The Dreaded Donor Conversation

This is a night like many nights, and we are sitting at the table eating a bricolage meal, trying to keep our kids at the table long enough to actually eat. It’s been a crazy day. I used to be rather take-it-or-leave-it about drinking. Not so much, now. (cue “Mother’s Little Helper.”) This happens to be the dinner of my last blog, on the day when L threw up because he didn’t eat enough and D was so happy about that tiny carrot from the garden. The cheap-date-lightweight-pro-sobriety-healthnut (that’s me) is drinking Tequila. Our dinner table conversation finds its way to a subject the boys have never asked about, and we have never explained: the fact that we used a donor to create them.

We used a donor from a local bank to conceive our kids. About a year ago, we discovered donor siblings online, and became part of a Facebook Group of families that used the same donor. It’s the coolest thing. A couple of families even live in San Francisco. It turns out that we have mutual friends with one family, and they have a girl the same age as our boys! Our kids have always been content with having a Mommy and a Maddy. They’ve never asked about a Dad, nor have they been all that clear that their Maddy is actually a girl. We’ve been content to give them all the information they ask for, and nothing more. Lately, I’ve been talking to Maddy about how I don’t want them finding out from other kids or in a way that’s troubling that this friend-of-a-friend is actually their donor sibling. I’m being careful, even here, not to use the terms, “dad,” “sister” or “brother,” because I think those terms can be really confusing for kids. They can use them if they choose to later. This is new territory without much precedent, so, as with most things kid related, I’m learning (or making it up) as I go. This subject could be a big one for these little, blossoming identities, and requires some attention. As if answering my wandering brain waves, the Universe conspired to have us randomly run into the other family with a girl the same age. Maddy, the boys and I were out for dinner, and were seated at the window table. This family walked by, and there was a flash of recognition between the adults. They came in. We chatted. The kids were too tired or distracted to really notice each other. Strangers. It was a non-event for them. A few times now, our paths have crossed at the park. Once, our kids even played in a group together, not knowing they are related. I chatted with the mom, but why would my kids think anything of that? I realize they are not going to question it, and while other adults have commented on the kids’ similar features, the kids themselves don’t notice.

So Maddy brings it up after this crazy day, while I’m drinking Tequila, and while the kids are bouncing in their chairs like Superballs. “Hey kids, did you know that your Mama and I used a donor to make you?” They don’t respond. I jump in. “Yep. It takes parts from a man and a woman to make a baby, and since Maddy’s a girl, we had to go to a store to buy parts from a man.” They still don’t say anything, but the bouncing slows. We go on a bit about how the tiny egg in a woman needs a seed from a man, and we got that seed from a seed store. They are listening, I think. We explain that there are other kids made from seeds from the same man, or donor. They still say nothing. They have no questions. They know enough about pregnancy to know that a baby starts out really tiny, then grows big before it is born. That feels like enough information for one night. When released, they shoot from the table like arrows. I tell Maddy, “That went well,” and take another drink.

The next day, I ask if they have any questions about the donor conversation. L asks if our friend, who’s pregnant, went to the seed store as well. I explain that she got the seed from her husband. L ponders this, and verifies that parts from our friend and her husband were used to make their baby. He wanders away, back to his toys, and doesn’t bring it up again. D just listens.

The boys go to a cooperative preschool, so I, like all the other parents, sometimes work at the school. At the end of the day, a goodbye song is sung. The kids whose parents worked get to choose different words to use to sing the song. They choose things like, “Elsa-Anna,”  “Light-Up-Shoes,” “Mama-mama” or any combination of words, and the entire song is sung repeating those words. For almost the entire school year, L has chosen, “Red-Fast-Train,” and D has picked something right along those lines. The past two times I worked, D chose, “Sparkles-Rainbows,” and L chose “Mommy-Daddy.” …So something is percolating in there.

