently bought 11 more facilities on the East Coast. Medicine is becoming Big Business and it is evident in how the patients, real human beings who are putting their very lives in the hands of the staff at these hospitals, are being mistreated. Part of my argument is how this particular type of cancer, because it is a reproductive organ of a woman, was singled out causing different treatment for a specific set of patients. Do testicular cancer patients have to be seen only by a urological oncologist? Secondly, I don’t believe patient’s should ever feel like a cog in the corporate machine when it comes to their health care. The hospital cannot think it is too big to fail because then it already has failed. Patients fighting for their lives should not also have to fight for proper medical care.

 

My mom is worried about the next two rounds of chemo because they are cumulative and will only get worse, not better. I tell her to focus on the present and not to worry too much about the future, but given how these things have been going, it is concerning. I hope her doctor is able to help her and to be there more for her, although she hasn’t really been thus far. I hope my mom is able to better tolerate the next two rounds of chemo and be done with cancer for good. Many prayers for a positive outcome.    

Holding My Breath

I have not yet been able to talk to my mom about what grandparent name she wants to use. When we visited her a few weekends ago for her birthday, I talked to the little ones on the ride to the farm. We agreed to start calling my parents Grandma P and Grandpa J to try to phase out Miss P and Mr. J as their names. It was very awkward. Chica Marie also caught on that my sister and brother-in-law would be her aunt and uncle and she had great fun calling them Auntie A and Uncle S. My parents didn’t seem too receptive to their names but made no objections. At one point Chica Marie called my father PopPop, which is what we called his father, and I think that stung a little. I don’t think he wants to be PopPop. When I can catch my mom in a good and reasonable mood, I would like to talk about it with her, but that is such a moving target and there are so many other elephants marching around the room, it seems nearly impossible to find a good time to bring it up.

 

I did see my mom this past weekend, briefly. My dad dropped her off at the oncology unit early in the morning so she could get fluids and she needed a ride home, so I took her. She spent some time berating me and my siblings (who were not there to defend themselves) for not being there for her, for not understanding out critical her situation has been. She informed me she was diagnosed with stage 3 advanced ovarian cancer. I didn’t really say anything when she accused us of not caring. It was the way she saw things and anything I say would sound like a lame excuse to her. Why didn’t I come see her after her surgery? She laid at home for 7 weeks waiting for us to visit (I added the last part, she didn’t say that although it sounded implied). Well, I didn’t visit because I thought she needed to rest. I did try checking in with her regularly but I guess that wasn’t what she wanted. Going to visit would mean taking the kids (because it is getting harder and harder to convince Primero to watch the kids) and I worry that having the kids there stresses her out. See, lame excuse. When I got her home I helped her with laundry for a bit before leaving and she seemed to be in a little better mood. She was hospitalized briefly on Monday and called me on Tuesday when she got home because she was very angry about how the hospital handled her medical needs (I’ll post more about this separately because it really has me irked). So, maybe we’re ok again? I’ll just keep holding my breath….

Baby Names

Back when I thought having a biological baby was possible, I dreamt of the names I wanted to bestow upon my precious babe. My ex and I did not agree on many names but we did find a boy name I really loved. Emerson. I know the trend lately has been to use it for a girl, but I really see the name more masculine. I really liked Emerson David but compromised to use my ex’s middle name, which is Antonio. We had a harder time agreeing on a name for a girl. He liked Julissa but I hated that name. I liked Allura Grace but he didn’t care for it. At one point we both liked Genesis but I didn’t like the pronunciation in Spanish (Hena-sis) and the more I said the name out loud, the less I liked it. I think we settled on using our grandmother’s names because we were both close to our grandmothers. His grandmother was named Adelia and mine is Alice. I like Alice Adelia but calling her Adelia. We never did have to come to an agreement on any names and the child my ex had with his new wife was named after him.

