Category: adoption

rainy day in october…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay

This morning I sat in my yard crying, out in the rain.

Several weeks before this weeping crumble, my husband and I returned from vacation to learn one of the stray cats who hangs out near our yard had given birth to two kittens. By this point, the kittens, though adorably dependent on their mama still, seemed to be coming into their own. We were shocked. We hadn’t even known she’d been pregnant.

To tell you the truth, we had actually thought she was a he, a he whom we have aptly called Arthur for nearly two years.

Once we realized our mistake, Arthur became Bea Arthur, and we both became smitten with Bea’s adorable babies…

There was a bit of drama not long after, when we learned the babies had been trapped in a neighbor’s garage for three days. We rescued them and everything seemed great. In fact, on the last day of September, as I folded laundry neatly into my suitcase, I saw them following mom around and trying their first attempts at nibbling some of the food we set out for the ferals. In a life season of so much unknown, these two little clumsy kittens brought much joy…

The next day I drove to Michigan to sit at my mother’s bedside for her last days. The week before she’d been hospitalized. On the day that I scrambled to pack my suitcase, she’d been released into hospice and the prognosis was days left, at best. For ten days I held her hand, brushed her hair, laughed with her as she rallied, and cried silent tears as she lashed out. Alzheimer’s is an ugly monster. Many friends who’d lost mothers reached out with advice drawn from their own experiences. A commonality among their words was how, though hard, the process of death and closing those days could be truly beautiful. It seemed crazy, but then for four days she rallied and I saw the sunlight of beauty everywhere. It was after the rallying faded, when her illness once again consumed her and the memory of my face was washed away, that the beautiful was replaced by something I can only surmise as sinister.

Like a switch, we transitioned into a dark and triggering time.

After ten days, I make the trip home. The dark days were difficult. I’d said my goodbyes. There was nothing left to do.

My first day back, as I went out to feed the cats, I saw Bea Arthur and her baby-daddy Tom. Something seemed off, so I tuned in and watched. Seeing the two of them show up, (at their safe, comfortable, feral distance) was not abnormal. As Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday sightings, walks, and evening encounters seemed to still be just the two of them, we began to wonder if something had happened to the kittens.

We have wildlife around. Raccoons, skunks, foxes, and a rogue coyote from time to time. We’d been concerned for them from the beginning, but when we’d stumbled upon Bea and her sister nearly two years ago, they were starving babies themselves. They wouldn’t let us near them, and everyone we phoned said if we caught them they’d be euthanized. Instead we built a heated shelter and feeding/watering station at the back of our yard and watched them grow up.

We did what we could. Even so, it is devastating to think of something happening to those two babies.

Through last night and this morning Bea Arthur stayed hovered beneath a bush near the shelter. Rain came, puddles formed, inching closer and closer to her. Still she stayed there.

Perhaps it is the weight of stagnantly waiting for my mother to leave her life. I was exhausted before that journey began, but now I am feeling so much more so. Also though, there is this other season of loss forever tattooed on my insides. The miscarriages, lost children, aching and empty arms…

There we were, rain falling all around us, this lost mother and me. Her babies seemingly gone. Heartbreak. I tried to pour love into her, as our gaze held tight, a sea of rainwater and grief pouring all around us as we sat suspended there. A cat and a woman, both having lost. Both knowing such struggle.

Was I projecting onto her? Probably. But also, she seems to have been through a hurt that led to the scars of which I’ve carried for so, so long.

Today, October 15th, is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. This evening marks the International Wave of Light, where candles are lit at 7 pm, light casting globally in remembrance of significant loss. The dark, dreary skies of my city today feel appropriate. For the stray mama tabby and for myself. For the many other women who’ve lost, falling asleep beneath these street lights–expanding unfathomably beneath this entire sky.

Loss is hard. Waiting for it and surviving after it.

I don’t have anything wonderful or wise to say. I’m sad. I remember. I remember the hopes and dreams of motherhood. I remember the few beautiful moments with my own mother, amidst the sea of abuse and trauma.

I remember two clumsy kittens climbing all over their mother…

I remember and I’m sad. It’s terrible. Some days are like this, and that’s ok.

Even when it is hard, we have to pause to remember.

trusting the journey…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay2 Comments

I sit here typing these words at forty-five years old. Forty-five… How did that happen? I still feel seventeen inside, barely treading in too-deep-water and wondering when I’ll be able to stop pretending like I’ve got this whole thing under control. I also, admittedly, feel about ninety-two, or at least how I imagine ninety-two to feel when a body is achy, chilled and worn.