I ask the boys if they’d like to play with another kid whose parents went to the same seed store as us- a kid who is made from seed from the same man as they are. They ask the kid’s name, and L recognizes that they’ve met before. I recount playing at the park, and tell them this girl happens to be friends with some kids that they know. They don’t respond directly, but they both climb on my lap. They compete for space, so we move to the couch for a cuddlefest. D grabs two comforters, and the boys curl up underneath, creating a big cocoon over us. With my feet on the coffee table and my two HUGE boys trying to get comfortable on my belly under a big, green comforter draped up to my chin, I flash back to pregnancy. They jab my ribs and dig into my sides while I remind them they both used to fit inside my belly. They use the cocoon to hide from monsters, and the conversation moves quickly into a scenario with a shrinking machine that you can use to hide. The machine shrinks you and everything you are touching… and everything those things are touching… so that means our whole house will shrink, in fact, the whole world will shrink when you turn it on. I ask about touching air, and they say, no, the air can’t shrink! So I ask what will the birds who are flying do when the whole world shrinks? What about the kid on the trampoline who jumps up just as you turn on the shrinking machine, so when he comes back down he squishes the whole world? They stare at me blankly. I’m no fun. The story moves on to jets flying overhead. Hide! I wonder if talking about donor siblings makes them feel like monsters are attacking, but then again, their preoccupation with monsters is a completely age-appropriate phase. Did the shrinking machine come from a desire to become small again, to go back to the protection of my belly? Or are they just acting out an episode of “The Magic School Bus” or “Wild Kratts?” They spend so much time caught up in their imaginations these days, everything else, including me, feels like an imposition. The cuddlefest was a welcome break.

I have recently started attempting to garden in the back yard. I am a neophyte gardener. I don’t know what will grow, how good my soil is, when to plant or how much to water. Things grow that I didn’t plant, or they grow too close together, or sometimes they just don’t thrive. I don’t see my yard for what it is, I see its potential. I finally realized that if you focus on the weeds, not only do you get overwhelmed and cranky quickly, you get a half-weedless yard with nothing interesting growing. So you plant things in the weeds. There is too much going on to really step back and plan it, or to give the yard the time it needs. You do what you can with limited time, inspiration and resources. Its the same with kids. You plant seeds and ideas, water as often as you hope you should, choose the worst weeds to pull and do the best you can with the resources available. I’m always surprised by the results. My job, so often, is just to wait and see. Will they ask about their donor siblings? Will they care? If we maintain a community with the other families, will the kids benefit from this? Will they recognize something special about their donor sib? Will they embrace this part of themselves or run from it? What will it mean to them? Will this grow? Will it blossom? Will it seed?

All We Need Is A Big Bucket Of Love

I remember learning as a Psychology student in college that most disorders are collections of behaviors that, in small amounts, are normal. Some “symptoms” are: banging your head over and over, tantrums, refusing to go to the bathroom until it’s waaay too late, being unable to register that someone is talking to you, having an imaginary bird perched on your shoulder, yelling like Tarzan in a restaurant, being aggressive, turning into limp spaghetti on a city sidewalk, or being utterly unable to stay still. All of these possible indicators of deeper issues are, obviously, taken from my daily life with maniacs. As far as I know, my kids aren’t diagnosable with anything. Sometimes I panic. I’m so lost in the trees, I wouldn’t know if they were. Then we go to the park, and my kids are just like all the other kids. Actually, compared to the beat-‘em-up-Kill-Kill!-Bash-In-Your-Face-shoot-‘em-DEAD-psycho-play of some other kids, my kids are pretty gentle. They typically run around making shooter noises, flying spaceships, sounding like fighting chimpanzees rescuing puppies from fires, and occasionally yelling, “HONEY, Where are my Paaaaaaants??”  The other parents seem unphased, so maybe this is normal? I count the hours until I can have a glass of wine and nurse the bruises from being jumped on, tripped over, crashed into and rammed unexpectedly by either sons’ abnormally hard head, but at least the injuries are (almost always) unintentional. Discovering the quiet after the kids go to bed feels like coming up from a bunker after Dorothy’s tornado.