 

I didn’t really get a chance to name my children. Sure, legally, I had the option to call them whatever I wanted, but it reality it is way more complicated. For my oldest, he had the ultimate decision on his name. He toyed with the idea of changing his first name to the alias he likes to use, but decided against it for fear of retribution from his siblings. He chose to remove his father’s last name and tack on my very long surname. He tried talking me into keeping my married name but I just didn’t want the name I felt didn’t belong to me. For Love Bug, I chose to change his middle name. I toyed with giving him Emerson, but it didn’t fit. Instead I gave him my dad’s middle name (which is also my brother’s middle name) which also gave Love Bug the same initials as my father and brother. Chica Marie was a horse of a different color. The pronunciation of her first name was complicated and everyone said it differently. Hearing her mom pronounce it when we saw her at the pool a few weeks ago made me realize we all pronounced it wrong. So, I broached the subject of changing her name, but keeping it similar and continuing to use her nickname. I had a few versions but let her decide and we were both content with using Allura as her middle name. When we discovered her middle name was given to honor her paternal grandmother, we decided to use two middle names. Using Allura gave her the same initials as her brother. I liked the continuity.

 

Because she mostly goes by her nickname, people don’t generally use her given name when speaking to her or about her. I did overhear a girl at her daycare using her old name and Chica Marie didn’t correct her. I know she knows her name; she used to say it so often that Love Bug can rattle it off faster than his own name. When I pointed out the girl used her old name, she shrugged so I let it go. She seemed to be more energetic about her name before it because her name. Now, she sometimes denies her name has changed. When we saw her mom at the pool I talked to her the next day about how it felt hearing her mom call her by her given name, the one we changed. She said it was ok. I asked her if she thought her mom knew her name had changed and she said her mom knew about it. I asked her if it felt strange hearing her mom use her full name and she just nodded. Chica Marie is not one to talk about how she is feeling. It’s hard to discern what she is really thinking about any particular thing. Like so many things in our life, it’s an on-going discussion.

The Wild Boars

Surely by now you have heard about the Thai soccer team who went spelunking with their coach and got trapped deep inside the cave when monsoon rains filled the chambers with water. It seemed like the world sat on pins and needles while the heroic and brave Thai Navy Seals and cave diving experts extracted the boys one by one. Once free of the cave, each team member was whisked away to the hospital for medical observation. From what I have heard, they have only been able to see their families through glass windows from inside their quarantined room in the hospital. I was talking with a coworker, who happened to celebrate her birthday the same day the last of the group was safely brought out of the cave, and I expressed how hard it must be for the parents to not be able to hug their sons after this ordeal. She reminded me that they were medically fragile and it was for their own good that they were not allowed physical contact, but I envisioned myself sitting outside that cave for over two weeks waiting to see my child again. I said I would have to be physically restrained from not rushing to my child and embracing them, germs be damned. Sure, seeing that they were ok would make me grateful, but not being able to hug them and hold them would be excruciating to me. There is comfort in the human touch and we get physiological responses from hugs and touching. I remember when Primero had surgery not long after moving in with me, and how I stood in the recovery room by his bed, holding his hand, brushing his hair off his face, coaxing the oxygen tube back into his nostrils. What if I had been forced to just stare at him through a glass window, willing him to get better and to feel my love across the sterile room? I was tasked with helping him wake up, with soothing him into consciousness. I could not have done that from afar. I know it’s isn’t the same thing, but I keep following this story because I want to see these boys in their mother’s embrace, feeling that relief at their safety and the comfort of being in familiar arms after a very traumatic ordeal. For me, that is when the story ends.

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Tag Team

My sister sent me a text, after the weekend encounter with our mother, and she said she was grateful she wasn’t an only child but that we had each other to go through this together. I echoed her sentiment because I had been feeling the same way. It made me think about the times I contemplated the size of my family and how I’m glad my children will always have one another. Yes, they also have other siblings, but it is different when you grow up living together. You just get it in ways others do not. No one understands better what is going on with our mother than my sister. At this point, we mostly tag in and out as needed. Last year, when my sister wasn’t able to visit for Mother’s Day, I was tagged in. This past weekend my sister tagged in, taking the brunt of Mom’s bitterness before I arrived with the children. It makes it just a hair easier, knowing there is someone who understands and can take some of the heat. Not that I plan on following my mother’s path, but I like knowing my kids can commiserate with one another, even if it’s about me. I know I am a fallible human being and I do things that they find irritating, so knowing they can talk to one another about it makes parenting more than one child a worthy endeavor in my book. I strongly put this in the pro column when contemplating family size. When I am old and frail and the kids need to take care of me, they can spread that work between the three of them. Hopefully, they won’t have to take turns enduring my ire, as my sister and I do with our mom, but at least they can if the need arises. I hope they can someday say, as I did to my sister, “I’m so glad I’m not an only child.”

