May, 2007: I'm dating again

I’m dating again. A quick evening out to get ice cream. A bike ride through the park. Loosely held hands and affectionate glances. I’m not exclusive with any of the four people I date, and that’s what makes it exciting and fresh each time. What does my husband of 13 years say about my dating? He’s very supportive. Mostly, because he’s dating, too.

Bill and I have started a new tradition of scheduling dates with our children and each other. Like most good ideas, this one was born out of frustration. A few months ago, when we had our foster daughter living with us in addition to our own three children, we noticed that while we did a lot together as a family, sometimes we’d come home from an excursion tired and cranky. Jacob, 12 couldn’t tell us anything without Jamie, three, interrupting. Liam, eight, sometimes felt that it was hard to get through a few sentences without Jacob (the fact checker) clarifying his story for him. In addition, something about being strapped into their car seats inspired Jamie and our foster daughter, both preschoolers, to sing endless rounds of Old MacDonald.

One night, after an especially tiresome ride home (here an oink, there an oink, everywhere an oink, oink), Bill strode over to the family dry-erase calendar and started writing.

“What are you doing?” I asked with alarm. Our calendar was already too full.

“I’m writing down dates with the kids,” Bill said. “I’m afraid that otherwise, we’ll never get to talk to them.”

It was a bad idea, I thought. We could barely get the kids to the events we had already committed to — school, soccer, baseball, piano, swimming lessons — how could we add any more? 

My first date was scheduled for the following night, with Liam. It had been an extremely busy day at work. I was exhausted, and if truth be told, I was hoping that perhaps Liam wouldn’t notice his name on the calendar and Bill would forget about the new plan.

“I’ll clean the kitchen, you go on your date,” Bill said, after dinner. I paused and looked at him. I hadn’t realized dating excused a parent from kitchen duty. Perhaps this was a good idea, after all. 

I had received a laptop computer from work that day and Liam and I decided that he would be the first person in our family to try it with WiFi. We went to a local coffee shop and as Liam slurped his frothy drink, I sipped a decaf and together, we figured out how to connect with the shop’s wireless system so he could play an online game. As he played, he explained the game to me, and allowed me to try it, too. After a few rounds, we put the computer away and Liam told me what he was learning about volcanoes in school. Since our family fact checker wasn’t there, I couldn’t be certain that Liam had it absolutely right, but everything sounded reasonable, and it was far more than I knew about volcanoes before the date.

We both came home happy, and the kitchen was clean.

In the months that have followed that first date, the kids have come to anticipate when their dates are and make sure the date happens, even if the day is already packed with activities. Probably because we’re not a family prone to a lot of treats out, our kids are satisfied with pretty simple dates. Liam has clarified that for him, a date must involve “a special kind of food or drink,” but Jacob allows foodless dates. One of Jacob’s  favorites was when he and I went to a sporting goods store to buy the cleats he needed for baseball. Normally, an errand like that would be done with Jamie or Liam in tow. Turning it into a date, though, made it a time to talk to Jacob about baseball. I got to see his thought process as he tried on different sizes and styles of cleats. If Jamie had been with us, Jacob would have been trying on the shoes alone, and I’d have been chasing after her, rather than talking to him.

Dates can happen at home, too, we’ve determined, as long as there are no other family members in the room. Bill woke Liam up early one morning for a pancake breakfast date before school. Once, when we didn’t have time to get a babysitter for our date, Bill brought home Chinese food and he and I had the date in the dining room. The kids, having been on many dates by that point, understood what it was all about and played in another room without interrupting. “Mommy and Daddy are having a date,” I heard Jamie telling her doll, “so you’ll have to wait to talk to them.”

Newly acquainted couples naturally understand the value of time spent alone together, talking. We would question the seriousness of a couple who only spent time together while in a group. How can you really know each other if you’re never alone together? We would ask. But the same is true with relationships in a family, I believe. How can we truly know each of our children if we don’t spend time with each apart from the others? Jamie is a different person when she is allowed to be “Just Jamie” alone with Bill or me, and not “Jamie, the little sister” when she’s with her brothers.   Similarly, I am a different mom when I am — if only for a half hour--  the mom of just one child, not of three. I have a better sense of humor alone with one child. For once, I’m not a disciplinarian or a referee. I’m Mom, the companion, not Mom, the director. It’s a side of myself I’m happy to see — a side I suspected was there.

Thanks to my husband, I’m back in the dating scene. I’m enjoying the ice cream, the rides in the park and the excitement of learning new things about these people I love.