I jotted down events from a random morning, anticipating that I’d use this day to write about how tough it is to manage almost-5-year-olds who are bursting at the seams with growing up. On top of being wild, my kids have been acting out everything they’ve been taught about how to gain control, and it’s making me crazy. I’ve been thinking about what they’ve been taught… like how when babies have something they shouldn’t, you just take the thing away. That’s physical dominance. Then, when they won’t give it up, you manipulate: “Look! This one is way better!” “If you don’t put that down, we won’t go to the park.” None of this is bad. It’s one representation of how the world works. It’s getting harder to do successfully. It’s hard to think of new, relevant consequences. It feels… ugly. I’m motivating them by thinking of things that will make them really upset. L constantly tries to flip the cards: “If you don’t read me a book, I won’t go to bed!” or, “Are you threatening me? It’s not okay to threaten me!” when I give him an ultimatum. Or both kids just ignore me. Of course they know that my job as Mama means I make rules, and the rules are meant to keep their bodies and their hearts safe. I just need more tools in the toolbox. I need more ways to get them to do what I want them to do. At least that is what I thought I would be writing about for this post. I was not anticipating sickness, injuries, aborted plans or the return to filling the love bucket.

Today, L is up at 6:15 sneaking candy from the bag I let him stash in his room. Last weekend, the neighbors had a birthday party, and the pinata actually had candy inside. The boys are allowed one piece each day from their haul, after a meal, which I’ve learned is a rather bad way to deal with candy. Next time, I will let them gorge, then throw the rest away. So, L thinks he is being very sly rifling through the paper bag and crumbling candy wrappers in the dawning light of a silent house. I call him out as he comes around to my side of the bed to say good morning, and his face crumbles. He swears he’s only had one piece. We read books in bed, and even there, still warm from sleep and cuddled up under blankets, it’s like the wind has picked up, and I start bracing for the storm. L picks the most violent book we have about Herb the vegetarian dragon. D joins us halfway through with another book, which he basically throws at my face as he climbs in with us. Oops.

We are out of orange juice this morning, so I juice some apples. The boys hardly eat their pancakes, so I pack them to go. As I’m cleaning up in the kitchen, I try to pick up the silverware tray in a drawer. It is heavier than I anticipate, and my wrist gives out. Snap. Crackle. Pop. Getting old sucks. It is the tiniest injury inside my wrist somewhere, with barely any swelling. It only hurts a little unless I turn it a certain way, but that little ache lasts all day. Mom doesn’t get to pander to owies. The plan for today includes a trip to the Container Store for better toy storage options, then stopping by Yerba Buena (park, carousel, waterfall…) Trader Joes and Rainbow Grocery are not far from there, and we’ll be home in plenty of time for T-ball. By the time I am ready to go, the boys are making mud pies in the back yard. I lose another hour to the ether because… mud. We finally make it out the door. We park in the 5th and Mission garage, and both boys are instantly starving. Yay, pancakes. It is pretty late, and I realize L hasn’t eaten anything but candy (one piece?) and juiced apples. He eats just one silver-dollar pancake, while D eats his whole stack. We stand at the car while L puts off putting on his eye patch. I’ve learned if I have him put it on at the moment before he’s going  to do something fun, the process goes much faster. Still, it takes several minutes for him to finally get it on. I sing Lets Get It On to keep him focused.

