Monday, August 27, 2012

YOU'LL SEE ...






Many, many, many moons ago… in the ancient days… B.C. (Before Children) we knew a young couple who had a baby. We had hung out with them before and found them to be interesting, intelligent and fun people.

Our first Post-Baby dinner party was revelatory. Now, I’m a “kid person” to say the least, and am particularly crazy about babies. At this point in time, I was a daycare teacher. Suffice it to say, I considered myself very child-friendly.

But even I can acknowledge that infants, apart from their considerable aesthetic appeal, are somewhat dull in the first few months.

However, our once interesting friends seemed oblivious to this fact. We spent the entire evening looking at the baby, browsing through endless pictures of the baby (and btw, new parents, changing the hat/hairdo/barrette on the exact same angle does not actually make for a new “look”), talking about the baby and generally admiring every little thing the baby did.

But the highest praise of the night was reserved for the earthshaking gas passed by the tiny child. He was lauded for his valiant contribution to the evening. Our hosts proceeded to share with us about his ongoing struggle with constipation, quite exhaustively.

Dessert, drinks and details about baby’s latest and greatest poops. Consistency, frequency, colour… nothing was sacred. I could see Glen turning green as they enthusiastically discussed the benefits of suppositories. Finally, we were given a real life demo, as a particularly rank diaper was changed right there on the floor in front of us, as we ate our dessert.

As their front door closed behind us that night, we had one of those symbiotic marital moments. Turning to look in each others’ eyes, we said in unison, “that will NEVER be us.”
Repeatedly they told us, YOU’LL SEE… Someday, when you have kids, YOU’LL SEE.
It’s something we hear all the time:

…when you meet that special someone, YOU’LL SEE.

…when you’re married, YOU’LL SEE.

…when you get your own place, YOU’LL SEE.

…when you get to high school, YOU’LL SEE.

Because certain kinds of education only experience can provide. Because part of us can’t believe we will ever change like that, feel like that, or act like that. Because life alters us in ways we don’t expect, no matter how many times we are told to expect it.

Sure enough, one day a few years later, Glen walked through our front door, looked over at me and said “Well?” and I immediately knew he was asking if our baby had had a good poop that day. We try not to discuss it with non-parents or over chocolate ice cream, but poop is now a common topic of discussion. Because constipation is a big deal for a baby. Because parental love trumps gross factor. Because living it is vastly different from hearing about it.

This week, we are experiencing a lot of those as adoptive parents. Things we were told to expect, things we had read about, things we knew, but didn’t understand until now, as we are living it.

For instance:
  • Boys are different. Not a universal truth, but in our family the stereotype fits. We’ve never experienced the constant desire to wrestle, the risk taking, the climbing on everything in sight, the tough guy who bounces back immediately from all but the most serious injuries…
  • People don’t really understand adoption. And who can blame them; it is full of strange paradoxes. It is completely different from giving birth. It is the same as bringing home any of my children. This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. This is one of the best things I’ve ever done. My experience as a parent has prepared me. My inexperience in parenting THIS child leaves me feeling unprepared.
  • Adoptive parents feel isolated. Some of the people you expect support and encouragement from do not “get it,” and often adoption is treated as “less” than giving birth. Which would probably seem like a mild disappointment, if we weren’t so tired and overwhelmed.
  • Rejection is hard to take. Whether learning to build attachment for the first time, or transferring from the old caregiver, this is a difficult time, and quite often during toddler adoption, one parent is “rejected” in favour of the other (usually Mom). I had read about this. I had heard of it from friends. But I was sure that my Mommy-love was strong enough and rational enough to take it on the chin, and look beyond it to the big picture. And it usually is. Except when it’s not. Those rejections are fewer and farther between these days, but they still prick.
  • Toddlers grieve. We have seen flashes of it this week – the yearning, the sadness, the frustration… it passes quickly, but it is heartbreaking.
  • Adoption draws our family together. We are closer than ever. Even with the grumpy times and the crazy times, our family time has been closer, more fun and more meaningful than ever. We’re being stretched, but we’re pretty short, so we could use the growth.

So here’s me, and if you’ve ever wondered about adoption I can tell you all about it, but most of it… YOU’LL SEE.


CHRISTIE HOOS

Monday, August 20, 2012

NOTHING HURTS LIKE FAMILY


Writing is a funny thing. There are times when it bubbles up pure and fresh, almost effortless. It feels like magic, and the blank page fills with words. A gift, not for readers, but for myself.



There are other times when I squeeze it out, a few recycled words. Predictable. Mundane. And I dress them up with a garnish and a little paper umbrella, pretending that no one was really thirsty after all.

I sat down to write about our family holiday. Something sweet and palatable about lazy beach days and toasting s’mores in the flickering firelight. We had a wonderful vacation! Idyllic moments punctuated by the exhaustion and chaos of our newly expanded family. The past few weeks we have connected with cousins and siblings and parents. We have laughed and reminisced and made several more “remember when” stories for the dinner table.