Second-chance Adoption

This past weekend our foster dog Skye was adopted. Again. She had been with us since the fall and had been adopted once before in January only to come back two weeks later. She is a good dog who has some anxieties when meeting new dogs. Last weekend the little ones and I spent over an hour at the new home, just getting a feel for the young woman who hoped to adopt Skye. I was very straightforward with everything I could think of regarding Skye’s behavior and temperament. This has been a tough placement for me. Twice Chica Marie and I took Skye to meet and greets only to have her rejected. It hurt my heart because she really was a loveable dog, if only someone would give her a chance. She reminded me of some of the kids I’ve met in foster care, the kind of kids who are a little rough around the edges and slow to warm up to anyone but have such tender hearts. Part of the problem, at least for some of the people, was how she looked. She was part pitbull part lab but she looked like a pitbull with a wide chest and big square head. She had a big bark but was really just a sweetheart. She loved the kids and we never had a problem with her acting aggressive with anyone who came into our house. She was good with recall and seemed to want to please when it came to training. I really like her new mom and my hope is she has found her forever home. We loved her and while keeping her was an option it would have meant we could no longer foster because three dogs is enough in our small home. Not to mention being able to afford a third dog, which would be a tough stretch. I’ve text with her new mom since the weekend and Skye (rename to Mazie) seems to be doing well and settling into her new home. As each day passes I relax a bit more, thinking she is happy and pampered in her new home.

Room for a Miracle

On Saturday we went to the farm to visit my mom for her birthday. It was awkward. My sister was there before us and she had a conversation where Mom said she regretted staying home with us for 10 years because we were ungrateful. During conversation when I was there she commented how their dog really loves little kids and babies because when my cousin’s daughter was over he would not leave her side. I asked when they were over and Mom responded, “for the fourth of July picnic.” Oh. You mean the one we weren’t invited to? The one I knew nothing about? Ok cool. The sad thing is all her pushing away is working. I don’t want to spend time with her, I don’t want to sit with her and be her whipping post. The Friday before the fourth my sister and I tried appealing to our dad for help. He towed the party line, meaning he made excuses for her telling us she is scared and lashing out. Except, this isn’t totally new, it’s just more forceful than before. The only positive that came from the conversation was Dad agreeing Mom should talk to someone. I reached out to a former pastor who Dad believes Mom will talk to but to my knowledge, he has not yet responded to the pastor’s email response to set up a date and time to chat. I hold little hope it will help, but I suppose there’s always room for a miracle.

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Memory Landslide

So, after our mom sent us a group text essentially cutting us out of her life, my sister and I decided to reach out to our dad. If anyone can reach Mom it’s Dad. As I suspected, he knew nothing about the text she sent us but he wasn’t totally surprised. Ever the diplomat, he tried explaining how hard this is for her and how scared she is having cancer a second time. Both my sister and I understand this. We understand it is hard and she is scared. We are all scared. My sister and I tried focusing on how to move forward because the reality is, this recent lashing out is not totally out-of-character for our mom. Granted it is by far the strongest shove away from her, but there has always been that passive-aggressive push and pull with our mom. It’s just more poignant now because she is sick. My dad seems to think she just wants us to come sit with her and hold her hand. She doesn’t want us to try to help her clean the house or fix up her flower beds or any of the things we’ve been trying to do for her, albeit poorly. In his charitable view, my dad forgets that sitting and holding her hand leaves ample room for her to criticize and pick at us, berate us for nothing being there for her enough. Mom is angry and bitter and she has decided my sister and I should be the targets for her vitriol. Of course my dad explained she is angry and bitter because cancer has taken so much from her. Yes, cancer took away her mobility and energy, my sister and I didn’t do it. In the phone conversation we had with our dad my sister and I pleaded for our mom to seek professional help with a counselor. My dad said she won’t. He mentioned she might be willing to speak to our former pastor. And so I have been tasked with reaching out via the email address I found through a Google search, and asking if this pastor would be willing to speak to our mom.