By the time we hit the sidewalk, L’s tummy hurts, and he needs to be carried. He won’t be put down. He rallies for an awesome pink plastic treasure box in the Container Store. D gets a blue one. As I pick out bins for Legos and Other Small Things, L lays on the floor. The cashier does her best to stuff the bins into bags, which are ridiculously huge. With the backpack on, a monstrous Container Store bag on each elbow, and L limp in my arms with his head on my shoulder, I don’t fit through the door. D backs into a stranger trying to help me. There is a red brick section of sidewalk, and D insists on walking brick-by-brick because it is amazing that his feet are almost exactly one brick long. My wrist aches. I am sweating. L isn’t moving. Yerba Buena is so not an option. When I put L down to pay for parking, he lays on the garage floor, and whimpers, “Mama, I think I’m sick.” Well! Isn’t it lucky that we just bought handy plastic containers? L picks his new, pink box to be his barf bucket in the car. Once we start moving, he says he feels all better! Because we really, really need groceries, I decide to try to stick to my plan. L can ride in the shopping cart. We find a spot in the TJs parking lot, and L climbs out of the car. He immediately lays down on the cement. “I NEED MY BUCKET!”, he cries as I am unbuckling D. I say it’s okay to throw up outside in the parking lot, and he lays on his belly between the cars, heaving. Then he sits on the curb, and tosses up a little bit of white stuff. Poor kid. I finally give up on my plans for the day, and focus on him. He lays back down between the cars, looking pale. I sit with him, calling to D to come back as he wanders around the car in the busy parking lot. We all move to the fence at the back of the lot, and sit for a bit. D picks up some broken glass from the trash-filled space between the fence and the lot, and solemnly hands it to me. I don’t know yet whether L is actually sick, or if he is throwing up stomach acid from not eating enough. I had a dog who used to do that. As a puppy, she would only eat tiny, tiny bites at a time, and only if I was in the room with her. She was so thin, and used so much energy just being, she was constantly starving. If she didn’t eat enough, she’d throw up… and that’s what L reminds me of now. He ate nothing but sugar for breakfast! By the time he ate the one pancake, it was probably too late. Then again, he could be sick. Maybe he didn’t eat because he wasn’t feeling well. We head home. L falls asleep in the car. After settling the sleeping L in his bed, and verifying that he doesn’t have a fever, I look around for my keys, which I’d just used to get in the door. I can’t find them. Finally I remember the car is unlocked, so I go get the six plastic containers that are so much bigger in my house than they looked in the store. I cancel the friends who were planning to come for dinner, and actually relax a bit.

With L sleeping, D and I get some quality time. We hang in the backyard, talking about plants, bugs, and lots of random things. He pulls a carrot from the earth, smaller than a candle flame, and carefully gets scissors to cut off the top. He washes it in the bathroom sink, and happily eats it. He drinks up my undivided attention. L announces he is awake by hollering, “I’M HUNGRY!!” After filling his belly with a fat avocado sandwich, he is completely back to normal. No sore tummy. To my friends on whom I cancelled dinner, I’m sorry. I have no food with which to cook, and T-ball practice to attend. I can’t wrangle. Even for something they absolutely love, like T-ball, it is almost impossible to drag the boys away from the backyard mud fest. I threaten missing practice if they don’t get ready now! I yell like a drill sergeant, which is standard get-out-the-door-procedure. We get cleaned up, find their mitts and hats, get shoes and socks on, pack the bag, and are ready to go on time! Except… I have forgotten about the missing keys. Sadly, the scene of me running around the house in a frenzy, yelling things like, “I’M SO FRUSTRATED!” to avoid a much more entertaining cuss fest, while my boys play with Legos or pencils or some other collection of small things, is totally normal. They help me search for about 3 seconds until their toys distract them. After searching L’s bed at least 4 times, I finally find the keys wrapped up in his comforter. We aren’t even late to practice, although I think I lost a year from my life in the freakout. Not my best moment. L spends half of T-ball in my lap, and I start wondering if he might be sick after all. I realize that while I love, love, love having my kids sit in my lap, it has gotten somewhat uncomfortable. They sit the same way they always have, but now it’s like having a big bowling ball that I can’t see over the top of dropped in my lap. We make our way home after practice, and the kids start bouncing off the walls. D is insane. He staggers into the kitchen yelling like a homicidal maniac, bounces off the fridge, rams into me, hits the door frame on his way out, then trips over his baseball mitt. L thunders through after him in a monster chase. I forage for dinner. Maddy comes home to mayhem. I’m exhausted, though it’s hard to explain why or how I spent my day. Typical. My wrist hurts. Wisely, she makes me a Tequila drink. At dinner, the kids can’t sit still to save themselves, and Maddy and I try to make conversation that will root them to their spots so they will eat. L happily declares that he LOVES hash-brown frittata SO MUCH. Yay, he is eating.

Maddy and I winding down at the end of the day seems to affect our kids like reverse psychology. They run through the house trying to keep balloons in the air. Toothbrushing is a typical mix of positive reinforcement and threats. Two oddly bouncy bowling balls sit in my lap for stories. We do cuddles, and I think my day is over. Not so fast. L can’t sleep. He is hungry. For an hour, he wails he is hungry. I give him a banana. (Our rule is one banana at bedtime because we can’t stand the thought of our kids going to bed hungry. Or maybe we just are that desperate for them to sleep through the night.) I am sufficiently worried about L not eating enough and throwing up because of it, that I bend the rules. Another banana. Toast. He’s still hungry. I give him some bites of cheese. He goes to sleep hungry at 10 pm. Napping always wrecks bedtime. Always.