In truth, at forty-five, I guess I’m caught somewhere in the middle.

Many years ago, I expected I’d have it all figured out by the time I reached today. Finances would be set. Big life things would be set. All emotionally healing and duress would be behind me. Weren’t we taught by example that these middle days were more like floating life’s lazy river than drowning in the water-rushing-deep end?

I thought so, anyway.

Then my thirties came, and my forties, and I began to realize that all those years ago when I looked up at the adults in my life, they were just treading tired water too. When a once-good friend was depressed over turning forty, as I crossed into thirty, she miserably said that older friends told her it got better then. I encouraged her but left the truth we were both thinking, unspoken: It wouldn’t get better, it would be old.

Old.

The truth is that those in their thirties tell the younger ones it gets better, and it does. The same goes for forties to thirties and fifties to forties… And, at forty-five, it’s fair to say I think it’s true. I mean, flexibility, health and joint pain may not get better- but inside, it does.

How we see the outside– what we’re willing to accept, and tolerate. What we will no longer settle for… As souls, we feel better.

When I thought about this idea of a time in my life when I trusted the journey, my mind came up blank. I sifted through memories of baskets I’d placed all of my hope/faith in, and how each one of those baskets kind of failed. There is this sad little pattern of that sort of thing, within my forty-five years. I’ve tried not to dwell on that, but I’ll admit it doesn’t really encourage me to go all in on faith/hope/trust, when it comes to chapters in my journey. So, I sifted and I sorted even more, looked even harder. I have always been a woman with faith, though that faith has significantly morphed, mutated and changed over the years, so surely I could find some time when I’d trusted the journey…

And that was it: the journey.

While many aging-breakdowns happen at thirty, forty, fifty– mine happened at twenty-five. At twenty-five years old, I had crumbled. With my therapist, I climbed out of that chasm acknowledging that I had a life and it could be the life I chose. I chose to be a wife. I chose to chase motherhood. I chose to be a writer. I chose to help women heal their traumas and choose their lives too. Up close, with a macro focus, it wouldn’t seem like I had much faith (or success really) with those choices… When I step back though, and take in the journey of the past thirty years, I am awed. I chose marriage. I chose to chase motherhood. I did all of the things. Some of them worked out, and some of them blew up in my face. Some days found me sitting in a bathtub covered in pills and vomit, choosing to live despite trying not to. Some days found me overwhelmed and running, and other days found me standing tall and ready for the fight.

Some days… Some moments… Even though I had momentary lapses of surrender and worn exhaustion, the fact was that I did not give up. I moved forward. I embraced choices. I made plans, wove dreams… I trusted my journey.

Back in March I shared the trailer for the film Finding You, which releases on Friday May 14th. In honor of the release, I am giving away a $25 Fandango gift card. I know it might be a little anxiety-inducing to think of going to the movies, but I also know that as things continue to become safer, it’s time that start adding life-moments back in. A free gift card might that nudge you need!

To Enter:

  • Leave a comment on this post by Thursday May 13th at NOON EST, telling of a time you trusted the journey.
  • Leave a comment on the coordinating Instagram post by Thursday May 13th at NOON EST, telling of a time you trusted the journey.
  • Share it in your Instagram story or on Twitter– you MUST tag me (@rainydayinmay)

Your name goes in the drawing for all things… Meaning if you comment both places and share stories/tags on each day, you could technically get ten chances to win. I mean, I’m not going to tell you what to do, just saying you COULD do that. ;)

Let’s hear it… when is a time that you trusted the journey?

pressure… {fmf}

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay4 Comments

I had a conversation this week with a fellow childhood sexual abuse survivor, and we talked about raising children. While she was able to have her own children, I of course could not. What I found fascinating, in our discussion, was the same internal pressures had remained. While I was a foster turned adoptive mother, this intense pressure to CREATE AND BE BETTER for the kids in my care, was debilitating.

Not having a context for what a normal, healthy family should look like, I constructed ideas based on the opinions and insight of professionals, books and statistics. So often, as complaints would rain down about this, or that, I would respond stating that this child was so lucky they had parents who loved them, their needs met and ___________. The reality was that while I had known a childhood that was not at all like the significantly better one I helped design for them, they had also known something far worse. In so many ways, we didn’t stand a chance.

I was killing myself, inside, trying to be the difference.

