Summer school

My family's summer study this year is based on the free Mission Friends curriculum. We made a go of it last year with Benny and her crew, but I tell you ... every time we got together, my cell phone rang with a potential foster placement. In the end, I think we were both too wary to follow through!

And that's a shame, really. My kids have loved the focus on different countries, the neat little passports, and the time spent in the kitchen trying out new recipes. (Did I mention this is free?) It works great in a group of three or 12. All you add is the time spent printing, extra reading resources if you wish and some ingredients.

Coming alongside this fun summer unit has been a new resource I stumbled on. It's called Quest for Compassion and yes, it's free. (I love free!) This site features an interactive game that seeks to educate children about life in three of the most poverty affected areas of the globe. The impact--if led by a caring parent who takes the time to add depth to the online wandering--can be profound.

That's our take on summer schooling this year. What's yours?

Unequally Yoked, pt. 1

It will come as a surprise to many readers of this blog, but my daughter Jo had two baby welcomes performed by two different faith communities.

The first took place in my in-laws Catholic church, a mammoth, auditorium-style Roman Catholic parish awash in pink marble and quietly flowing fountains. Both branches of the family tree were well represented. Jo was radiant in her white satin gown; I have a whole shoebox of pictures of her in the arms of relatives with beaming smiles. Afterwards, we held a small gathering at my mother's house and ate a white-iced cake that I remember as being on the dry side.

The second was held at the small, woody Zendo my husband called his spiritual center. No family members were present. No pictures were taken. And after the hushed whispers and the ringing of the bells, we drove home alone. To this day, my memories of the place are limited to smells: the incense, the slightly musty, damp air, the overgrown green forest edging the property.I didn't even write about the event in my daughter's baby book.

When Mr. Blandings and I met, he was fully agnostic in his beliefs regarding spirituality of any kind. Twelve years of Catholic schooling had convinced him that there was purpose in life. His own sense of logic told him that a Creator was involved. And this was exactly as far as he was willing to go when it came to matters of faith. By the time we married, however, he had found a philosophy that matched his personal desire to draw close to the divine: Rinzai Zen Buddhism.

Go ahead and tell me that I should have run far, far away from the man I now call my husband. Had I been more than a marginal Christian myself, I would have. But despite my long-standing career as a Sunday School teacher in the Episcopal church just off campus, I had no more knowledge of Biblical teaching than anyone else who sat through years and years of church services without truly understanding the meaning behind it all. I was Christian in name, I was Christian in leaning, but I was pretty sure that Christianity had nothing to do with actually living my life. And that life, of course, included marriage.

What did it matter if my beloved spent his Sunday mornings sitting, chanting, working and walking through various forms of meditation? How different was it, really, than my own acts of worship? What did it matter if he called his god by one name and I used another for my own? Who was I to say what he should believe?

Fast forward a year and a half and the playing field had changed. Giving birth to my daughter rocked my world in more ways than one--and beginning the process of defining my own faith was just a starting point. The importance of raising a child within the context of a shared focus on Christ was beating at the cage of my heart.

And then, of course, came the horrible, kick-to-the-gut day when I realized that the man I married was going to hell. If this was true, I found myself crying out, what was the point of our life together?

You can't imagine the sad, tired brokenness that followed me through each and every day (or maybe, if you're walking the same path, you can). The shame. The fear. The guilt. The defeat. I can remember closing my Bible in tears one night, and praying out loud, "God, please don't show me anymore. Because every step closer to you is a step farther away from my husband."

God's Word was, that same husband said later, like a rabbit hole that I was eyeing, wondering how deeply I ought to dive in. I maintained the status quo of normalcy in my day to day life, but inside, I was a mess. The house divided? That was me. One piece longing for that deep relationship with Christ, the other in agony because I was so going somewhere that my adoring husband could or would not.