I began this post thinking about how difficult it is to get the kids to do what I want, with how ugly it feels to constantly give them ultimatums or dole out discipline, with how beaten I feel at the end of each day. I know that I could be a better parent by making and enforcing a more clear and consistent structure. I try. That doesn’t make me feel better. What does make me feel a lot better is to realize I am asking the wrong question. Instead of finding more ways to get the kids to behave, I must change the expectation. I must redefine my narrative, make the kids the subjects of it instead of objects. It would be nice to be able to say it’s time to go, and to have my kids jump up from what they are doing, find their socks and shoes, put them on, and meet me at the front door. Ha. Pull back the reins, Mama, they’re not in college yet. They aren’t quite ready for this. First, they still need help with the steps, like finding their socks or staying focused. Second, while they bounce around like intoxicated pinballs, they’ve been driving me crazy because I see their behavior as getting in the way of the rest of my plans and chores. The truth is, my job as a stay-at-home-mom is first-and-foremost to be there for them. Having a kid get sick for not eating, and having the other soak up my undivided attention like a sweaty soccer player drinking Gatorade has made me shift back into Mamabear mode. Time to fill the love buckets! Here’s the interesting thing. After spending the last day or two focused on the kids, listening, cuddling, whatever the moment calls for, I don’t think they’ve actually calmed down. Maybe a little. They seem happier, although that could be because I’m not nearly as annoyed as I was. My love bucket is getting filled up, too. I still am not getting shit done, but I’m a lot happier about it because I’m having more fun with my kids. L walks by singing, “Make me an offer, darling” a la Katy Perry. D is building a fort “the size of the living room.”

A day in the life in December

The plan was to go to an indoor playground on a rainy day…

L had an eye doctor appointment, and the good news is that his weak eye has improved significantly. Afterwards he declares that he LIKES his patch. The bad news is that he still is going to need surgery to straighten the eye.
As a reward, we head to the mall with the awesome indoor playground. We are not accustomed to malls. I’m so out-of-touch, I have forgotten that malls are nightmares in December. I’m thinking we’ll spend an hour, and be home by 3.
We park. L wants to listen to the end of the song before disembarking. Despite the rain, D wages a standoff trying to get me to lift him onto a wall outside the mall entrance. Then he realizes he can walk up the stairs to climb on the wall that is 5 feet tall at the bottom of the stairs, but only 1 foot tall at the top. The wall is a path that must be followed by both of them around and around, while I stand in the rain nearer the entrance. I keep thinking they will hop off at the 1-foot part, so I don’t race back over and down the stairs to spot them across the 5-foot part. They each cross it 3 times.
We head inside. D must walk the mall by stepping in each square of the floor tile.

