Babies cry, don’t take it personally

When my baby was born into this world, I was struck with the reality of it all. She is mine, my baby, nobody else’s. It felt like one of those reality shows when you get to play a part in someone else’s life for a while–but don’t get too comfortable, the camera crew is on its way with the annoyingly chatty host.

Our strange existence as modern women of the 21 century brought many of us to the realization that by the respectable age of 30, we rarely had a chance to handle a newborn, to change his diaper, to feed him or watch him nurse. That was me anyway, a total novice (not to say a nervous wreck). Before my baby was born I wouldn’t have wanted to hold a newborn. I was afraid to break them. I regarded every new, seemingly relaxed new mother with great admiration. “How does she do it?” I asked myself (and her, if I gathered enough nerve). They all looked like mother earth to me. Relaxed and natural.

Imagine my surprise when my turn came to play mommy. I knew newborn babies cry. Just not how much. You change them, they cry. You don’t change them, they cry. You dress them, they howl,; you undress them, it’s the end of the world as we know it. And don’t get me started with her first baths. My husband actually used his ear plugs. And these were the easy ones.

The hardest cases were those in which we had no idea why our little princess was clutching her little fists and screaming in rage, for hours at a time. She wasn’t hungry, she wasn’t wet, our home was warm and cozy and she had mommy, daddy and grandma at her disposal. She still cried. A car ride quieted her alright, just until we entered back in the house. A bath? Grandma suggested, and quickly withdrew, seeing our horrified expressions. I rocked her, kissed her, held her, and swore I would never ever touch cabbage again (thinking I caused her gas). Needless to say, I felt like a failure. Like the worst mother in the world. Where were my motherly instincts when I needed them? Wasn’t this supposed to come naturally? I felt cheated. I was supposed to just “know” what to do, right? Wrong.

Babies cry. They cry because it’s their only way of communication. They cry to let out frustrations, to get attention, to feed or to sleep. They are not named “newborns” for no reason. Babies are newcomers to our world and everything we take for granted must seem very alarming to them. Their familiar world was body-temperature warm, dark, and wet. They existed to the relaxing sounds of our hearts and our digestive systems, our well meaning voices travelling to them from far, far away. Bundled in an increasingly tightening uterus, they were lulled to sleep by our constant movement. Is it a wonder that our dry, loud, well lit, open-spaced world frightens them?

The good new is, ladies and gentleman, that it is a passing phase. Older babies do cry to communicate their needs but they also use body language, cooes and smiles. The newborn’s survival instinct to shout at the top of her lungs at the smallest inconvenience will slowly fade away, alongside the remaining shreds of her parents’ nervous system. As you tend to your baby’s every need, she learns to anticipate your care. She understands that she is not alone and that you will be there for her. As she grows accustomed to her new environment, her constant sense of urgency will disappear.

My point? You do not need to be the baby whisperer to care for your child. She learns to be a baby at the same rate you learn to be a parent. Just be there for her, and you both shall make it safely to the joys of tantrums and potty training.

Ayalla is a mother of a baby and a toddler. A retired scholar, new blogger and an aspiring writer, she lives in the far far (far) north of Quebec. Check out her blog here.

Scrambled Heart, Part 2

{Continued from last week’s essay}

Because of the Hepatitis C diagnosis and subsequent cirrhosis doctors later agreed to evaluate him for a heart/liver transplant, quite rare, but several have been successfully completed around the country. Doctors wanted to do some lung studies first, before sending him to Seattle for a heart/liver evaluation. The doctors discovered his lung functions were extremely poor, possibly due to fibroid tumors, probably from anti-fibrillation drugs: he would need a heart/liver/lung transplant. Although multiple organ transplantation has been successful, the three big guns have been transplanted only once before.

After six months of waiting for results and decisions, a letter from Mayo Clinic arrived stating the “constellation of his anatomy” was in too great a state of disarray and he was pronounced a non-viable candidate. The sand in the hourglass draining, Mike and I began measuring time as though a bomb were set to detonate at the end of the two-year death sentence. We never told Zeke about the letter from Mayo. We told him only that the doctors said “not now” on the transplantation. Doctors agreed to respect our decision.

7 things I’ve learned from motherhood

1. After you leave the hospital, in the middle of the night, when the baby won’t sleep…it’s all you. (And your husband, of course, if you’ve got a good one.) But the point is, from now on, when that little face looks around for food, comfort, nurturing…you are the one. And it’s a humbling, beautifully terrifying prospect.