January, 2007: Changing parishes

            How do you know when it’s time to change parishes? In my parents’ generation, parish boundaries were taken more seriously than they are today. If you lived in one area, you attended one parish; if you lived a couple blocks down, you attended the other. While each archdiocese still delineates parishes by neighborhood streets, it is not unusual for people to continue attending a parish even after they move out of the parish boundaries. I know more than a few families who drive past three or four Catholic churches on their way to their “home” parish. Parishes have different personalities, different styles of song, and different populations of people. While some people are fortunate enough to feel that their neighborhood parish fits them, others know that they may have to drive across town to be spiritually fed.

            For the past fifteen years, Bill and I have been attending Ss. Peter and Paul parish, on the east side of Milwaukee. We started going there when we were just out of college, living in the neighborhood. Ss. Peter and Paul had a lively, young population, dynamic priests and a 7 p.m. Sunday Mass that allowed for sleeping in on Sunday mornings. We loved it. By the time we got married and bought a house, we already had a history at the parish, and saw no reason to stop attending there, even though our Glendale house wasn’t in the church’s neighborhood.

            By the time Jacob was ready for school, we had been parish members at Ss. Peter and Paul about seven years. At the time, we were both lectors and Eucharistic ministers. I was in charge of a social justice program at the parish, and had started a children’s Liturgy of the Word ministry. While Peter and Paul had a parish school, we couldn’t quite justify the across-town drive when St. Monica, another Catholic school, was about five minutes from our house. Torn between sending Jacob to the much-closer St. Monica and wanting to continue our parish membership at Ss. Peter and Paul, we asked the pastors of each parish if we could have duel membership. They said yes. What followed was eight years of a very imperfect Catholic school and parish relationship for our family. Sending our sons to one Catholic school and attending Sunday Mass at another parish, made us feel somewhat disjointed. Sometimes we felt connected to both parishes, sometimes we felt out of step with each of the communities. One of the bonuses to sending a child to a Catholic school should be that the sense of community is continued beyond Friday’s final bell and into the weekend at Mass, fish fries, or parish picnics. We were missing out on this perk, and while we recognized that, there was too much we loved about Ss. Peter and Paul to close our membership there and move to our kids’ school parish on weekends. So we stayed at Ss. Peter and Paul.

            Our adoption of Jamie complicated things further. We moved again, this time deeper into Glendale, farther from Ss. Peter and Paul. In addition, Jamie’s Puerto Rican heritage made us look at our family’s various environments from her perspective. Our neighborhood is mostly white.  St. Monica School, where she would attend kindergarten, is mostly white. Ss. Peter and Paul has a sprinkling of racial diversity, but we had to admit, it too, is mostly white. When we received a call last summer that our foster daughter, T, who is African American, would be coming back, we were propelled into action. We needed our two youngest children to have a community to belong to where they would not be one of only a handful of minorities.

            While I continued going to Ss. Peter and Paul each Sunday, Bill went in search of a parish that had a population of white, Puerto Rican and African American members, plus good music and a vibrant priest. I really didn’t think he’d find it, but he did.

            We’ve been attending that parish-- St. Francis of Assisi, on 4^th and Brown--  for over a year now. We walked in with our very diverse family and saw ourselves mirrored back in the diversity of the congregation. The music is primarily Gospel, which all our kids love because of the strong beat and easy-to-remember lyrics. Fr. Mike Bertram learned all our names the first Sunday and uses them when he gives us Communion.  It’s a small parish, compared to either Ss. Peter and Paul or St. Monica, and incredibly welcoming. Our boys have often rung the church bells on Sunday,  and the kids have brought up the gifts several times. Due to a 10-minute long Sign of Peace that allows for some chatting and introductions, we know about a dozen parishioners. While T has now moved back once again with her biological family, when she was with us, I noticed that African American members of the community made a special effort to seek her out at the Sign of Peace. One woman is translating from Spanish to English the story of Our Lady of Divine Providence, Puerto Rico’s patron saint, so that we can share it with Jamie.  She recently

            Our switch to St. Francis of Assisi from Ss. Peter and Paul is bittersweet. I like to think that we grew from young adults into full-fledged adults at Peter and Paul, and the readings, homilies and songs there helped to form us. We took to heart the preaching we heard at Ss. Peter and Paul about the call to live our faith, and signed up to be foster parents because of it. Ironically, it was the gift of faith that Ss. Peter and Paul gave us that compelled us eventually to move. I believe, however, that following the Gospel is supposed to keep us moving; it’s supposed to keep us searching. And as we consider signing our names as official parish members at St. Francis, and removing our names from the Ss. Peter and Paul roster, I can only look ahead, and wonder what other changes are in store.