We find a photo booth. I can’t resist getting pics with my boys. They (with no influence) choose the background theme, “Mommy loves me.”
They are distracted by every gadget and game, every flashing light, and anything shiny. There are an assortment of cars for kids, the ones that used to be a nickel, that lurch slowly for a minute after you put money in. The boys are transfixed. I refuse the exorbitant 75 cents. I resist while they run from car to car, sitting, driving, exploring, oo-ing and ah-ing. A Race car! A Firetruck! LOOK!!! ITS A TROLLEY!! I resist when they can’t be lured away, even by the bright and moving indoor playground 10 feet away. I finally give in when I discover I actually do have a dollar, and there is a change machine. The trolley ride is totally anti-climatic.
By now, they are too hungry to go play. We turn around, and trek to the food court where I can’t find anything bearable to eat. They are in heaven. D finishes first, and takes off, saying, “I’ll be right back.” As if! We’re in the middle of a busy food court! Back at the table, I ask him if he knows why we need to stick together, and he says, “So we don’t get eaten?” I ask what would eat them. He says, “Coyotes.”
Sufficiently wired because I’m certain cups of sugar are added to all mall food, we head back to the playground, which is a pretty awesome place. Everything is padded. There is a room full of balloons with netted walls up a flight of padded stairs. A fan keeps the balloons blowing around like the inside of a bingo ball selector. Kids run through the balloons with frenzied abandon. My kids collided at least three times. They made a new friend, Chase, and spend a good hour racing around like reckless puppies. Mission accomplished. Time to go. It’s 3:15.
Outside, there is another (free) kids play area, and they are off before I can body-block them. A car slide! A tunnel! I give them 2 MINUTES!! 10 Minutes later, I pull them away, and we head to the “family” bathroom. Both demand the right to lock and unlock the door, so when all are ready, I leave with one while the other exercises his right. The man waiting for the bathroom is totally confused when he tries to go in the bathroom as I am leaving with one kid, and I have to tell him no, I’m leaving a 4-year-old in there. The door must close all the way, the lock must engage, then disengage. The door opens, and a proud kid emerges. Now, dear sir, you may go in.
We are standing in front of Target. I remember we need glue and a light bulb for the refrigerator. I think we will run into Target for a minute. Hahahaha, what am I thinking? Bringing the kids to Target???? AT CHRISTMAS? What a fool. I try to find my Drishti – that’s yoga speak for focus. I explain to the kids that this is an exercise in tuning out advertising, which is designed to make you want things, and will rot your brain. Its like putting popcorn in a hot pan and telling it not to pop.
So I make mental notes for Christmas presents: they love holiday lights, the airbrush painting kit, everything rainbow, and… HELLO KITTY?! (“Mom!! Have you ever seen a Hello Kitty like THIS ONE before?! It’s SOOOO BIG!”) D really wants rolls of tape. Then we have to pass by Electronics to get to the bulbs. CARS! TRUCKS! HELICOPTERS! …WITH REMOTE CONTROLS!! They run from sparkly new thing to sparkly new thing, and I am starting to feel like I’ve wandered into a Bermuda Triangle. We are never, ever getting out. Finally, while the boys test all the flashlights, I find my bulb. I see Housewares, and remember they need a hamper for their room. We start searching. We finally settle on a small wire basket- but L wants yellow and D wants silver. We negotiate for a long, long time. Nobody will give. I think of a number between 1 and 10. L picks 10 and D picks 4. My number was 7, and I can’t lie about it. L finally wins a contest, but D is so heartbroken, I give in and buy both baskets.
Finally, it’s time to go home. I am insistent that the Oreos (with bright red centers) and M&Ms lining the checkout line are NOT FOOD. D says innocently and loudly, “Is it sugar, Mama?” like that is a very bad thing. People grin at us.
As the realization sinks in that we have a long walk to the car, both boys sprawl on the Target floor and tell me they are too tired and hungry to get up. As shoppers walk around us, I feed them bits of Satsuma Tangerine like they are little, dying fish. That Bermuda Triangle feeling is overwhelming. I would do anything right now for a stroller.
We rally. Back in the mall, there is a hot dog shop, and I suddenly see a means to get home. They totally perk up for hot dogs. I promise they can have a hot dog once we get back to the car. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Then we pass Santa. It’s the kind you pay for pictures with. They stare, but there isn’t a line of kids waiting for a visit, so I think they’re not sure what it’s all about. I tell them that it’s a fake Santa, that the real one is far too busy to be just sitting there. He waves at them, and they giggle.
Every time they veer off course, I say, “Hotdogs!” with a voice grown hoarse from wrangling.
People stare.
It’s dark and misting outside. We finally get to the car, and the boys rub against it, getting soaked, because its fun to see the water drops disappear.
The snap of their carseat buckles is like Pavlov’s bell, and I relax for the first time. As soon as I am buckled in, I hand them back their still-hot dogs. 5 minutes later, they are both asleep, clutching them unopened.
They eat the hotdogs for dinner, and I’m sure they are packed with sugar because the boys can’t sleep. From their dark room, D sings at the top of his lungs, “…and I said, HEY-EY-EY-EY-EY, HEY-EY-EY, I said HEY, WHATS GOING ON?” Then he yells, “HEY LUKA! I SANG THE ‘HEY’ SONG!” As I write, they are discussing whether or not grownups have birthdays. It’s 10 PM.