People around me prayed. A handful told me about it, but mainly, I know because I felt it. The most vocal were my grandmother (who had no idea what a Buddhist was, but was pretty darn sure she didn't want her great-grandbaby raised as one) and my cousin, who to this day probably doesn't know the lengths I went to to downplay the role that Buddhism was playing in my husband's life. During one of her visits, I remember her asking about the small altar in our bedroom, where my husband practiced zazen (silent meditation). I can still feel the humiliated tightness in my throat as I laid out the process to her. Rather than offering me pity or talking down to me, she offered to pray for us. I believed even then that she was someone who didn't say such things flippantly. (Incidentally, it was this kind of strident, firm faith that I was finding so attractive after years of surface-level religion that never penetrated my heart.)

As for me, I was having a hard time praying. I vacillated between anger ("Why doesn't he get it?"), frustration ("Can't he see what he's doing to his family?"), self-pity ("I can't do this alone. Why did God give me this baby?"), hurt ("God, why are you allowing this?") and resignation ("This is just the way my life was meant to be."). For short periods, I would pray over my husband intensely. I would try to engage his mind in the examination of the two faiths, and prayed that he would reason his way into a faith in Christ. I would introduce him to other Christians, and hope he'd make friends who would lead him back on to the path. Nothing clicked

At other times, I would just try and be thankful for what I had. He was, after all, a great husband. A good provider. An incredible father. A generous, giving person. He surely wasn't as bad as some husbands, even some Christian husbands I knew of. Why was I so hung up on the one detail he didn't have--when clearly, I had so much?

But, of course, it all came back to this: we were unequally yoked. Our worldviews were completely different. Neither one of us could ever see eye to eye on the key points in life simply because we were coming at them with an entirely different purpose. And truthfully, if things didn't change, I felt in my heart of hearts that our marriage was doomed.

Skirting the Issue

The project started innocently enough; Jo and I, standing in the sea of the Junior department, scouting out something--anything-- that fit the definition of "appropriate clothing for a young lady."

Lest you think my family's definition of such is unapproachably strict, let me lay out the terms for you:

• Item must not reveal undergarments--from the top or the bottom.
• Item must not contain phrase, saying, illustration or words that could be construed as narky, rude or nasty.
• Item must leave to the imagination that which was meant to be.

We're not Amish. We're not even really good Anabaptists, people! These guidelines are shockingly minimal, and yet ...

Store after store, we failed. Failed miserably, actually. I walked out of the house with $75 to spend on clothing for my daughter, and came home with that same $75 still sitting in my wallet. Jo had tried on a handful of shorts and skirts and refused to even leave the dressing room in them.

"I feel naked, mom!" she cried at one point, as I begged her to come out so I could see for myself. "Seriously, if I bend over, the whole world will see my underwear!"

I knew something drastic had to be done. And since surrender of the values one has been convicted of is not an option that should even make it to the table, I moved to Plan B: sewing.

I would never call myself an especially adept seamstress. While I've managed to cobble together little bits here and there over the years, my products have, honestly, been anything but fashionable. But this time, I knew I had to do it right. After all, an 11 year-old girl with a developing sense of self-worth would be the recipient of my efforts this time. I owed it to her to make sure that the clothes she sported didn't look like cast-offs from a middle school home ec class.

Mr. Blandings was shockingly eager to get on board with this new enterprise. I say "shockingly" because it required the purchase of a new sewing machine, and truth be told, he's even tighter with a penny than I am. Yet one mention of, "I'm thinking of sewing clothes for Jo," and he was on board, writing a check and giving me carte blanche at our local fabric store.

Scary stuff.

Scarier still were the prices at the fabric store. Fabric is not cheap, y'all. I don't know where all of those $2 shirts at Wal-Mart come from, but it's not around here, I can tell you that much. (Actually, they come from places where labor practices are despicable and human rights are unknown. They just forget to include that little reality check on the tag under the Amazing Low Price!) Buying fabric is something of an investment, it seems. You look for sales, you learn the good spots, you swap, you ask around and in the end, you've probably still paid a pretty penny. This is just something you have to anticipate when you're making your own clothes.