December, 2006: Goodbye, Teenasia, #2

Our foster daughter left three days before Christmas. Teenasia has been a member of our family twice in her five years. The first time, she came to us as a one-year-old — sad, scared, unable to walk, barely able to stand, and having never slept in a crib. Our boys were just four and eight when she came the first time. She left a little over a year later to go live with her father, the result of her father completing a year of parenting classes and supervised visits. She left a smart and outgoing two-year-old — a fast runner who could say the alphabet forward and partly backwards, too, thanks to the obsession Jacob and Liam had with singing the ABC song backwards.  “Stop singing it in front of T,” I’d tell them a few times a day. “You’re going to mix her up.” But T loved the song, and the boys loved the reaction they got from other people when they sang it, so T was returned to her biological father able to say, “Z, Y, X, W, V, U, T.”  I figured every family has its quirks, and in the scheme of things, this wasn’t such a bad one.

When T left the first time, we waited for six months before once again putting our name on the list to receive another foster child. The social worker assured us that there was little chance T would end up in foster care again. Jamie was the next foster child we received, and we adopted her after she had lived with us about six months. 

            The second time Teenasia came to live with us was this past September, and we weren’t expecting her at all. Bill and I had taken our name off the foster care call list once we adopted Jamie. Maybe once Jamie was in school, we’d consider foster care again, we agreed, but not now. With three kids plus Bill’s 125 eighth graders, we felt like we had enough people in our lives who needed our help finding either their socks or last night’s homework. But when Teenasia’s biological mother called us early one morning to tell us T had been detained from the custody of her dad, we knew we were entering the foster care ring once again, ready or not. 

In the weeks leading up to Teenasia’s placement with us, I had mixed feelings. While there was no doubt in my mind that this was the right thing to do — that indeed it was what God was calling us to do — I was afraid for how Teenasia’s arrival might affect our family. Teenasia was almost five and had lived a very difficult life compared to that of our own three children. I worried about what she might bring into the family. I worried what habits Jamie, just 20 months younger than Teenasia, might pick up from her. I worried that the boys might feel neglected because of all the energy I knew we’d need to devote to Teenasia. Two days before her arrival, though, Bill went to a bedding store, and chose a comforter for Teenasia’s new bed. I opened the bag, prepared to not like whatever Bill chose but ready to say it was great, nevertheless, because he made the effort to go and get it.

I took the comforter out. It was perfect. Yellow with pink, and dragonflies everywhere. Dragonflies, for me, are a sign of the presence of my friend Amy’s father. A gentle and caring man, he died two years ago, and Amy noticed that whenever she would pray to him or ask him for help, she would likely see a dragonfly. Amy’s father was a big fan of our family’s decision to be foster parents. Seeing the dragonflies on the comforter allayed my fears. Looking at the comforter, I understood that while the issues I was worried about could come to pass, they would not level our family. The dragonflies told that Mr. Galvin was involved. Saint Mr.Galvin.

Teenasia’s three months with us were the most intense three months I’ve had as a parent. The little girl who left us a happy, confident, backwards-alphabet-saying two-year-old came back to us at age five not knowing any letter except O. She sucked her thumb constantly, and was quick to anger and tears. She and Jamie needed almost constant supervision in order to play together appropriately. Bill and I dropped some of our regular volunteer commitments and concentrated on just keeping the family on track. But one month, then two months into her stay here, I felt like I was finding my rhythm and so was T. I began to see glimpses of the happy baby I once knew. Glimpses of the girl she could become.

Despite knowing the court’s plan was to reunite Teenasia with her father, I allowed my mind to see her growing up in our family. T and Jamie shared a room, and the word “Jamie” was the first thing Teenasia would shout after coming back from a visit with her father. Even as the social worker explained to us that Teenasia’s father had once again met the conditions for her return to him, Teenasia told us that she didn’t want to go back. She would cry before visiting him, and say she wanted to live here, with us. But what a five-year-old wants, and what indeed might be best for a five-year-old, is not the same as what the law has to say about that five-year-old’s future. What Teenasia’s father did to land his daughter in foster care was not serious enough, in the eyes of the court, to terminate his rights, or even to keep his daughter in foster care for longer than five months.

And so it was that three days before Christmas, we packed up all of Teenasia’s things, and said goodbye to her once again. We printed out the same Irish blessing prayer that we had said to her the first time she left, “May the Road Rise Up to Meet You.” Last time we said goodbye to her, Liam, just five, could not read well enough to participate in the prayer. This time, at eight, he was the only one reading by the end of the prayer as Bill, Jacob and I wiped our tears, unable to speak. Liam’s clear voice didn’t falter, though, and he blessed his sister as she left him once again.