There is a lot of unhealthy information attached to adoption and foster care. Promises that love is enough, or that children are resilient. Listen, children ARE resilient, but so is trauma, and trauma leaves scars.

No one picks up the megaphone to share about the pressures placed upon both the parents and the children.

It was an odd comfort to know my new friend had felt these same pressures within her natural motherhood journey. A reminder of the scars that trauma leaves…

A realization that pressure traumatizes too.

{This post is an exercise within the Five Minute Friday writing community. To read more, go here!}

brink…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay

It was the September of my 20th year when the combination of feel and scent in the air took me back, ala’ movie montage moment, to so many Septembers past. High school Septembers, Jr. High autumn evenings. Flooding, internally, from one to the next.

When I was thirteen, I declared I would one day have a daughter and name her September. It turns out that I neither had a daughter, nor named a child (or pet) that. I do not regret this, just so we’re clear.

All in all, if we were keeping score, September probably shouldn’t be a favorably definitive month for me. It was when school years began, and growing up I was not a lover of school. September marked my first full month as a group home kid, when I was 12.

It carried me into my two definitive adolescent romances, which led, in different ways, to deeply broken hearts…

It also, in fairness, introduced me to my husband, when I was seventeen. That September nearly killed me, as I dealt with a health crisis of extreme proportions, which may (or may not- we will never know) have led to my inability to carry a pregnancy to term. Pretty much nothing, at all, was going remotely ok that September, but in walked Chw and I knew that the two of us would be married, so for that I will declare September 1993 a victory.

A year later, September would bring us full circle, to a horrific miscarriage.

Why it stands out to me that Septembers marked more loss than gain, I’ll never know. Sometimes my biggest gifts (I met each of the kids I loved like a mother loves, in Septembers. First, 2000 and then 2003.) Beautiful gifts, further falling in love and inevitable heartbreak.

Shattering.

Destroyed irreparably.

September…

Two of my three beloved dog besties were laid to rest in Septembers.

My husband left me for another woman in September. Though we reconciled two years later, that first September had us glued to the tv as planes hit the towers and we gained perspective unlike we’d ever had before.

SO MANY milestones of trauma mark the ninth calendar month, of the year.

And still… still, I find myself to be a lover of September. The autumn air ushers in this crisp scented magic, and I am here for it.

This year’s janky calendar had hoards of people unable to wait for summer, because summer would fix the world.

Then it didn’t.

And now, now people are chasing after pumpkins, and spice and new sweaters earlier than ever, with a misplaced faith in this next season bringing the reset needed to right the world.

I don’t know… Maybe it will. September has proven to be a magical and tricky beast. These Sept’s of past have been known to bring about some incredibly unexpected gifts- I’ll just caution us all to be weary.

Whatever these days actually hold, (and let’s be honest- it’s 2020, September could bring us ANYTHING!) I’m pretty certain we will arrive at the first of October scathed in someway.

For all of us, I hope it is a beautiful healing way… A restorative way.

I’m cautious, but also here for it. Despite the track record, I’m a September girl through and through…

Little birds…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay

In the quiet silence of aloneness I am left on my own, to reflect. There were years of flowers and clumsy breakfasts, all blooms in what would feel (for a very long time) like a crowning achievement.

After so many years of heartbreak and pregnancy loss, my life suddenly held this bubbly little girl who called me Momma. It truly did feel like everything, for a time.

From fifteen years old, and on, though I had other dreams and other goals, being a mother was the heart & soul of all of it. It was everything I wanted, and the motivation for moving forward. I had only ever really seen this plan work for others, so I had no clue it could simply NOT work for me.

When you are lying in a pool of blood, on cold tile, sobbing to heaven about why your babies all seem to die before they’ve had a chance to breathe, there are thoughts that rise up during broken prayers.

Voices that tell you why…

They tell you it’s because the babies saw what a disgusting person you are, and would rather die.

They whisper about how you can’t do anything right and you would be the worst sort of mother.

When you trust someone you love enough to confide those fears to them, they will kiss your matted forehead and tell you that these are lies, and the amount you ache to have a baby will make you a beautiful mom too.

As time passes, it’s hard to tell which things are truth and which things are lies, because we rationalize a world of either/or. We don’t conceive that it is possible the truth lies somewhere in the middle.

That sweet little girl made me feel like a mom, for the happiest years of my life. After fighting with every ounce of me, for unborn babies, and then fighting with everything I had left, for already born kids, that big-blue-eyed girl let me live there, for awhile.