We’ve loved our daughter since the day she was born, but because she came to us in a different way, I’ll never forget this experience:

When she was almost three months old I went to a luncheon. Many of the women there wanted to see and hold her, and she was getting passed around quite a bit. I don’t know if something happened or if she was just getting tired of all the passing, but she began to cry and look around. Finally she found me and her eyes locked on mine; she smiled through her tears as if to say: “Mommy, I found you! Save me!” All I could think of at that moment, was “Oh my gosh, she’s looking for me!” It was an emotional experience for me for obvious reasons. She knew I was her mother. And when she saw me, she knew she would be okay.

(First lesson: you are The One.)

2. Surviving the sleep deprivation.
There were many, many years of no sleep. I really began to wonder if there would be permanent consequences to my constant state of sleepiness. When I look back on the worst of it, I don’t know how I functioned as well as I did. If you’ve been through it, you know it is a tiredness that you feel in your bones. But I did it. And my children survived my groggy crankiness. {And as for the permanent damage, I only twitch and drool a little bit now and then…just kidding, sort of.}

(Second lesson: you can do anything. You are a mother.)

3. Things are always better when seen through a child’s eyes:

Snow,

Swings,

Mud,

Christmas,

Disneyland…

I’ll never forget when we took the kids to Disneyland; the first time with all five of them. The oldest was 10 and the baby, 10 months. We got there at night, and we had a multi-day ticket, so we went for the hour or so before the park closed. We were just in time for the big parade. There we were, squished in with all the other hundreds of parents and children who happened to be on that one little corner of the street. I was stressed and frazzled from trying to maneuver our double stroller through the crowds; and I was crazy from trying to keep my extremely active and curious 5- and 6-year-olds from climbing up trees and railings and lamp posts, and from inadvertently wandering away.

But when the music started, and the characters began to leap and dance and sing their way down the street, the children were magically transfixed. I saw the delight and wonder in their eyes. And I stood there witnessing it. In the middle of all those other crazy parents. With tears streaming down my face at the sheer joy of the moment.

(Third lesson: childhood is magical. And for a few short years in between my own childhood and motherhood, I had forgotten for a moment.)

If you give a mom a minute

If you give a mom a minute (while the three older kids are at school/preschool and the two younger ones are napping)…she will try to transfer a load from the washer to the dryer.

But according to her new 12-step laundry program, all clean laundry that comes out of the dryer must be put away IMMEDIATELY. Otherwise, it will never get put away. She tries to hang up the white church shirts and then she realizes all hangers in the house are in use…so she goes into the two-year-old’s closet to retrieve hangers.

While looking through the closet she realizes he has outgrown most of his clothing. She cleans out his closet (in order to get the hangers) and makes a pile of give away clothes. Since she is clearing out the closet, she might as well clean out his drawers, also. She now has a BIG pile of clothing to donate…so she heads to the kitchen to get a garbage bag for all the clothes…as she gets a garbage bag, she see the kitchen garbage is overflowing…..for once she has her shoes on and no one to follow her outside…so she takes out the garbage.

While walking down the front walk, she has to duck under the overgrown palm tree. This reminds her that several visitors have had to duck, as well. So she opens up the garage, gets out the electric hedger and clips off the offending palm fronds. She then notices that the lantana and bougainvillea are also encroaching the sidewalk, so she trims those, too.

While trimming, she remembers the 10 o’ clock news report of a burglar in the area who hides in shrubbery. She then takes the hedgers to all shrubs…including ones that have never been trimmed before. Once finished, she remembers her husband is not a big fan of her landscaping skills (maybe because it reminds him of bad haircuts she has given him in the past).

So she gets out the rake to clear away the evidence…an hour later she finally makes it back into the house and changes out of her sweaty, stinking clothes and tries to put them into the washer…but it is full of a load that needs to go into the dryer…a dryer that is full of a load that needs to be hung up/put away.

Carla lives in a suburb outside of Phoenix, is mother to five great kids, and loves to learn new things. You can find her at her blog Six Beez or reach her at carla2822@cox.net.

Embracing normal

I was chatting with my darling neighbor who has 3 tiny kiddos, is pregnant with her 4th, and in the middle of tearing up and remodeling her home. She’s feeling a wee bit stressed.

Soon tears were flowing and she said, “But I shouldn’t complain. You’ve got twice as much going on as me and you are always so pulled together.”

