Forrest Gump Runs Like a Chump

This is a post about running. For a lot of you, or the two of you reading this, I might as well have said this is a post about paint drying or antiplatelet therapy (when you neither need nor have ever heard of antiplatelets). I’ll be Frank and not Shirley: I don’t give a shit what you think. I’ll also tell you I mean that in the most loving way, and that I have a couple of blogs I infrequent. In these distant spaces, I can write about anything I want (e.g., antiplatelet therapy), without worrying about whether my sentences end in prepositions or if I’ve dropped some colossal cliche like it’s hot. (Okay, I still might worry and maybe I do care about what all two of you think. Don’t tell anybody.) 

Anyway, I haven’t blogged in a while, and I realized a big part of the reason for this blog-slacking is my feet hitting the pavement. Quite honestly, I can’t believe it myself. If you’re one of those people who say, “I hate to run” or “Fuck running” or “Runners are a bunch of morons who like to wear tight aquamarine tights and discuss anti-chafing strategies” or maybe something less harsh—the takeaway here is running isn’t your thing—let me say you’re not alone. Let me also say I once uttered (or thought about uttering) things like that, too. I never thought I’d be a runner and definitely not a runner in my 40s. 

Despite the aches and pains, the plantar fasciitis (which thankfully doesn’t require antiplatelet therapy), and yes, the chafing, the god-awful chafing, particularly in my armpits (got you to think about my armpits), running has become something I look forward to. Ha, and there it is, I think I ended a sentence with a preposition, and I will resist the urge to look it up or fix it. Maybe I’ll even start a sentence with a gerund or an and someplace, too. Who knows? I’ve already had two spiked eggnogs. (Just kidding. Eggnog is nasty, regardless of your exercise regimen or penchant for grammar-correctness. People on antiplatelets should also think about avoiding it all costs.) 

Since I mentioned Forrest in the title of this post, I should probably say something about him, and well, running. Because of that one long and boring scene where he runs. A lot. Like across the country. I suppose all I can say about Forrest’s epic foot journey is I used to loathe the idea of running out of doors, anywhere. I’m not sure why other than maybe I just didn’t want people looking at me. Running. Out of doors. Or it sounded like it would hurt. A lot. 

Fast-forward to now and I can hardly stand to run inside. 

In fact, one of the main reasons I’ve taken to running is the act of being outside, to pant the fresh (and sometimes not so fresh) air, free to thumpity-thump like an old lady (#OldLadyRunning) over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house. I’ve heard roosters crowing and cows mooing and the crunching of new snow under foot, I’ve jumped over road kill and potholes and what appeared to be vomit, I’ve shared ridiculous conversations with dear friends and my dog and random deer, I’ve smelled everything from manure to bacon, I’ve been scared by lightning and shoved by gales, I’ve willingly eaten something called gu and downed shots of maple syrup, I’ve grappled with the endings of stories I’ve written and those I haven’t written yet, I’ve doubted my parenting abilities and said “thank you” out loud to that wide expanse above, I’ve sung out of breath and out of tune, I’ve laughed, cried, winced and cursed, I’ve touched and tasted and smelled and felt the world outside. All while running. Yeah, I could’ve done these things while skipping, galloping or segway-ing, but I didn’t, and I guess that’s why running has become something pretty meaningful to me. 

My husband is both relieved and annoyed I’ve been stricken with yogger’s plague. For years, he tried to get me to lace up my sneakers and I always had the perfect reason to scoff at him: “Whatever. I figure all I need is a lobotomy and some tights.” I was an anti-runner, the 0.0 to his 13.1. Then one day, maybe from a friend’s encouragement and camaraderie, maybe from stupid competitiveness (“If that dude in jean shorts and loafers can schlep through a 5K, surely I could stumble and zigzag along.”), maybe because the loss of my father at 62 to heart disease weighs a bit heavier these days, especially with a certain 3-year-old in my life. Whatever the reason, I’m glad I’ve run the miles. (Yes, glad is another word for tickled pink.)  