Finally, a good chunk of money later, Jo and I sat down at our kitchen table and set to the task at hand: sewing a few cute, longish skirts for her to wear throughout the summer. We had a collection of fabrics, a book of patterns, my new sewing machine, some elastic, and a whole lot of learning curve.

Can I just say that I have never, ever enjoyed a Mother/Daughter project more thoroughly? At the end of just two short hours, we had a completed skirt. Simple. A-line. Elastic waist-band. Nothing fancy at all.

But oh, the satisfaction.

Our conversation in those 120 minutes was among some of the deepest, most heart-felt I think I've ever had with my daughter. Was it really such a short window of time? We talked about my childhood, my mother, her birth, beauty, womanhood, being a mother, peace ... so many things that I could have worked and worked and worked to negotiate our conversation around to. But with the sound of the sewing machine wish-wishing in our ears, and the feel of the cloth under our fingers, these things came naturally. What else can you think of as you slide pins into fabric but the real essence of womanhood? It's inescapable.

When Jo slipped the completed skirt onto her hips, her whole face lit up with a glow of accomplishment.

"We did it!" she sang, skipping over to me. "It's perfect!"

Indeed.

A perfect fit, both in the flesh and in the spirit. A garment worthy of its cost.

Since that first skirt, Jo and I have made several more. Each becomes easier than the one before it as we familiarize ourselves with the process, the equipment and the materials. We've branched out, too--the most recent skirt to be completed is bordered in a pattern of whimsical buttons of contrasting color. Jo says this one is her favorite.

"It's me," she beamed to the woman who commented on it at church yesterday. "I made it with my mom, and I put the finishing touches on all by myself."

Far from feeling awkward that her wardrobe is not a carbon copy of her peers, I find that Jo has taken a sense of pride in her handmade garments. She's gained a skill, found a new form of creative expression, and looks forward to what she calls "The Sewing Hour," when she and I sit down to work together. We've bonded in a whole new way over femininity, fabric, trims and tales.

This is not what I expected when I threw my hands up in the air and said, "Fine! I'll just make what I want!" I went looking for the practical answer. What I got was a soul-filling respite from the world.

Judging from the chorus of dissatisfied Momma's voices that I hear around me, we are not alone in our search for clothing that is modest yet flattering. To those of you who are on the fence, take heart! Sewing skirts for your daughter is not the daunting task it appears to be at first blush. This is one of those deeply satisfying, heart-filling exercises that pays dividends far beyond the investment. Really.

For an excellent primer on getting started--in a budget-friendly way--check out this Molly Green e-book on the topic, "Frugal Fashion." There are tips for newbies like me, as well as links to dozens of free, online patterns. If I can't convince you to give sewing for your family a try, maybe Molly can. :-)

Relinquished

re·lin·quish (r-lngkwsh)

tr.v. re·lin·quished, re·lin·quish·ing, re·lin·quish·es

1. To retire from; give up or abandon.

2. To put aside or desist from (something practiced, professed, or intended).

3. To let go; surrender.

4. To cease holding physically; release: relinquish a grip.

After the protracted waiting our hearts have had to endure since first meeting Oliver, yesterday's news that his Birthdad had relinquished was delivered with a disappointing lack of fanfare. For some unknown reason, I had assumed I'd be told in advance that an appointment had been scheduled, that relinquishment would take place at this location, at this time. When I daydreamed about this momentous event, I pictured myself glancing anxiously at the clock, praying over the signing taking place, and feeling God lift my spirits just before I got the call that made it all official to my ears.

Instead, in the course of a routine check-in with social worker Georgie, she shared the news. It was almost an after-thought, really; I'm pretty sure it wasn't even on her radar until I mentioned the Open Adoption Agreement we had forwarded to the state's lawyer.

"Oh, yeah. He, umm, wait. Let me check. Yeah. It's here. He signed it at 2:30 today."