Ha! Me? Pulled together?

I told her: “I sincerely and honestly apologize if I’ve ever given you that impression. I would never want anyone to think that about me.”

As the mother of five wild boys and one crazy little princess, I am not trying to create any illusion of perfection. 10 days out of 10 I have moments where I simply CAN’T HANDLE life. And I also have really great happy moments 10 days out of 10. I choose to believe that’s a normal part of motherhood.

My friend Missy told me a story of hiking with her dad when she was 8 years old. The hike was easy and fun for the first few miles, but as the elevation increased and Missy’s energy wore down she struggled for breath and fought to keep up with her father. Convinced that something was truly wrong with her body she called to her dad, “I can’t do it. You go on. I’ll wait here.”

Her father stopped, sat her down and gently explained, “You’re OK. We’re higher on the mountain now and the air is thinner. You have to take deep breaths and I need to slow down and walk slowly with you. You’re going to make it. You’re going to be fine. This is normal.”

For Missy, those words made all the difference—there wasn’t anything wrong with her; it’s normal to struggle when you are not getting enough oxygen.

And I guess that’s my message to all my fellow mothers. None of us are getting enough oxygen. Every mother I know, whether she has 10 kids or 1, is pouring every bit of her energy into the bottomless pit of motherhood. It’s meant to be hard. This is normal.

I don’t ever anticipate being the pulled-together super-mom. I don’t want to be. Forgetting a birthday party or serving cereal for dinner is fine with me. If I ever get too organized I may not have time to sit and hold my Gabriel while he tells me about last night’s dream or I may not be willing to leave the beds unmade and go on a walk with a friend. Inadequate, imperfect, scatterbrained, messy—it all makes me a better mother.

I should stop here but I won’t. My cute neighbor said she tried to explain her stress to her mother but her mother’s reply was, “You have no idea how lucky you are. There are so many people in the world with bigger problems than yours.”

I beg to differ. My friend is a nurse in a child abuse unit; she served an 18-month service mission in Guatemala. She is acutely aware of the problems in the world and often expresses her profound gratitude for her husband, home, and children. Just talking about her blessings throws her into guilty worries that she isn’t grateful enough.

But taking care of 3 small people, growing a new one in your belly and picking out tile for the kitchen are exhausting, oxygen-depleting tasks. Not life threatening, but exhausting. It’s OK to be frustrated, it’s OK to be overwhelmed. This is normal.

Michelle Lehnardt never folds laundry and her car is a mess. She runs through the streets of Salt Lake City, UT, takes lots of photos, plays Uno with her 5 fabulous boys and buys way too many dresses for the little princess. Her husband is the most romantic man in the world because he does all the Costco shopping AND hauls it into the house (sorry to make you jealous girls). She writes at Scenes from the Wild.

Nod, be present, and listen

When my sons were taking piano lessons, I decided to steal the motivational technique of my first teacher, Mrs. Childs, and reward them with a candy bar whenever they memorized a piece. For me, chocolate has always been wildly motivating; perhaps this is why, according to my mother, no one ever had to nag me to practice.

At the time of this story, my sons were seven and ten, my father had just died, and my mother was dying. I felt that I was failing her–and everyone else in my life–in a multitude of ways on a daily, even hourly, basis, and was so desperate for solace that I decided to make one last attempt at psychotherapy. In the Midwest, where I was raised, the accepted credo is “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” Hardly an attitude that fosters the kind of work that needs to occur in a therapist’s office.

This therapist, however, was different. Her technique was unusual. She’d get me talking–they all do that–but when I let my guard down and became loose-lipped enough to let slip with something honest, something vaguely not-nice, i.e. “I’m mad at her,” the therapist had me repeat more potent versions of that statement (“I’m angry at my mother for getting cancer,” or “I’m so mad at you, Mom, for dying!” etc.) over and over again, while at the same time making little tapping motions on the backs of my hands, the top of my head, the center of my chest. I’d cry. I’d feel crummy for awhile. But through the course of the session, eventually I’d move through and beyond that not-nice feeling to a place of calm, a place where – for some reason – I could at least function. It helped.

One afternoon, when my eldest son Noah failed to demonstrate that he’d memorized “Bill Grogan’s Goat,” he was told that chocolate would not be forthcoming – not today anyway, but surely tomorrow, because he almost had it, just a couple of notes, a little bit more practice, he was so close!

He burst into tears.