Don’t get me wrong, I use the term “run” loosely. The goal is to keep my feet moving, and if you’re somebody considering yogging, that’s the best cliche and shred of advice I can give you. Just put one foot in front of the other. Repeat. You’d be surprised how well that mindset works, even if you start by doing it 60 seconds at a time. And yes, there’s some truth to that feeling called “runner’s high.” Going out for a run in the morning has often infused the rest of my day with a beautiful and magical emerald aura (if you believe in that crap). Really though, it has been a great alternative to my stress-reliever standby: alcohol. Not that I’m going to forgo having a cold one anytime soon, but running has become a different way to socialize, engage, experience and decompress ... without the hootch and the possibility of a hangover. 

Bad foot and arthritic knees willing, and with any luck, I’ll keep this kooky habit called running going. If you know me well (not an easy task considering I’m both shy and an introvert), you already know I tend to chokehold things once I decide to hold onto them. So watch for me, honk at me, twerk at me, or better yet, join me. Out there. (Yes, out there. Yes, running.) 

I’ll be the one plodding along in tight aquamarine tights. 

You'll have to just trust me when I say we all enjoy running. 

When I R.I.P.

Death and taxes. Those things are certain. Those things and the eternal shelf-life of Spam and Twinkies. By the way, eating those things alone, or perish the thought, together, will probably cost you. Not in taxes, but in life expectancy. 

Three words of advice (sourced from your standard fireworks warning label): Do. Not. Eat. Ditto for antifreeze. Ditto for that breakfast waffle taco thing-y.  

I promise nobody will serve Twinkies or Spam at my wake. Or breakfast waffle taco thing-ys. Wait. I can’t make any promises, because, well, I’ll be dead, and what the rest of you choose to eat or not eat won’t be my biggest concern. Remember, you’ll still have the freedom to stuff your faces with processed delights to your heart’s dismay. 

I’m not writing you about Twinkies or Spam or Twinkies and Spam or Twinkies/Spam though. I’m writing you about funerals. Specifically, my own. You see, all writers must write about death, directly or indirectly. I’m sixty-three percent sure it’s a rule. I’ve done both, and for the moment, I’m going to just go ahead and hit the nail on the coffin. 

Yes, I still need to fill out an advance directive, but I’m hoping these words will serve as added documentation, in case there are questions or disagreements about my wishes, or maybe they will just help you get through the loss of me in some small way. Not that I’m that narcissistic. The loss of me is no greater than the loss of _____________. I am as extraordinary as any other human being lucky enough to have people care about her. 

If I am also lucky enough to live many more decades, please remind me to peruse this letter again. Opinions have a way of shifting with age, so I might not feel the same at ninety-five and a half as I do today at forty-one. Blessed is the art of revising. 

Amen. 

On the subject of amen, please do say a few prayers at my funeral. Have somebody of religious authority speak a little. I’m fine with reading a few verses from the good book, but to be honest, I’ll have to get back to you on which ones, or if you know me well, maybe you could try to pick out something that speaks to my essence. I do consider myself a spiritual person, I do think there’s power and virtue in faith, but I have never been a huge fan of organized religion. There just seems to be too much judgment in it. 

Regarding reading in general, I’m a fan of it, so read something you love at my funeral. If several people are game for this, be patient. Make the time. You must also read something I love on the subject of death and dying, and that something is, “Tract,” the last essay in the book The Undertaking by Thomas Lynch. If you haven’t read it, I recommend doing so. Here’s a sampling of why:  

“Whatever’s there to feel, feel it—the riddance, the relief, the fright and freedom, the fear of forgetting, the dull ache of your own mortality. Go home in pairs. Warm to the flesh that warms you still. Get with someone you trust with tears, with anger, and wonderment and utter silence. Get that part done—the sooner the better. The only way around these things is through them.” 

Be advised: There are some of Lynch’s words that might seem brutal to you. Maybe brutal isn’t the right word. Raw might be better. Yes, raw. If they make you squeamish, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to read them anyway. All of Lynch’s words from “Tract.” Keep in mind, that’s what Amie Heasley wanted, and although Amie Heasley won’t be available to argue, it would be swell if you didn’t like piss her off, okay?

Wait. I think that’s nostalgia wafting in from the kitchen. I hear music. Old school Ben Folds Five on the iPod. Reminds me of my early twenties. Hashtag carefree. Hashtag bliss.  