"He signed it?" This was, after all, a document that I wasn't even sure was in its final draft. No modifications? No negotiations of contact? No asking for a few more picture, visits, a phone call every Christmas?

"Yeah. He signed it. Oh, and he signed the term papers, too."

"The term papers? You mean, Bill terminated his rights? He relinquished?" The word, so abstract for so long, loomed before me.

I had known it would happen. This was the plan, after all, from the beginning. Oliver's birthfather had never wanted to have a child. Never intended to reproduce. Took no joy in parenting. Saw no magic in passing on his genes to a boy who would carry them forward. Chose instead to find a family for his son. Relinquishing was, from day one, his stated intention.

He was simply waiting for the court to catch up with Oliver's birthmom, to make sure that she could not get him back. And that day, they say, is fast approaching.

Despite his decided lack of fervor for the act of parenting, I have seen flashes of love in Bill over the course of the last 17 months. He truly cares for Oliver; that much, I've never doubted. The was his love is expressed can be a puzzling, somewhat off-pitch thing. But love is love. And Bill loves Oliver.

The journey that this adoption had led us on has been a twisted path indeed. The emotions, the rawness, the fears and the joys are all tangled into a knot that stays lodged somewhere beneath my heart, in a place I can't quite touch. Foster-adoption has changed me. My eyes have been opened to a new, painful world where not all children see their first birthday come and go without feeling the searing pain of broken bones or a gnawing, relentless hunger that never quite loses its grip, even after the food becomes plentiful. My heart has been broken by the stories of men and women who have continued the cycles of abuse visited on them by their own parents. My perspective has been forever shifted by the simple act of falling in love with children whose biological parents have failed miserably at that most simple of tasks: taking care of a helpless baby.

It is not much to ask, to tend to a young infant. They need warmth, food, a clean bottom and a place to sleep. In a pinch, there are services and churches and programs and even individuals who will step in and hold your hand, guiding you through the process of keeping your baby safe, healthy and alive. Oliver's birthfather, Bill, leaned heavily on those public shoulders in the first months after Oliver came home from the hospital. Oli was a premature, restless infant with reflux and a tendency to cry for hours. Bill struggled to understand the mewling little bundle before him. When he couldn't break the code that made Oliver happy, and he couldn't engage Oliver's birthmom in the task, he did what seemed most rational to him: he left.

Their relationship when Oliver was first placed with us at 14 months of age was no better. A typical visitation went like this: Oliver would scream. Bill would turn away. Oliver would scream some more. Bill would text on his phone. Oliver would scream. The visitation supervisor would suggest looking in the diaper bag for snack. Bill would find a snack, and shove it at Oliver. Oliver would eat it, scream some more, then fall asleep in a heap on the nasty carpet of the DHSH floor, exhausted.

As Oliver began to gain some skills, though, Bill realized that his birthson was, somehow, human. I saw this transformation happen in small but tangible ways. Showing up for visits. The gift of a small blue basketball. Wearing a hat that he knew Oliver liked to play with during visits. Asking what might be a good activity to engage Oliver in.

Bill still missed visits. Still lost his visitation rights regularly. Often frustrated me with his glaring inability to see the obvious. But somewhere, somehow ... a change seemed to be taking place.

After 17 months, it felt, finally, like we had come to a place where Bill had assumed something of the role he'd carry on after the adoption decree. Bill, the Birthdad. The man we'd arrange visits with, the man who'd receive the pictures, the man we'd refer Oli's questions to, the man who would no doubt sit alongside us at our son's wedding some far off day.

In May, I was asked to chaperone a visit outside of the DSHS office for Bill and Oliver. A supervisor would meet us, but I would be in charge of Oli. We would meet at the Seattle Aquarium and tour the exhibits. Bill had requested it especially; he loves the aquarium, and wanted to share it with Oli.

The visit took place on a fine, sunny day. I spotted Bill outside, and pushed Oliver in the stroller up to him. Oliver recognized him and said, in his thready, small voice, "Hiiiiii." Bill answered, "Hi, Buddy." We stood, silent and not too awkward, admiring the beautiful boy between us.