 

There is a history here. One that makes it hard for me to know what to say in reaching out. I’m sure bygones are bygones and all that, but I’m fairly certain the last time I interacted with this pastor it wasn’t on the most pleasant terms. In the simplest terms possible, the pastor was the leader of our small church when I was a teenager. Another man, who happened to be our neighbor and who my parents happened to introduce to the church, had the ear of the pastor. He didn’t like something our youth pastor did and so they excused the youth pastor and his wife and as a teenager, this was just life-altering. Our youth group fell apart at that point. My sister and I tried to continue going to that church, but we didn’t last long. Of course there are more details to the story and the politics of it all were distasteful in my opinion. The man who pushed the pastor to eliminate the youth pastor? Oh, he’s now one of our county commissioners. Life is interesting, isn’t it? So, in contemplating emailing the pastor, my memories of that trying time when I was in high school have started swirling back into my brain providing a roadblock to my email writing. What do I say and how do I say it? I’m asking him for help, but will my email trigger the same landslide of memories in him that I’ve been experiencing? He has moved on, to a different church, many years have passed. I’m fairly certain there isn’t any animosity, least of all for my parents. There is also a part of me who feels like I might be going these emotional acrobatics for no real reason if my mom is unwilling to talk to the pastor or he doesn’t feel it would be right for him to offer counseling to her. And in the end, will it really make a difference in the relationship between my sister, my mom and me?  

 

So, despite our reservations, Dad convinced us to continue with plans to celebrate Mom’s birthday with her this Saturday. My sister and brother-in-law will be driving up from D.C.. We are going to do something simple, just pizza and salads with s’mores and chocolate birthday cake for desert. We are going to use Primero’s projector to watch a movie outside and just relax together. My dad seems to think this can help smooth things over, but I’m not so sure. Still, it’s a plan and we are willing to give it a try.

"Oh Hey! Hi!"

Thursday evening I took the kids to see a movie being shown outdoors. This was before the gates of Hell opened and the breath of Satan, a.k.a. a heat wave, descended upon us. The movie was being shown from 8-10, which actually ended up being 8:30 to coincide with the setting of the sun. The kids played and ran around the empty parts of the baseball field before the movie began. Since the movie was going to get us home much later than the little one’s bedtime, I decided to take off on Friday so they could sleep in. It felt abusive to keep them up until well after 10 and then force them up at 7 the next morning and who wants to work on Friday anyway? So, we decided to go to the pool on Friday since there was an excessive heat advisory in effect. Primero brought Toxic Friend along and we arrived at the pool just before 12:30. A few hours later I was swimming with Love Bug when I heard a voice behind me say, “Oh hey, hi!” I turn and it’s the kids’ mom. In the pool with her boyfriend. We chatted for a bit and she asked about Chica Marie, who was swimming in another area of the pool. I motioned to where she was and then semi-panicked. Right now it seems like their mom is healthy and doing ok, but that wasn’t the case for so long it’s hard for me to trust she will remain appropriate with the kids. I felt like she needed to be watched. Maybe that’s wrong, maybe I was being protective for no reason, but I sent Primero over to check on things. He got angry with me when I expressed my concern, but I wasn’t ok with just letting the kids go with no supervision. After all, I was keeping an eye on them before their mother showed up. At one point Primero told Chica Marie she wasn’t allowed over with her mom on her mom’s blanket and she got upset. Her mom got upset too, but I managed to smooth things over. Their mom fed them ice cream treats when it was nearly dinner time, which I found semi-frustrating (if it had been a little earlier in the afternoon it would have been more ok, but when it was already dinner time? Ugh…). The dynamics, for me, changed when their mom showed up and made what was supposed to be a relaxing afternoon much less so.

 