Music is another important part of funerals. First and foremost, you have my permission to skip the traditional hymnals. I want something played that actually made me feel, something that made the hairs along my arms stand in ovation. You also have my permission to TURN IT UP. Here are some quick ideas: “Windows Are Rolled Down” by Amos Lee, “Old Before Your Time” by Ray LaMontagne, “Jesus, Etc.” by Wilco, “Murder in The City” by the Avett Brothers. And something loud, like say, from Songs for the Deaf. (Yeah, I’m serious. I like to rawk, too.) I think the band Arcade Fire is pretty fantastic, but I haven’t a clue if any of their songs would work for a funeral. Then again, does it matter if songs “work” for a funeral? If you’re looking for a more obvious song about death, I think Brett Dennen’s “When I Go” would suffice.* 

I could go on, but I’m placing my trust in you. As long as you don’t play mainstream country, I probably won’t haunt you forevermore. Yes, Garth Brooks is mainstream. Three words of advice (sourced from Amie Heasley’s standard warning label): Do. Not. Play. Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson are more than acceptable though. If he’s still alive, please ask my husband for some suggestions. Ditto for my brother, who is an absolute whiz in musicology. 

What else happens at funerals? Oh that’s right. People at funerals say nice things about the deceased. Please say nice things about me, but don’t go overboard. I am not and will likely never be a saint. Think: She’s a regular gal who tried her best to do right. Sometimes, she succeeded, and sometimes, she failed. Okay, she failed a lot, but sometimes, she made people laugh. Okay, she made herself laugh. 

Laughter is the best medicine, so be sure and do some of that at my funeral. I swear I won’t think it’s disrespectful. Really. Don’t just cry for me. Or Argentina for that matter. Laugh with each other. This is also your chance to go right ahead and guffaw at me, not with me. 

Guffaw yourselves all the way to the pub. That’s where I want my wake. Bell’s Brewery, if it’s still around, would be a great place to gather. Don’t fret about things getting a little awkward. There will be no body to view or worry about. (That's no body, not nobody.) Take a decent photo of me along for the ride if it makes you feel better. Don’t forget to order me a Two Hearted. Somebody make a good toast about something I said or did or stood for or cried over or mocked lovingly. Somebody else make a good toast about love and life and still being alive and able to love.    

At some point after the official business of my death is done, gather again. If I haven’t already made some sort of home there, drive my ashes up north. Scatter me at Old Mission Point. If you can bear it, pour a little of me in the water, bury a little of me in the sand and sprinkle a little of me in the woods. Then go for a drive. Yes, more driving. Drive to the village of Empire. Yes, on the other peninsula. Watch the sunset with the locals. After you’ve witnessed the dying sun dip into Lake Michigan, head to Sutton’s Bay to Boone’s Prime Time Pub. I pray that place still stands for you. Sit at the bar and order a cheeseburger. Believe me when I say you won’t regret it. 

Amie & Al Heasley, Old Mission Point

One final note: try not to regret too much, okay? Give of your hearts willingly. Be kind when it practically kills you. Put yourselves way the hell out there in this amazing world of ours, especially if it embarrasses or terrifies you. Divulge what you want in life and in death. 

Now is your chance. Go. For. It. 

*I just realized Brett is a ginger and that this particular song rambles over six minutes. My condolences for the song length, not for the color of Brett’s hair. Because gingers are people, too, and they happen to be awesome. 

#WhenDidIBecomeAnnFrigginLanders?

Keep Calm and Sparty On

Let me introduce you to a C- Basketball Player. This power forward’s nickname was not Buzzer Beater. The best skills I had were defensive. When you picture me on the court way back then (which you probably don’t or won’t), imagine capital d dash white-picket fence. 

Yes, I preferred defense. In fact, I remember my knees shaking and my armpits cascading when my coach put me in to “perform” this set play we had. It was an out-of-bounds play designed to score a three-pointer. We had a great shooting guard who usually performed this play with confidence and grace. I had to take her place for a reason I can’t recall, and when the ball hit my hands, I’m pretty sure I heaved it up into the florescent-bulbed sky with my eyes closed. 

I’m also pretty sure this is the only time I made a three-pointer in my illustrious high school career. 

Maybe this is why I didn’t get that basketball scholarship. Maybe it’s also why I love college basketball so much and why I can’t stand pro ball. Bobby Knight said: “I think that to stop an offense, you must go to the heart of that offense. If it is a particular move, a screen, the break, an outstanding scorer, whatever it is that they like to do and rely on, you have to work in your plans on taking that completely or as much as possible away from them.”