But no amount of garnish can dress up the bad writing I’ve produced on the topic. I can’t make it work. It’s a cheesy tourism brochure.

The truth is, I am consumed by the turmoil of family politics. Somehow it seems to overshadow all of the Norman Rockwell we’ve experienced. Like the fog that rolled in on our last day at the beach house, obscuring the spectacular view we had already begun to take for granted.

So this post is not what I intended. It is messy and vague and somewhat depressing. But honest.

Nothing hurts like family.



I write this with the sad comfort that I am not singling out any family member or particular conflict. On every side of both our families is a complex web of hurt feelings and disrespect and misunderstanding. I’m beginning to think it is normal, though it feels very unnatural. Most of the time we sit on the periphery and try our best to play peace-maker. But we’ve played a few rounds ourselves lately.

You don’t need the details to know the story. Over and over again in a thousand little ways and in the big ones too: nothing hurts like family.

Normally, I prefer the irritation and necessary pain of honest interaction. My advice to others almost always involves gentle confrontation. It’s not fair to be angry with someone and not tell them. Words. Words. Words.

Yet in reality they aren’t the magic fix I imagine. Some things are more complicated than diplomacy and amateur psychology can address. And let’s face it, the walking wounded make terrible diplomats. In my own life it is absurdly easy to settle for a thin veneer of civility atop a bubbling cesspool of resentment. I hate to admit that. It makes me a terrible hypocrite.

My husband reminds me to let things go, to be kind and forgiving, to do good, even when others don’t. Even when others don’t notice, which is the most annoying of all. For him, the relationship is more important than the fight. He is the master of conflict avoidance. But sometimes this peace feels like a lumpy rug. Eventually we’re bound to trip on all that skillfully concealed debris.

So we vacillate between conflict and cover-up. And I don’t know which is better. And I don’t have any more answers. And I don’t know what to do next.

But I love my family. All of them. Even the ones who hurt me. Even the ones whom I’ve hurt.

I don’t have a great insight about this subject, not yet. No pithy conclusion. No 10 simple steps to fix what ails us. Just a prayer for wisdom and hope that my words, and actions, and inactions will make things better, not worse.

So here’s me, trying to figure out how we imperfect jerks can love each better.


CHRISTIE HOOS

Monday, August 6, 2012

THE EVOLUTION OF SEXY




Tonight I find my husband particularly sexy.

He pulled a giant hairball out of my drain yesterday. And no, that is not a euphemism.
That’s just the kind of thing that does it for me.

It got me thinking about the origin of sex appeal. And the movie Magic Mike which was just released in theaters. The trials and tribulations of a male stripper has been cheerfully labelled “Mommy Porn.” It is meant to appeal to women of all ages. Finally, some eye candy for the ladies! But I don’t get it. Not really.

If grown women are going to drool over Channing Tatum, I think his character Leo, in the Vow, would be a better bet. The funny, long-suffering husband who loves fiercely and sweetly. That’s a whole lot sexier than smarmy bump and grind with strangers who paid for you.

I think most of us mature past pointless eye candy. Hopefully. As women, we need more.

Sure, I’ve been known to ogle my man. He has rugged, masculine good looks, deep blue eyes and other physical attributes I will detail for him privately (after all, both our moms read this blog and it will remain PG). Suffice it to say, I think he looks sexy.

But this alone isn’t what has made him irresistible to me after more than 20 years together. He is more than just an attractive physical specimen.

He has snot trails on the shoulders of his black t-shirt. He has a soother and a matchbox car in his pocket. He has a strange clay sculpture on his desk and rainbow scribbles on the wall of his office. He has a sparkly bow in his hair to “make him pitty.” He loves our children without reservation. And THAT is sexy!

He makes me howl loudly – with laughter. He tries to seduce me with lyrics from the Wiggles (I’m Robot number One, flip the switch to turn me on…), and it usually works. He knows all the inside jokes and can deliver a punch line with a single look. And THAT is sexy!

He has perfected his Attentive Listener Face, and is able to contemplate changes to his hockey pool line up while simultaneously allowing me to vent about our latest potty training debacle. He navigates messy family politics and is always on my team, if not always in agreement. He sticks it out to fight through the issues, big and small, though his every instinct screams at him to flee conflict at all costs. He endures hormonal tirades and diffuses teary, self loathing recriminations. And THAT is sexy!

Sexy is strong enough to be gentle.

Sexy is secure enough to respect a woman and want her to succeed.

Sexy is selfless and loves through better and through worse.

So flex and pose all you want, Hollywood. But I’m a grown woman and there is more to sexy than that.

So here’s me, married 17 years today to the cute boy who sat next to me in Social Studies. He gets sexier every year!

CHRISTIE HOOS