A single, petite woman approached us slowly, her eyes somewhat narrowed.

"You're Mary Grace? And Bill?" she asked. This was our supervisor, here to make sure that protocol was attended to and all boxes checked.

"How did you know?" I asked, knowing that it was absurd. Here we were, two people who couldn't be more opposite. A 34 year-old woman with a skirt down to her ankles and a fancy stroller and a Vera Bradley backpack standing with a man with jeans sagging well below his underwear waistband, bleached white hair and a t-shirt proclaiming that he was happily available to put the s@xy in back, whatever that means.

The supervisor gave me a knowing smile, then turned to Oliver. "And you must be Oliver!" she cooed. "The reason for all the celebration, huh?"

Yes. Oliver. The reason for the celebration.

After hearing that the relinquishment was signed, I had a bit of a panic last night. This morning, Bill was scheduled for his last visitation with Oliver before the agreement takes effect. The weight of that crashed in on me, and I wondered how Bill was feeling. Was he preparing himself to take a mental snapshot of the moment? Was he dreading it? Was he afraid he'd break down in tears?

Wanting to commemorate the occasion, I quickly penned a heart-felt, semi-poetic note and printed it out, intending to buy a frame on the way. I figured I'd get one that has two windows; I'd tell him to save the other side for a copy of one of the aquarium photos I'd send him after I had it printed. It wasn't much, but gifts aren't my love language. If I'd known this was coming, I could have gotten my best friend Benny (who is a gifty sort) to handle the honors. It was a pinch, and it would have to do.

I drove to the visit with a lump in my throat, casting glances at Oliver in the backseat the whole way. Can he understand how huge this is? I wondered. Should I tell him that he won't see Bill for a while? Am I going to burst into tears and ruin the whole thing?

We pulled into the familiar parking lot and were greeted by the social worker. Bill, it turned out, was a no show. He had called to confirm three times, but neglected to make it to the visitation.

And just like that, it was over. Maddeningly, achingly, over.

Bill, it seems, has relinquished. Let go. Ceased to hold. And with very little emotion, this chapter has come to a close.

With this empty conclusion, we step into our new roles. The next time I see Bill, I will be Oliver's real, true mom. The term "foster" will have faded, and I will have all the legitimacy and rights that I have felt in my heart all along. But Bill will, legally, be no one. Just a man, who once watched my son come into the world. A man whose genetic code is linked to my boy's. A man who will confound, frustrate and perhaps--someday--surprise and delight me in his relationship with my son.

Bill has relinquished. And Oliver's life moves on.

Signed, sealed, (nearly) delivered

It is with immense joy that I share the news I received this evening:

At 2:30 p.m. today, Oliver's birthfather relinquished his parental rights. He also signed, with no alterations, the Open Adoption Agreement we so prayerfully crafted.

We are 50% of the way there.

On July 23rd, Oliver's birthmom will be given a final opportunity to relinquish rights and also sign an Open Adoption Agreement. If, at that time, she chooses to proceed to trial, she will lose the option of having any contact with Oliver post-adoption.

Her case is very, very weak and her lawyer is urging her to spare us all the indignities of a parade of evidence pointing to her inability to parent. I am taking a more spiritual long view of the situation; perhaps this is God's plan. Only He knows. May HIS will--not my impatience--be done!

Silence is relative

Mr. Blandings is off on yet another camping adventure with Jo, Atticus, and Logan--which leaves me home with just two small people, neither of whom is verbal beyond the random noun tossed out to identify a desired object. This amounts to a whole lot of "book!" and "ball!" but not a ton of "May I have a turn?"

Of course, there are shrieks of delight, howls of indignation and the warble of the inevitable tussles that erupt between two children only slightly offset when it comes to developmental age.

It occured to me that pre-kids, I would have thought that my house sounded like a war zone tonight. Oliver was keening, clinging to my shirt and trying to do his best imitation of an opera singer longing mournfully for the return of a beloved blanket.