Yeah, yeah, Bobby Knight may have choked a few players and trashed a chair or six, but he’s an analyst now, so it’s getting a smidgen closer to being okay if I say he was right about something, and for the purpose of my point, I’m going to say that something is defense. Choking people is never ever okay, okay?

Defense, at least in college hoops, wins games. It also makes the games a hell of a lot more interesting, ITBLHO (in this brick layer’s humble opinion). Besides defending one’s “goal against the opposition in sports,” defense is defined as the “action of defending from or resisting attack.” And now, my fellow ballers (melon or otherwise), we’re getting somewhere. You didn’t think this was going to be a post about my glory days as a lackluster student athlete, did you? 

Sorry to disappoint. Would it help if I let you polish my track medals and “Unsung Hero” trophy? In truth, I was a Parchment High (Class of ’91) B'nai B'rith scholar-athlete. But this post isn’t about bragging rights or Judaism either. 

I̶t̶’̶s̶ ̶a̶b̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶v̶e̶n̶t̶r̶i̶c̶u̶l̶a̶r̶ ̶t̶a̶c̶h̶y̶c̶a̶r̶d̶i̶a̶. It’s about defense. 

More specifically, defending oneself from attacks, and hopefully, resisting the urge to retaliate or: fight back, hit back, respond, react, reply, reciprocate, counterattack, return like for like, get back at someone, give tit for tat, take reprisals, get even, get one's own back, pay someone back, give someone a taste of their own medicine; have/get/take one's revenge, be revenged, avenge oneself. 

If I resist the urge to tit for tat just once, I will consider it a lowercase v-i-c-t-o-r-y. You see, the Madness is about to begin and Mr. March (aka Tom Izzo, aka The Greatest Ever) has taken my beloved Spartans to yet another dance. Spartan Nation will be rooting and sweating right alongside me, and the fans of the Maize and Blue will be wishing for our team’s early downfall. Michigan fans, don’t lie to yourself. You do not root for Michigan State in the event your team loses, just as I don’t root for Michigan if Michigan State loses. We are rivals, and I’d argue that Michigan State has recently become a bigger rival to U of M than those silly folks who wear crimson and what looks like strings of animal turds around their necks. 

(And for the record, Sparty is the name of our mascot. We are The Spartans, not “The Spartys,” just as you are The Wolverines, not “The Wolvies.”) 

This is already beginning to sound pathetic. It’s pathetic to waste time and energy and good clean rage on the rival of one’s alma mater. Since having a child, I’ve begun to think about this wasted time and energy and good clean rage a bit more seriously. Methinks I've become a wee bit defensive and might take this shit too seriously. (I’m giving myself permission to use too many adverbs in this blog, even the same one twice, in consecutive sentences. The. Horror.) 

To give those of you who care nothing of sports some perspective, I think the taking of the shit too seriously began in earnest after, not before, I graduated. When I attended MSU, I didn’t pay that much attention to my team(s). Sure, I went to games ‘n such, but I was busy learning stuff and making new friends and saving the world and eating pizza and wearing Doc Martens with cutoffs and eating pizza and mourning the death of Kurt Cobain and eating pizza and navigating upside-down kamikazes. (Before you insinuate my school is just a party school, I would like to point out that I partook in and witnessed plenty of said partying at the school located in the delightful city of Ann Arbor. Yes, I really do think Ann Arbor is a delightful city.) 

So why did I start caring more instead of less? 

I started caring more because I happen to be proud of my education. I was raised by a single mother (and grandmother) who did everything in her power to ensure I went to college so I could take care of my own damn self as an adult woman. If I one day had a husband and he left like my mom’s did, I could support myself. Smart guidance from a woman who’s a ton smarter than she believes. 

Michigan State University is not an inferior institution and I got very tired of people—sorry, but I’m going to wave my bony finger at Michigan fans in particular—insinuating I was somehow inferior for going there. The insults began to sting and irritate on a too-personal level. Add to that that a lot of the insults came form people with zero affiliation with U of M (other than their great-great Aunt Shirley could have gone there if it weren’t for her bursitis). Add to that that our sports teams began winning more. A lot more. They beat Michigan in both basketball and football more often, and it felt, well, a little like sweet, sweet redemption. 