I’ll always be grateful.

Family didn’t understand the idea of loving kids not from your blood. In hindsight, I think they wanted to. I think in unique ways, they tried. Then again, they couldn’t actually understand the journey of loss we’d known, so I can see the difficulty. So many times, over the years, these people who really did love us, would use the phrase “playing house” when it came to our family. Whether legally adopted, or so heart loved, it made no difference in the legitimacy they perceived.

The frustration and disappointment of this, mostly for the kids, triggered those dark post-miscarriage whispers to rise up. Was I playing house? Was I not a real mom? Was this all just pretend? The truth, somewhere in the middle, is that life is complicated.

I have loved with every inch of my mother-aching heart. I have advocated. I have sacrificed for. I have had my cup so full, down to so empty. I have known the tears, and the worry. I have held crying daughters and put my life on hold to do so, without regret. It wasn’t perfect, because I wasn’t perfect. Early childhood trauma leaves a lasting effect. Sometimes it was hard.

It wasn’t perfect because nothing is perfect. I never expected it to be, or them to be. I did expect me to be… And it seems they did too. While they were younger, I covered the multitude of ways I was proven to never be enough, with so much grace. So many excuses for how they’d endured so much hurt early on, how they were still so young. Well meaning people promised it would be so much better when they were older… when she specifically was older.

It has been years since I’ve spent any real time with that sweet little girl of days past. One of the last gifts I gave her, before she left the nest, was a little key with the word love etched into it. I told her that my biggest wish for her would be that she could learn to love herself and accept the love of others, the love of me. That had been our biggest struggle, really, her inability to accept my love. I would never be the mom she wanted me to be. So close to that truth, I was shattered and haphazardly put back together again and again.

My truth is that part of my motherhood dream involved daughters becoming mothers too. It involved loving their babies and porches filled with things like lemonade, laughter and pie. It involved vacations and photos and smiles for as far as the eye can see.

It involved, plainly put, things that a lot of moms get. It is not a guarantee, it is not a right of passage and it is not a plan set in motion for me.

Once, when asked, I proudly told the world I had two daughters. Anymore I am honest that I never really had any. I was never their mom, but for a few really good, hard, raw and fulfilling years I played the part with everything in me, and then one day the role was simply done.

I am not a victim, and neither are they. They are both beautiful survivors of things no children should have to go through, and the results of that have never been easy for them. I talk a little bit about this in my book, but in the same way that we crave absolutes, we expect them too. Couples are allowed to break up. Unrequited loves happen all of the time. It is unfair to expect adopted/foster children to reciprocate a love for a parent. The hurt, sacrifice and effort a parent makes does NOT mean the child has to return it. This is a truth no one talks about. This a truth that fearful women in the hurt-filled pursuit of motherhood do not want to know.

For five months, last year, I felt like I was losing everything. My worst fears were coming true, all around me, and I could not find my breath. And then, it happened… And my everything became not mine to hold anymore.

I was sad, and I grieved the most brutal of loss.

One daughter indicated, with absolute silence, that she did not want me anymore, while the other proceeded to tell me the cruelest and most hate-filled things she had in her arsenal. Then, I was wounded to my core, because I was so close that I couldn’t see the truth.

They each know what is best for them, and as adults that is their responsibility. I did not ever want them texting, calling, gifting or visiting on birthdays and holidays because they felt like they were obligated to. If they did not want me as their mom, they were allowed.

This did not mean my love for them was wasted. It did not mean my love for them died, at all. It just meant that I would have to grow my courage to be brave in different ways, for them. When one daughter had a major car accident, I would stay away. I would send flowers, because it was so soon and I didn’t know how to not… but she didn’t want me in her life, and I could respect her. That was something I could do for her. When birthdays passed, I would ache to see their beautiful faces and shower them with love and gifts, but instead I would make a silent donation to an organization that rescues women and children, in their honor.

It isn’t the same, but what one meant for me was a prison sentence of obligation for them and I love them enough to believe they deserve the freedom they asked for.

I am not a victim, I am not perfect.

I am a woman.

I am a writer, a mentor and a wife.

My heart will forever love two daughters.

I was never really their mom.

That’s ok. I am ok. Five hundred times a day, when my gaze falls on a photograph or a memory comes to mind, I pray that they are ok too.

Ok, and happy, and free.

I never wanted to be a cage.