The Adoption Option

I recently flew to Ontario to visit my brother and his family.  The reason for this trip was to participate in a celebration welcoming their newly adopted, 12-year-old daughter into the family.

My brother and his wife already have two teenage sons of their own.  Now, through the lengthy and careful process of adoption, and nothing short of a few miracles, they have a daughter to cherish as well.

I have watched friends go through the process of adopting a new baby.  First the application, then the excruciating waiting, then the excitement of the phone call, then the disappointment of the mother’s change of heart.  After several attempts, they finally received a baby to love and call their own.

These friends weren’t the only ones going through this process.  In fact, there seems to be more couples hoping to adopt a baby than there are babies being placed for adoption.  It makes me wonder why adoption isn’t considered more seriously by teenage girls and any woman who finds herself pregnant and unable to provide a long-term, stable, and loving home for the child.

When some of the alternatives – abortion, poverty, neglect, abuse – are measured, adoption is a beautiful option.  I can think of few things less selfish than a mother putting her child’s needs above her own emotions.

Since it’s easier to find homes for brand new babies than older children, upon discovery of an unplanned pregnancy the adoption option should be weighed immediately as one of two choices:  Keep the baby and provide a loving home, or allow the baby to be adopted and raised in another loving home.

As I saw the joy on the faces of my newest niece and her new family, I felt gratitude for both the foster mother who loved this child for five years and the biological mother who had the courage to say good-bye.

The Greatest Love

I wasn’t planning to write another “Valentine” article, but the passing of Whitney Houston inspired me to do so.  She was one of the few artists whose music I could enjoy song after song.

The Greatest Love of All was my favourite.  She sang it beautifully and, while I believe “the greatest love of all” should actually be one’s love for God, not for oneself, learning to love ourselves is still a message worthy of attention.

One Valentine’s Day when I didn’t have a boyfriend, I bought myself a dozen roses.  Some of my friends said this was weird, but others agreed it was a great idea.  I thought it was perfectly normal to show love for myself by doing something that made me feel good.  I love flowers and I didn’t think I should have to wait for someone else to buy them for me.

Sometimes self love gets wound up in our promotions, our looks, our possessions, our friends, and our abilities.  We define our worth by our successes and failures – how our children behave, whether we were able to lose ten pounds, how many friends we have on Facebook, or whether we made partner by the time we were thirty.

Love of self can be a tricky thing.  While it should motivate us to want to be better, to look good, to develop talents, to aim for success, it shouldn’t be measured by those things.  It’s how we feel deep down, when we’re alone, and even if the career, money, possessions, and beauty were to disappear.

Our self relationships can be improved with effort.  Smiling when we pass a mirror no matter what our hair looks like, telling ourselves we’re terrific even on a hard day, buying flowers if we want them, and remembering to look upward as well as inward.

Those Three Little Words

I grew up in a family that didn’t say “I love you” very often.  In fact, it seemed to be a difficult thing for us to say.  Right before bedtime I occasionally mustered the courage to say it then I would quickly slip away to my room where I could hide my tears.

Now that I’m married with children, it’s easy to say “I love you” and wonderful to hear it in return.  But is saying it enough?

When I was growing up, I never doubted that my family loved me because we found other ways to show our love instead of saying it, like spending lots of time together both working and playing, and treating each other with respect.

If saying “I love you” is hard, there are other fun ways to express those three little words:  writing in steam on the bathroom mirror, a note tucked into a lunch box, or coloured paper hearts scattered on a favourite chair or pillow are just a few ideas.

My brother-in-law enjoys those little red cinnamon heart candies so my sister hides them throughout his personal belongings.  She wrote a poem telling him that whenever he finds one, he is to remember that she loves him.

Besides “I love you”, there are other three-word combinations that are nice to hear often:  “Thanks for dinner”, “Let me help”, or “I am sorry”.

What woman doesn’t like to hear “You look beautiful”, “Let’s eat out”, or “You are right”?  Men might rather hear “You’re so strong”, “Let’s make out”, or “Here’s the remote”.  Hey, whatever works!

As some fridge magnets remind us, “Love Is a Verb” because it is expressed and affected by the things we say and do.  To keep love alive and healthy, it needs to be fed and nurtured.  Using those three little words regularly is a good start.

A Man's Heart

I have a baby boy.  He’s eight months old and a delightful little fellow.  He’s taught me a lot about masculine behaviour:

a)  Communicate only when the television, computer, or other bright lights aren’t around to distract him;

b)  Cave time to chill in his crib is appreciated; and,

c)  Anything with wheels is awesome.

The most significant thing he has taught me is that if his tummy is empty, nothing else matters.  I don’t remember my daughters lunging – with mouths wide open – for daddy’s hamburger or mommy’s sandwich.  The only time I’ve seen him cry in anger with red face and clenched fists was when he couldn’t reach a piece of food on his tray.

He has a voracious appetite.  By the time I get the spoon back into the bowl, his mouth is open for another bite.  I can’t fill it fast enough.  But once he’s full, he’s content and all smiles, happily playing and rolling around the floor.

Kind of like my husband.  Not the rolling so much, but when he gets home for lunch, let’s just say I don’t ask him how his morning was until after he’s had some food.

All the men in my life enjoy eating.  My wiry, little Dad jokes that he’s on a “See Food” diet.  He used to sneak away to lick his plate where the rest of us couldn’t see his bad manners.  When my brother was a teenager, he would take apples (from our orchard) to eat while reading in bed.  My Mom counted twenty apple cores one morning.

At family reunions, the men say, “It doesn’t matter what we eat, as long as there’s enough of it.”  I think my son is carrying on this tradition.

Why am I telling you this?  Because, ladies, Valentine’s Day is just around the corner and that old saying appears to be true:  “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

Confessions of a Together Woman

When I delivered a plate of goodies to a neighbour at Christmastime, she told me that I was “so together”.  From one woman to another, this is considered a great compliment.

The woman who paid me this compliment was the same neighbour who probably saw me through my kitchen window in the morning with my curls askew, chasing my toddler (who can run faster than me) down the sidewalk, bending over in my garden (shudder), or yelling at my older children to get their helmets ON or their bikes OFF the road—none of which, I assure you, were done in a dignified manner.

Yet, since I brought her goodies, suddenly I was “together”.  How kind, I thought.  How forgiving.

Let me tell you something about this “together” woman.  She keeps Kraft dinner and frozen pizza on hand for when she doesn’t feel like cooking.  Sometimes she gets busy and forgets to get dressed in the morning.  Occasionally she lets her children watch several kids’ movies consecutively so that she can have some quiet time.  And if you were to remove her couch cushions, you might be surprised.

Now my neighbour, she is one together woman.  Perfectly groomed, her house and yard impeccable, her kids equally clean and combed, wearing the latest fashions and enrolled in all sorts of sports and lessons.  How does she do it?  Or does she?  Could it be that there are crumbs under her cushions and macaroni in her cupboards too?

For me, being “together” means that I occasionally luck out and manage to be organized enough to appear competent for a few minutes.

It’s a nice thought, this being a “together” woman.  Maybe somebody somewhere someday will manage to accomplish it.

In the meantime, I hope that I am “together” enough to take good care of my family, reach out to those in need, and have a clear conscience at the end of the day.