Michigan State was no longer little brother. (And I just used “that” seventy-five times in that last paragraph. Reminder: This is a blog. It is only a blog and you should consult your doctor if you want a more reliable source regarding ventricular tachycardia.) 

Michigan State University is no longer little brother. There, I typed it and chanted it out loud. 

It shouldn’t matter what anybody says to me about where I went to school. As it turns out, I’m doing just fine. More than just fine. Nobody can take the pride I have in my education away from me or the nostalgia I have for everything that is MSU.  

I have been blessed with a great life and an amazing little girl who I hope will one day go to college. Sure, I’ll dress her in green and white, and teach her to say, “Go Green!” But parents, we should all remember one chilling reality: Our Kids Are Not Us. Ava might go to another college. She might even (gasp) aspire to be a Wolvie. Or maybe (gasp) Ava will decide college isn’t for her after all. 

In the end, I want what most parents want. I want my child to be happy, healthy and well-adjusted. I want her to work hard and follow her bliss. I want her to fall in love. I want her to accept and learn from her failures. I want her to be respectful and generous and kind. I want her to be somebody who can have a copacetic relationship with people who might not share her favorite sports teams or political views or fear of lima beans or theory of relativity. 

I want her to be a fan, not a fanatic. I want her (and gasp, her mother) to spend more of her time defending things that really matter.

Methinks this Spartan selfie needs some work. 

Dear Dad

Grief defined by the dictionary: 

1. obsolete: grievance

2. a: deep and poignant distress caused by or as if by bereavement  b: a cause of such suffering

3. a: an unfortunate outcome: disaster—used chiefly in the phrase come to grief  b: mishap, misadventure c: trouble, annoyance d: annoying or playful criticism

Grief defined by the daughter (aka me):

1. Not standing next to my father’s hospital bed.

2. Not saying, “I’m here” or “Goodbye.” 

3. Not witnessing his death with my eyes, my hands, my heart. 

Six years ago tomorrow I lost the father I never fully knew. One can argue that none of us can fully know anyone other than ourselves, and even that’s subject to debate. Still, it’s strange to miss somebody so much who disappointed you in many ways growing up, who in many ways was a stranger to you. 

Perhaps it’s a step or six stranger to speak as a stranger (to most in the room) at your own father’s funeral. I’m not one to draw attention to myself, I’m a true-blue introvert who works out of her home, and for the most part, relishes the solitude. I write because it helps me find peace, it helps me explore people, places and ideas, and it helps me locate the voice that often has trouble uttering so much as a whisper. 

You’ve probably guessed by now that public speaking is not something I take much joy in doing even in the hap-hap-happiest of celebrations. To get through it, I usually have to first write and second read. While I wish I could be Johnny On The Spot, I am Amie On The Computer Agonizing Over What to Type and Then Panicking Over What The Typed Words Will Sound Like Spilling Forth From My Lipstick-Free Lips. (Interesting tidbit that has nothing to do with funerals or public speaking: Wikipedia notes that ancient Mesopotamian women were possibly the first women to invent and wear lipstick. I like how it looks on others, but I just can’t wear the stuff without feeling like a clown. See: “I’m not one to draw attention to myself” above.) 

Ah well, what is life for if not to scare the living shit out of oneself as much as possible (or at least once in a good damn while)? I don’t recall if I attempted to wear lipstick that day, but I do remember shaking as I took to the “stage.” I shook out of fear and out of grief for the fact that I’d lost my dad and that my side of the family seemed like a cluster of outsiders at his funeral. 

Thank God for external hard drives because once upon a time I crashed and burned the computer that contained the letter I wrote, and yes, read aloud: 

Dear Dad, 

I speak for myself, as well as my brother and our entire family, when I say that I feel as if I’m collapsing from the inside out, like one of those casinos in Las Vegas you see on TV, imploding into clouds of dust. 

Or like those cups I’ve seen kids stack into pyramids. Their hands move with such speed and precision, building up and tearing down those cups in a dizzying blur. It’s the tearing down part that makes me think of you. Before they’re rebuilt, those cups have collapsed into a single cup.  

I guess I believe that we—and I mean everyone in this very room—are that single cup. We look to your spirit and our own personal faiths to compel us to rebuild the unimaginable: a world without you. 