At one point, Chica Marie asked to go to the baby pool. I have always hated the baby pool, even as a child. It is much too warm and no matter how many chemicals they dump in it, the pool smells like pee. But, Love Bug loved being able to run through the water and jump into the pool, so I sat in the tepid water with their mom sitting a few feet away from me. At one point another mom questioned their mom about Love Bug. I get it, she looks like his mom obviously, but the other mom and the kids mom both seemed miffed when I answered the question. It was awkward when their mom tried to do some parental things, like make Chica Marie feel better when I wouldn’t let her go back to the big pool (she had begged to go to the baby pool and the two pools are not close together, much to my consternation). It was also awkward when Chica Marie shouted from the middle of the pool, “Right Mommy I have two moms?” It was also a little uncomfortable when their mom showed Chica Marie she had her name tattooed on top of her left wrist. The name we changed just a few months ago at her adoption. The same name her mom was using the entire time we were with her (which I totally understand and it doesn’t really bother me but I worry that it might make Chica Marie regret changing her name, so I worry about that). As an ironic bit of trivia, both the bio moms of my kids have their children’s names tattooed on their bodies. I didn’t see if the kids’ mom had Love Bug’s name anywhere, I just noticed Chica Marie’s name on top of her left wrist and Mini Momma’s name on her the top of her right wrist. I don’t know if she has any of the other older sibling’s names tattooed anywhere. She has a big tattoo on her upper arm with a name that is not one of the kids. One thing that was very evident in this chance encounter was how all of bio mom’s attention was directed to Chica Maire and little interest given to Love Bug. I think, because he came to me so young, she is less bonded to Love Bug and sees him as more mine than hers since he never lived with her. It was only two days after his birthday so I thought she might mention it, but she didn’t. I’m sure it brings up painful memories to think about it; four years ago she was in the hospital with her last baby and now she is sitting at the pool watching him launch himself into another woman’s arms, telling her he loves her, calling her mommy. It’s not an easy thing.

 

So, after our second surprise visit in two months, I joked with Chica Marie about where we might next bump into her mom. I think she is not actively looking for her mom when we are out in the community. I know she was when we went to the back to the same pool on Sunday. I wish there was a way for us to plan outings, so we could intentionally meet their mom, but that doesn’t seem possible. I have thought a long time about contacting their mom via Facebook, but I felt like that might be too aggressive. I’ve decided to prepare an envelope of pictures, including the recent ones with her, and a letter offering to set up a private Facebook page for her to see photos of the kids whenever she wants to. I will also add in the desire to plan excursions for her to see the kiddos and see if she might be able to navigate a way for us to stay in touch for just that purpose. It would be nice to have something planned rather than be surprised and unprepared. At the very least I know I tried.

Would You?

I met a friend of mine for a few drinks Friday night two weeks ago. I was already home in my pjs when she text me. But, since Primero was willing to stay with the sleeping kids and my friend rarely asks me out, I decided to go. It was just her and I so we had ample time to catch up with one another. We sat at the bar and joked about the DJ playing music from when we were teenagers. At one point she shared with me the guy she is seeing wants to have a baby with her and she just doesn’t think she wants another child. I listened to her dredge up how hard it was to heal from child birth while breast feeding her baby and not getting enough sleep. She mentioned how hard it was to keep pumping to feed the baby, how much she didn’t like it and just isn’t sure she would want to do it all again. “Would you?” she asked. Would I? Well, I’ve never been pregnant, never given birth, never breast fed a baby because it wasn’t an option. Would I want to have a baby, as in a biological baby that comes from my body? Yes, that’s all I ever wanted. Would I want to go through infancy again with a baby, like I did with my Love Bug? I would want to go through it with someone. I would want a partner to go through it with me. She interrupted me, lamenting her soon-to-be-ex-husband’s participation in their son’s infancy. I get that. I know the lion’s share still falls on the mother, but still having another adult do things like clean, make dinner, do the laundry? Because I did all the mom-ing things and all the household things and EVERYTHIING to keep me and three other lives from imploding into total chaos all while working full-time. Would I do it again all alone, take in a baby? Maybe. There is just a different connection I have with Love Bug than I do with the older two, something so precious because I know him, from three days old I know him. I don’t love him more, it’s just our connection is easier than with Chica Marie or Primero. There are 14 years of his life that I don’t know about Primero and 3 years I didn’t know Chica Marie. Those lost years are what make things hard for us sometimes. I felt, during the conversation, like we were comparing apples and oranges. While I understood her journey wasn’t easy and I respect that one child might be enough for her, I am an unfair comparison when it comes to procreating. Would I, if I could, willingly have a baby with someone I love? Yes, I would. Hands down, no contest, I wouldn’t even think twice about it. But, it isn’t a possibility, or a very unlikely one, compared to her ability to make a decision and then make it happen. We left the conversation after I reiterated my support for whatever decision she makes and talked about more enjoyable topics thereafter.

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