"Baaaay! Baaaaay! Baaaaaaaayyyyy!"

Manolin was rocking just under my feet, screaming at the top of his lungs for a bottle that was simply too slow in coming.

It was a relatively calm night. Compared to say, other nights in my house. Like the one that featured our already-mentioned stars in their favorite roles, but with guest appearances by Jo (clanging about in the sink filling water bottles for her rabbit cages), Logan (rattling the silverware as he emptied the dishwasher) and Atticus (humming, at full volume, the Indiana Jones theme). And probably a ringing telephone or two to make things interesting, of course.

Now that gets a little loud.

But two little ones? Crying their way through bedtime?

Like music to my ears, I tell you. Especially the part when their little eyes close and I'm all by my lonesome. :-)

TOS Review: 2009 Old Schoolhouse Planner

There was a time when I basked in the free-wheeling glow of summer. I can still remember those days: pulling the sunscreen out, cranking the spigot wide open and filling the kiddie pool just high enough for three little ones and their momma to bask in the sun, Otter Pops in hand.

I tell you, I could spend entire days right there, up to my belly button in water growing more tepid by the minute, shielding my eyes from wayward splashes and hoping that the pre-frozen meal I'd pulled out would be thawed in time to have it cooked when Mr. Blandings got home.

Nowadays, I'm more likely to be found sitting at the shady picnic bench, surrounded by books and papers while my three oldest cavort through the sprinkler and the little ones gasp in awe at the miracle of the bubble machine. This is summer a season on down the road: homeschooling mom to children whose skills need to fall somewhere around the 7th, 4th and 2nd grade by next spring. Homeschooling mom who needs to finesse in therapies and developmental activities for a 2 year-old who is in need of assistance. Homeschooling mom who will have yet another toddler tossing Legos during read-alouds in the fall.

If you read that last paragraph and feel a sad wistfulness on my behalf, please don't! I actually don't miss the kiddie pool nearly as much as I thought I would. Maybe it's the gift of having been truly present during that season? Maybe it's a new found aversion to lounging in water that also doubles as "base" when a good game of tag is afoot? I don't know. But whatever the reason, I'm tickled by my new role as Summer Planner Extraordinaire.

After a few weeks of decompression from our most recent completed SL Core, I like to begin digging in to the process of assembling something of a plan for our next steps. Since we use a mostly year-round school schedule, I jump from one ship to another fairly quickly. The key in all of this shuffling and resorting?

A really good planner.

For years, I made do with free printables that I had culled from one of my favorite spots on the internet. Then, last year, I discovered a gem: The Old Schoolhouse Planner. The forms I had been using? Oh, yes--they were in there. As were many, many others that I would never have thought would be so handy. (A sheet to list all of your website logins and passwords? Be still my heart!) There were templates, guides and skill sheets galore. Checklists. Household information. A wishlist for homeschool items. Articles on topics I'm actually interested in. Recipes!!!

O.k., I'll stop.

It's $39, guys. A small price to pay for something that will revolutionize your homeschool.

If you hit the link above, you'll see that this is an ebook product. Then you'll wonder why on earth I assemble mine at my picnic table. True, the TOS Planner is designed so that you can type directly into the forms and save copies--even multiple children subject planners. But I choose to use mine in an old-fashioned way, printing out a hard copy of only what I need and adding it to a massive binder that is second in my scheduling heart only to the Palm Centro that Mr. Blandings bought me for Valentine's Day (romantic that he is!). This way, I can have my planner on the kitchen counter as I school, or even take it with me if I have a use for it while I'm out and about.

In addition to the massive amount of information already in the planner itself (a guide to cloud formations, anyone?), additional modules are available each month to help you kick up your school planning yet another notch.

So this is my summer in nutshell: picnic bench, lemonade, the squeals of my children, and my Old Schoolhouse Planner. I guess this is the kiddie pool of the homeschool mom! :-)