Our life together had its ups and downs, but I hope you know how much I always wanted to focus on the ups, how much you meant to me. How much I loved you with my whole heart, even though I may have only shown you half or a quarter of that heart, the heart of your daughter. 

You were an expert in the auto business and an expert at making the people around you laugh. I will always remember how loud you used to clap in the car, overcome with the pumping music. As a young girl, I thought that your thunderous clapping was like Paul Bunyan bringing his palms together. My brother and I would cover our ears and laugh. We’d laugh, the three of us. 

Laughter is an extraordinary gift. It has the power to drive us through even the toughest of days and circumstances. Through our heartache, I hope that each of us can find a few precious moments to laugh, or at the very least, smile at the amazing and lasting memories that you alone—a father, a husband, a friend, a grandfather, an admired and talented businessman—allowed us to create.  

And I hope that wherever you are, you are smiling and laughing, too. You gave us your best and deserve nothing but the best in return.

We love you, now and forever.

Amie

I know this letter isn’t going to win any widespread acclaim or awards. As a writer, I’m always looking for improvement, for a better, more authentic way to turn a phrase. I think that’s what makes blogging so great though, the freedom to just put it out there, constructive criticism (or just plain criticism) be damned. Blogs, funerals, and the freedom to love or loathe the Oxford comma, right? In the end, who really cares if people judge you? I have so many regrets regarding the limited relationship I had with my dad, but one thing I don’t regret is reading the letter I wrote in front of that room of mostly strangers. 

I bought my last car, a German sedan in mid-life-crisis red, from my father six months before he died. He moved out of state when I was 12-years-old. He moved back when I was 32-years-old. This may seem immaterial, but I think dad was proudest of me at that very moment, when my husband and I signed the papers and drove off the lot in something he alone had guided and encouraged us to buy. The man who had worked in the auto business for 39 years had finally sold his daughter a brand new car. (Note: This is the license plate from that car.) 

The Mother of All Guilt

To All The Muthers Out There (You Know What, You Non-Muthers Chime in, Too, Because I Could Use All The Help I Can Get. It Takes a Village, Blah, Blah, Blah):

I never used to be a particularly anxious person. Holy mole-y (mole-y, mole-y, mole-y) has that changed. Don’t get me wrong. There have been plenty of joys since the arrival of our sweet Ava, but the worry and guilt have made me break out in hives. I’m not kidding. I’m pretty sure I’m just getting over my second batch of hives. Okay, I’m not an MD or a PhD, so maybe it’s some other kind of rash that definitely does not involve meth use, but nevertheless, it itches like a son of a bitch. I’ve gone to many stupid lengths to relieve this itching. I’ve even spread Desitin on my chest and shoulders, and if you know anything about that white pasty shit, you know it stinks like, well, white pasty shit.

Could motherhood* be the mother of all guilt? I don’t know if it’s because I became a mother later in life (aka on the doorstep of 40) or if it’s because Ava is adopted or if it’s because I haven’t slept much in the last six weeks or if it’s because I fucked up my first attempt at roasting pumpkin seeds because you’re supposed to do things like roast goddamned pumpkin seeds when you have a child or if the constant questioning and handwringing are just par for the course and I better get used to shooting bogeys. (Alright, that metaphor doesn’t make sense. Plus, I don’t golf, but a good portion of my family does, so that last bit is for you, good portion of my family who golfs.) You beginning to think I could use some therapy yet?

Ding-ding. 

I think most of us could use some therapy, and again, I’ve never felt like the cliched image of me draped on a couch talking to somebody with wire-rimmed glasses about my childhood traumas was something I needed, but here I am. I am the woman who isn’t sleeping, breaking out in hives and crying during Young & The Restless (in my defense, they “killed” a little kid on that show a couple weeks ago). Shit, I just admitted I sometimes watch daytime TV. Fuck, I also admitted I slathered myself in Desitin. (You’ll be happy to know I’ve since upgraded to Cortizone 10. It complements the Colace in my Old Lady Medicine Chest.)