“What?” I cried. My son’s response was so sudden, so out of proportion that I wondered if he’d physically hurt himself. “What’s wrong, honey?”

“It’s not fair!” he wailed, shrugging off my attempts to hug him. “It’s not fair…”

Exacerbating Noah’s misery was the fact that his brother Sam had already finished his practice session and–having successfully memorized “Go Tell Aunt Rhody”–was sitting a few feet away on the sofa, blithely consuming his Almond Joy. I wish I could say that I had the good sense to ask him to remove himself to the kitchen. Maybe I did. I don’t remember.

After telling Noah how sorry I was that he felt sad, I went on to explain that it actually was fair, reminding him this was our policy when it came to practicing. What really wouldn’t be fair would be if I gave him a candy bar when he hadn’t memorized his piece.

This did not comfort him.

“But it’s not fair!” he repeated. “Sam’s songs are easier than mine!”

“That’s true, but when Sam is ten like you, he’ll have harder songs, and then –”

“It’s not fair!” Noah proclaimed again, head shaking, tears falling. “It’s not fair, it’s not FAIR!”

Okay, I thought. Not working.

Remembering another therapist from years ago, the one who encouraged me to think of intensely negative feelings as temporary, like billowy clouds in a variable sky, I said, “Okay then, let’s pretend that this big feeling of Unfair is a huge puffy cloud, and we’re going to blow it away.” Noah paused and frowned, still sniffling, but seemed game. “Are you ready? Are you ready to take a big breath with me and blow that huge Unfair Cloud away?”

He quieted long enough for us to inhale and exhale, our conjoined breaths creating an impressive gale force wind which sent several dust bunnies careening across the living room floor.

There was a pause, and then a resumption of inconsolable sobs.

That was when I remembered that the emotions-as-clouds metaphor hadn’t worked any better for me than it did for my son.

“It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s JUST NOT FAIR!”

I continue to be amazed by what a dullard I can be when it comes to my own children, how my response as a parent can sometimes lead me to relate to my sons in a completely unhelpful–and uncharacteristic–manner. Would I treat one of my friends like this? Would I try to talk her out of her feelings? Of course not. I’d commiserate. I’d buy her a glass of wine. I’d sit and listen. I’d let her moan to her heart’s content.

It’s not fair.

Finally I remembered the technique my therapist had been using with me: encouraging me to repeat the unvarnished, unattractive, unreasonable truth.

So I started to say, “You’re right, honey, it’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.”

Noah joined in. We sang the It’s Not Fair lament for a few minutes and then, eventually, the sky cleared, the clouds passed, the tears ceased. Sam finished his Almond Joy without further notice. Noah got past his grief and went on to memorize (and earn a Three Musketeers) another day.

Now, when my kids let forth with an uncensored expression of unreasonable emotional truth–-“I had a scary, bad thought” or “This homework is so pointless” or “I’m never going to get this!” etc.–I try not to talk it away with reason, or blow it away with a gale force exhalation. I try to remember to simply nod my head, be present, and listen. So much of childhood is baffling. So much of what our children experience emotionally is not nice.

We’ve abandoned the candy bar reward, by the way, as well as piano lessons. Noah, now thirteen, plays the trumpet, Sam plays trombone, and I do what most parents do when it comes to motivating their kids to practice: I nag.

I wish I didn’t have to. My mom never had to nag me to practice.

It is so unfair.

Stephanie Kallos lives in Seattle with her husband and sons. She is the author of two published novels, BROKEN FOR YOU and SING THEM HOME. Her website is: www.stephaniekallos.com

On blooming timing

I have a soft spot for late bloomers, all varieties. My grandpa took up painting just a couple of years ago and sends us watercolor treasures, scenes from Italy and France and his hometown. I linger over articles about authors late to the publishing world, taking small shards of hope from their late blooming success.

My kids didn’t get teeth until they were 9 months old and that was perfectly fine with me. Sam’s now nine years and he’s only lost a few teeth. He’s the rare 4th grader with the gappy front tooth smile, up to 5 years later than some of his friends. And Maddy still cherished her doll Emily with the fidelity of a mother, long after dolls had lost their cool for most of her friends. Everything in its time, I think to myself, privately happy to extend the moments of childhood and allow them their own timetables.

