Category: Adoption

Out of the blue this morning, on the way to day camp, Mary Tyler Son said, “It’s great that Mary Tyler Toddler (I assure you he does not call his brother this in real life) is the fifth member of our modern family tree.”

“How sweet,” I thought, “This guy is thinking of both his gratitude for his brother being a part of our family as well as including his dear sister, Donna, who died when he was just a wee sprout.”

Mary Tyler Son went on to explain his conception of the family tree from his vantage point as a six year old.  “There’s Mom and Dad and me and Mary Tyler Toddler!  Oh wait!  That’s just four members of our family tree — not five.”

I gently corrected him and reminded him that even though she was no longer with us, Donna was still very much a part of our family and therefore part of our family tree. It’s important for me to convey to my sons that even when people are not with us day-to-day, they are still a part of us.  He got it, it seems, as he gleefully replied, “OH!  You mean like how Da is dead, but still a part of our family!”  Yes, exactly, with perhaps a tad less glee.

We were driving down a tree lined street and I looked up and saw that more than a few trees had dead branches lacking leaves.  Perfect visual to explain my point.  Mary Tyler Son decided that we should make a family tree to hang at home and put fabric leaves on the family members who are alive and simply remove the fabric when the person dies.

Great idea, kid.  But I really, really hope not to remove any more fabric from our family tree for a long, long time.

This little conversation got me thinking about how family trees can get complicated. Ours will be impacted by both death and adoption.  And if I thought explaining death to a little one was hard, I do not relish the conversations in our future about adoption. Those of you with blended families know exactly what I mean.  Divorce and remarriage and “half” siblings (I’ve always hated that expression) has got to be complicated, too.

I miss my uncomplicated life.  The one where both my parents were living.  The one where my kids had grandparents from both sides of their family tree.  The one where cancer only claimed older relatives in their 90s who were ready to die.  The one where I didn’t have to explain to my kids that one of them was adopted and the other was not.

Now, mind you, that “uncomplicated life” is never one I have lived.  A gal can dream, though, right?

I sometimes wish I had that easy capacity little kids have to integrate tough stuff then blithely move forward with the day.  I get bogged down way more than my six year old does with the grief and the nuances.  I mean, aren’t you tired of reading about it on my posts?  Some days it feels like every little freaking thing is a metaphor for loss or grief.

Sigh.

Okay.  Time for this little beaver to buck the heck up.

Life is complicated.  For all of us.  For some of us, those complications are more apparent.  For others, those complications are hidden or not so easy to see with the naked eye, but they are there.

It is a warm sunshiney day.  Imma stop thinking about family trees and go take a walk with the little one to find some trees.  In a park.  Which is not very complicated at all.

 

At the top of our stairs is a digital frame that we got just a few days after Donna died.  We wanted something for the memorial service to show our favorite photos of Donna.  Her little four year old life, from birth to death, captured on an electronic screen.

The photos have never changed.  Several times a week I find myself getting caught up looking at them.  A rest after climbing 14 stairs, a pause before I get on with my day, a memory captured that confirms once upon a time I mothered a daughter.

One of my favorite things when people visit our home is seeing them stealing glances at the photos, or outright just looking at them, unselfconsciously.  Our girl is missed by many. That is a gift.

Donna had one brother when she died.  Now six years old, he was a wee little 10 month old baby at the time.  Each night before we tucked him in, part of our nightly ritual was to stop at this little corner of our home and say, “Night night, Donna!”  At some point that stopped, I don’t know when.

Now she has another brother.  There was no overlap of their lives and they share no biology, as he came to us through adoption, but still, he is Donna’s brother.  The truth is that he looks more like Donna than her brother that shares genes with her ever did.  Our youngest son has the exact same shade of golden hair.  He has the pink pillow lips and almond shaped blue eyes, too.  His smile calls Donna to mind more every day.  People who knew Donna will whisper to us, “He looks like Donna,” as if saying that is a breach of adoption etiquette.

He does look like Donna. That both fills me with joy and makes me ache in equal measure.  When he sits in my lap and eats his morning breakfast of oats with grape jelly, just as Donna did, I am transported back in time when my little girl with her chicklet teeth did just the same.  It is a thin thread that connects my oldest and my youngest. I am grateful for that thread.

A few months ago, while doing dishes — where so many of my most profound thoughts seem to occur — the baby was sitting in his height chair close by nibbling on something or other.  I noticed in that moment that his eyes were on Donna.  His eyes stayed on Donna.  I finished the dishes, I swept, I wiped down the counters.  His eyes never once stopped looking at Donna.

Since then, I often pop the baby in his height chair with a few nibbles and roll the chair in front of that screen where digital Donna ages right before his eyes.  His sister’s lifetime passes by while he eats a fistful of Cheerios, transfixed. It is as close to babysitting as Donna will ever get.  I am grateful to see my children together, even virtually.