Is Ava eating too much processed food? Should Ava be watching Sesame Street or Sports Center? Why does Ava still have that cough? Does Ava have ADHD? How am I going to talk to Ava about her adoption? How am I going to talk to Ava about race? Is Ava too obsessed with my iPad and my iPhone? Why the hell have I encouraged Ava, my 2-year-old, to play with my iPad and my iPhone? Why won’t Ava just fake brushing her own teeth to make me happy? Will Ava’s hair fall out if I don’t braid it? Is Ava going to feel abandoned? When should we start potty training with Ava and how do we go about facilitating said potty training (e.g., throw a potty party, reward with M & Ms [which I'm pretty sure are the #2 choking hazard], allow her to run around naked and squat for the weekend)? Should I let Ava get messy more? Am I letting Ava get too messy? Should I have dressed Ava up in a better Halloween costume than a ketchup packet I bought on Amazon? Will Ava’s birthmother come looking for her one day? Will Ava seek her birthmother one day? Are Pop-Tarts a decent source of fiber for Ava? 

Okay, so this is a slight exaggeration, but a lot of these questions are real questions I really question myself about.  In the end, this post may be a sad excuse to vent or whine or appeal for sympathy or wish for a trendier anything. Then again, I think that sums up many blogs out there in that beautiful, flawed mother we call the world wide web. 

For now, if you’ve got any sage advice re: assuaging (or living with) momma guilt, please feel free to share it. Just don’t sprinkle in any rosemary. Because, according to my husband, rosemary OVERWHELMS everything. And being OVERWHELMED by bread is the last thing this mother needs. 

*Dads: please don’t get your silky briefs [or insert hipper undies here] in a bunch. Let’s just say that when I say motherhood, I mean fatherhood, or wait, parenthood. Yeah, parenthood. PC enough for you?

Say Cheese and Carry On. 

The Sum of All That’s Beautiful

Let me open with an apology. First, to birthmothers, for presuming. Second, to readers, for withholding. I’m sorry if protecting their identities makes Birthmother A and Birthmother B seem inconsequential. As sterile it sounds, I assure you—these two women hold extraordinary meaning. 

The day we met Birthmother A, we brought her flowers, a bouquet of daisies (and wasn’t there some alstromeria?), and she told us she was having a girl, what I’d always wanted to have. At the agency, in a cramped room painted baby blue, we stayed on “safe” topics. We made eye contact. We made smalltalk. The social worker suggested we take Birthmother A to lunch, for a little more space. I chewed two or three bites from a dry club on wheat. Birthmother A ate breakfast. Pancakes? I know for certain she had a notepad with a list of questions. She asked us if we had much experience with kids. She asked how many years we’d tried to get pregnant. She did not ask for the bag of homemade muffins my husband bought for her as a special treat on our way out, but she did ask how we planned to get her back on her feet after the baby. 

It isn’t uncommon to provide compensation for birthmothers, to help them with food, shelter and medical bills until the baby arrives. This compensation was and is reasonable, and yet, the question still curdled. We told the social worker that when we were alone, Birthmother A had asked us about money. Was this standard operating procedure? The social worker said it was unusual for a birthmother to be so direct, but added it was nothing to worry about, so we buried the question beneath the anticipation of our little girl. 

After an ultrasound appointment, Birthmother A’s question resurfaced. Instead of pancakes, she ordered a hot turkey sandwich on white bread with gravy from a can. I remember that gravy, a synthetic shade of yellow-brown, but what was the color of her maternity top? Birthmother A kept touching her belly while her friend, the one she rented a room from, the one she insisted wasn’t the father, did the asking. He asked how we planned to get her back on her feet after the baby. 

The aunt of the friend of Birthmother A had a car. Nothing new. Nothing fancy. He didn’t mention the make or model, but said she’d sell it for three grand. No need to tell the agency, he said, and Birthmother A nodded. He promised they wouldn’t say anything. Whatever gifts we provided would stay between us and the walls of Russ’, a family restaurant since 1934. 

When we paid the tab and left, I assumed terrible, probably false assumptions. I assumed our certified preowned BMW had made Birthmother A and her friend see green. I assumed that Birthmother A didn’t have an abusive husband, that her five other children didn’t exist, that her friend was some kind of pimp, that she invited us to go to the ultrasound before Russ’ on purpose, that for her, the adoption was just a transaction. 

We cut the relationship with Birthmother A not long after Russ’. Trust, a tightrope in even the most straightforward of adoptions, had severed. 