That’s not to say I don’t get caught up in the comparing game sometimes. [And yes, I agree that some comparing to the norm is essential to make sure your child is developing and growing (e.g., growth charts at the pediatrician).] It’s tough not to grade yourself as a parent based on the timelines of others. Get a group of parents together and inevitably there’s a little sly comparing. You see the girl down the street walking and look at your own same-aged crawler and wonder when. You hear that your nephew’s reading books at age four and wonder should I start flashcards? Someone in your playgroup pottytrained their 1-year-old and suddenly you feel like you can’t look at another diaper. For us, it was bike riding.

Are you ready for this?

Sam just mastered riding a bike last summer.

Truthfully, we tried. For several years, we took him out and tried. Because WE were ready, because we wanted to check the box next to that accomplishment as done. But he didn’t like it, dug in his heels and refused. Didn’t see the point. You know that saying about horses and water and drinking? Try young boys and bicycles and riding. So we finally took the hint and set it aside for a while.

Eventually, Sam wanted to learn it (I think it was right after he stayed home from the scout bike rodeo). It was time, his time. Finally one week last July, with the aid of a positive and patient dad and much negotiation, he agreed to work at it for ten tries. And then, mid-week, he started rolling his bike out to the front of the house on the sly, doggedly working solo on that tricky starting moment where you lift both feet to the pedals and push. The next day he was zipping around the neighborhood, all glee and I-did-it-ness. In a couple of days, not the weeks and months of earlier efforts.

Children are bloomers. That’s what they do! They bloom–sometimes early, sometimes late, sometimes right on the average. I’m slowly learning to turn the timing over to my kids, to watch them for clues that they’re ready to grow into a new season. Trying to be more of a gardener, less of a train conductor.

Annie Waddoups lives in the Boston area with her husband and three children. She is the founder of Letters to a Parent and can be reached and annie.waddoups@gmail.com.

To the Mom Who’s Not Perfect

Because I’m someone who holds myself to a high standard, I understand how you feel. Because I’ve failed again and again at important Mom-things, I get you. Because I’ve made being a Great Mom my highest priority and fallen short more days than not, I feel for you. And so I’m writing us both this letter.

A turning point in the Unbearable Guilt Battle happened when I’d been a mom for about two years. My oldest (poor, poor guinea pig that she is) had dumped a bottle of shampoo into the tub, and I’d screamed at her. Again. I was feeling sick with guilt and failure and self-hatred. And I wished SO MUCH that these perfect kids, who I loved more than anything, could have a better mom than the one they’d ended up with. As I prayed for forgiveness and direction about it, an Answer came.

The Answer was: “I didn’t plan for Emma and Gabe (and the rest of them waiting up here) to have a Perfect Mom. I didn’t expect it or want it that way. I wanted them to learn against your imperfection. They will not be wrecked because you make these mistakes.”

Oh my gosh. The relief that washed over me, as the truth of that statement sank into my heart, is indescribable. All of sudden I could see that God knew that I couldn’t do this perfectly MY FIRST TIME and He’d planned for it. He’d planned that my children would learn and grow BECAUSE of my failings and flaws, as well as because of my successes and strengths.

There have been many other incidents of failure and the guilt that accompanies it. I’ve continue to gain more offerings of comfort and wisdom during those times. I’ve learned from the scriptures that just as the man who was blind since birth wasn’t at fault, neither was I at fault because I couldn’t see how to parent perfectly. His failings were given him, so “that the works of God should be made manifest” (John 9:3); might my failings have a similar purpose? I’ve also had wise counsel instructing me that as my children watch me pick myself up, and try again, with hope and determination, they would learn more from those actions, than if I hadn’t had faults at all.

Oh please let it be true.

I know my kids will have their moments (years?) when they are frustrated with their mom. I know they will have habits that they hate, because of what they’ve learned from me. But I know that I can look them in the eye and with great love tell them: “There wasn’t a day that went by, as I raised you, that I didn’t plead to God to be better than I was. There wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t pray for help in being the mother you deserve.” I will be able to bear my witness that He answered that prayer.

I am the mother that God wanted them to have.

Jessica Romney lives in Spokane, Washington with her 4 kids and perfect husband. She loves to exercise, cook, blog, read, and be with friends. You can find her at Everyday Romneys.

A Guide to Growing Stately Trees Comprised of Two Instructions and an Admonition

Instruction: Bend the Twig
If you want to grow a stately tree
You usually start with a tiny sapling,
Although some people grow their trees from seeds.
This is not an easy thing to do.