May the wind always be at your back, Teenasia.
May the sun shine warm upon your face, and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again, May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

Until we meet again, Teenasia. May God hold you.

December, 2006: For crying out loud

I cried at my wedding. After we exchanged the vows, I sat down next to Bill on the altar and the tears started. Unfortunately, I’m not one of those dainty women criers who can get a bit misty and then dab neatly at the mascara under their eyes. No. When I cry, my face scrunches up, my nose runs and my shoulders shake. A wedding guest told me later that she had thought something might be really wrong, like I didn’t want to marry Bill after all. But that wasn’t it. Sitting next to my brand-new husband on the altar, the enormity of the sacrament hit me. I had just promised to live my entire life with this one person—promise so big and so long that the church made the promise into a sacrament. Within the vows I recognized the sub-promises—promises about parenthood, good times, bad times, health and sickness. Within the vows I recognized I had made a promise not just about Bill, but about me and how I would spend my life. Within the vows I heard the whisper that God would be with us in all those times; that God had led us to this moment, and would be in all the moments that would follow. And so I wept—both overwhelmed with the hugeness of what we were undertaking and overwhelmed that God was part of it.

            The word sacrament is defined as a visible sign of God’s grace. I’ve noticed that in the years since our wedding, I cry more easily when either I receive a sacrament or witness someone else receiving one. I don’t really like crying in public, and I wish my tears weren’t so quick to come, but I have come to view my reaction to sacraments as natural. In the presence of God’s grace, I cry. I liken it to my fall allergies. In the presence of ragweed, I sneeze. It’s really not all that different. Both the crying and the sneezing are a physical reaction to something I know is real; something I can feel is real, but something I cannot see.

            Recently, our family went to Reconciliation. As I told the priest my sins, I began to cry. Jamie, who I was holding as I received the sacrament, looked alarmed. “Don’t be afraid of that man,” she said, wrapping her arms more tightly around my neck as we walked back to the pew when I was done.

            I was still wiping away my tears as I sat down next to eleven-year-old Jacob. Jacob has often seen me cry in church and wasn’t too surprised, but he did glance around to see who else was looking.

            “Mom, people are going to think you robbed a bank or something,” he whispered.

             It wasn’t the place to explain to Jacob that I wasn’t crying because my sins were so bad — I really don’t have time for the real glamorous or complicated sins--  but rather because in the moment of Reconciliation, I feel the grace of God. I feel God’s grace as I explain to the priest what I’ve done to separate myself from God, and I feel God’s grace in the absolution that follows. I feel God’s grace in the clean slate.

            I cry at baptisms—both those of our children and those of children of friends and family. Nowhere but baptism would anyone talk to new parents of their child’s eventual death, but baptism takes it on. Baptism reaches past adorable sleepers and ingenious baby gadgets to a place where we are reminded of the inherent dignity of human life. God’s grace in baptism is the affirmation of the child as a profound gift — the child as God’s instrument.

            Thankfully, I don’t cry at every Eucharist, just at select ones. Perhaps if I were truly present to each Eucharist I would cry at each. Often, though, Eucharist is the exact time of Mass that three-year-old Jamie and five-year-old T are drawing to the end of their quiet reserves. The fruit snacks were gobbled during the homily; pictures colored during the petitions; books flipped through during the offertory. By the time of the Eucharistic prayer, I’m just trying to keep the girls quiet and still so that those in the pew behind me can pray. The times I can remember crying at the Eucharist are times I’ve gone to church without the kids. Looking back at those moments, often my tears were tears of thanks — thanks for the strength that the Eucharist provides. And maybe a little bit of thanks to be at church without small children.

            I’ve never been to an ordination, and even though I was seventeen when I was confirmed, I don’t think I quite realized the significance of the sacrament enough to cry. If my children choose to be confirmed, I’ll no doubt cry at theirs, and maybe I’ll try to teach them enough about what they’re receiving to get them to cry as well. Jamie received the anointing of the sick once, and I did cry at that, but that might have been as much worry for her health as it was awe of the sacrament.

            I told a friend once of my embarrassment over all these sacramental tears. She, too, is quick to cry, and I was thinking that perhaps together we could think of a way to stop our public weeping, or at least contain it. But she gently redirected my thoughts.

             “In the face of God, we can’t help but cry,” she said. “Be thankful for your tears. Be thankful that the grace is real. When you stop crying, that’s when you need to wonder what is wrong.”