I cannot fully comprehend the struggle of contemplating giving up a child, just as those who readily conceive cannot fully comprehend the struggle of those who can’t make the stick turn blue. “Unless you’ve walked in a birthmother’s shoes...” Adoptive parents are taught this from the onset, they’re encouraged to reserve judgment, to respect the birthmother’s (and in rare cases, the birthfather’s) boundaries and wishes. I’m ashamed of judging Birthmother A, but I did not, and do not, regret parting ways. The regret came with owning our abandonment of her unborn child, our little girl. 

The breakup felt like another failure, only we played a starring role in the loss. My husband and I chose to end the relationship, and therefore, terminate the pregnancy. Our family and friends supported our decision, but the thoughts of abandonment lingered. Birthmother A had confided she had five kids in foster care. What would happen to the baby she hoped we’d name for the flower of innocence? 

It isn’t likely we’ll ever know what happened to Lily, if that’s even her name. Birthmother A, who refused to disclose critical details of her life, ceased all communication with our agency. She may have kept Lily. She may have contacted another adoption agency. She may have sold the baby, if selling a baby is something that actually happens outside of made-for-TV movies. 

I ached for Lily over the days and weeks that followed. Strange to ache for a baby, since for me, infants had once been akin to aliens. In my twenties, the batteries of my biological clock stayed hidden in a drawer jammed with impractical lingerie. I had work to do, grad school to finish, love with my best friend to nurture. I had plenty of blessings and what I assumed (that word again) was the blessing of time—many years left to procreate. In my early thirties, I finally quit the pill. I figured, like my friends around that age figured, I’d be expecting in six months, a year, two years tops.  

Three years went by with no new arrivals. By thirty-four, we “tried” in earnest, with the aid of ovulation detectors and Clomid, and handy advice about stressing less and relaxing more. My husband wore boxers. I wore a pillow under my hips after sex. Elevation, after all, could lead to success! 

The trend of no baby continued. Then a particularly painful period resulted in the particularly painful diagnosis of endometriosis, a health condition that’s hard to spell, harder to pronounce and hardest to endure. Endometriosis can cause infertility, but its cause is unknown. The treatment can include surgery to remove any scar tissue and cysts, and to improve the likelihood of pregnancy. 

During my surgery, I have a cyst about the size of a grapefruit removed. I also lose my left ovary. Six days later, my father dies of an irregular heartbeat in an ER about an hour away from where I live. On the seventh day, when I’m breaking the news of his death to my side of family, it hits me: if I ever have any children, I will never get to introduce them to their maternal grandfather. They will never meet. 

The loss of a key part of my reproductive system is followed by the loss of my father is followed by the loss of my paternal grandmother is followed by the loss of our Labrador Retriever is followed by the loss of a pregnancy born of IVF is followed by the loss of trust in Birthmother A is followed by the loss of Lily. Another three years had gone by with the arrival of new, unprecedented grief.  

I lose weight. I lose sleep. I lose way too many tears, way too often in public places. I begin to lose faith in the idea of being a mother. 

On our mantel sits a frame that holds the Dalai Lama’s words: “Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.” Armed with skepticism, I placed it there at the beginning of our adoption journey. Despite our lack of closure with Birthmother A and the surrender of Lily, I leave the Dalai Lama’s words in their rightful place.  

Five months later a different baby is born. A healthy delivery. A Safe Delivery. A different, single question is asked. Yes? Or no? We’re given a handful of hours to decide if she’ll be ours and we’ll be hers. We decide. We tell our parents. We make a frenzied visit to Babies “R” Us for car seats and crib sheets and diapers and bottles and the ingenious innovation known as a onesie. Less than twenty-four hours later we drive to a hospital on the east side of the state. 

We did not bring her flowers. We did not take her to lunch. We did not buy her muffins or a car. We neither met her nor assumed anything about her.

We gave Birthmother B nothing and Birthmother B gave us everything. 

It's funny how regret can beget incredible opportunity. Without Birthmother A, we wouldn’t have found Birthmother B, or rather, she wouldn’t have found us. Birthmother A plus Birthmother B equals our wonderful stroke of luck. Some might call it shitty math, but for us, our one and only Ava is the sum of all that’s beautiful and buoyant. 

PS. Dear Ava, your mom struggles when writing nonfiction because she fears sounding like a sentimental sappity-sap. But she has no words to describe how thankful she is for your arrival in her life. She loves you and is the luckiest.