They say that as the twig is bent so grows the tree
And I think this is probably true.
So young saplings are snipped and pruned to give them shape and character
And staked out to give them rectitude.

And I think this is good and important to do,
Up to a certain point.
But who hasn’t seen and pitied dwarfed and stunted trees,
Crippled as saplings to please the grower’s sense of beauty, or ambition, or convenience.

Oh, and one more thing:
You can’t make an oak tree out of a willow sapling
No matter how much bending or binding
No matter that you desperately want an oak tree and you’ve been given a willow twig

Instruction: Hug the Tree
And then of course at a certain point,
Which admittedly varies from species to species,
The twig cannot be bent or staked out further to any good purpose.
It has become a tree.

It has become shade to someone weary from the road,
A refuge to those seeking solace, or a place for visionary youth to pray.
It has found its own reason for its existence
Fulfilling the promise of the seed and the shaping of the sapling.

What then? What more does the tree need from you?
Well, and this is important, trees never lose their need for warmth and belonging.
They need support to brace their sagging branches from the burdens of too much to bear,
And time-tested remedies to fight the infestations and blight that will surely sap their soul

They need to know that they are part of a forest,
That they belong to a family of trees,
These graceful willows, flamboyant maples and sturdy oaks,
And that this kinship of family extends forward and backward beyond the reckoning of time.

Admonition: Bend the Knee
Finally, a gentle word of counsel to you who would grow trees.
Give thanks to the Lord of the Forest.
Give thanks for the seeds.
For the soil and moisture that nourish them;
For the seasons that refine them,
And for entrusting us with their care.
For the forest in its majestic splendor,
For the music of the breeze in its leaves,
Its diversity of colors and shapes that give it beauty and purpose;
And for the Sun, its eternal beckoning call to seeds and saplings
To leave the frozen ground and reach for the warmth and light of the heavens above.

M.T. Bentley is a professor, consultant, and father of four children.

Letter to an Adoptive Mom

Dear Friend,

Congratulations! After all those months and years of living on pins and needles, you are finally a mom. Now that the home-study is over, the selection process complete and the placement finalized, you deserve to take a deep breath and relax with your little one.

Here are a few lessons from another lucky adoptive mother.

DON’T feel bad if you find motherhood exhausting and overwhelming. All moms get tired and wonder if they are up to this job–no matter how they get their babies. In fact, feeling this way shows you actually are a REAL mom.

DO smile and be gracious when someone says, “You look really good for just having a baby.” They don’t need to know your new-mom-tummy really came from eating chocolate chips and Doritos!

DON’T get all hung-up on the unknown genetic pool. Sure, it is tricky not having a full medical background and you’ll always worry about some DNA surprise. But, look at your own family tree–there are probably all kinds of medical (and mental!) problems hanging from the branches. If not on your side, then definitely on your husband’s! The bottom line is: no baby is health-risk-free.

DO buy the book “Tell Me Again About the Night I Was Born” by Jamie Lee Curtis. Read it often.

DON’T feel left out when other moms share their pregnancy and delivery war stories. You labored just as hard to get your baby, in a different way. Smile, nod, and change the subject.

DO keep in touch with your child’s birthparents. Aside from the grandparents, no one else in the world will be as happy to receive photos, cards and updates. As your child grows, you will want to have information to share with him/her. Keep the lines of communication open.

DON’T listen to everyone’s prediction that “Now, that you’ve adopted…you’ll probably get pregnant.” Statistically, it just isn’t true. Besides, it makes adoption seem second-best.

DO get involved with other adoptive parents. Make sure your kids have a few other “adopted” friends. Volunteer to help at your adoption agency. Be willing to mentor adoptive candidates or to talk with prospective birthmothers.

DON’T get your feelings hurt when people say tactless things. “Someday you might have a child of your own.” “Do you keep in touch with his real mother?” No parent owns a son or daughter. All children are on loan from God. Once we recognize this, a lot of the unimportant details just don’t matter.

DO write your child’s beginnings in a Once-upon-a-time storybook. Keep the details simple and add pictures, if you can. Read it often and use it as a conversation starter as your child grows older. Answer questions openly. Let your child feel proud and safe about the way your family came to be.

DO sing lullabies. DO blow bubbles. DO run in the sprinklers. DO lick the spoon together. DO savor these precious moments. You waited a long, long time for them.

Love,
A Real Mom

Gabi Larson, the mother of 4 children, lives in Pennsylvania. She writes at The Gab Blog.