Later this summer, the members of my graduating class will be celebrating our ten year reunion. Planning started late, so when I hadn't seen an invitation I assumed that either it was forgotten or I was-- either a possibility. However, recently my Facebook feed was been filled with comments from names I haven't thought about in 9 1/2 years and an event has been established.
I hold nothing against anyone from my senior class. I had a few friends and I had a few people who picked on me, but for the most part I was ignored. What was done back then holds very little weight to who I am today.
I also hold no interest in knowing how these people turned out. If I did, a few moments of Facebook stalking would confirm the important stuff-- if they were still living at home, married, have kids, have jobs, live in a foreign country. But I don't often find myself looking through the profiles of people I haven't spoken with since the day I accepted my diploma. I wish them all well, but, I really just don't care. With the exception of a few friends who I barely speak with now, these people are from my distant past and keeping up with everyone would be exhausting.
With that in mind, I had already decided not to go the minute I received the notification. I also chose not to attend for a reason that I'm embarrassed to admit.
There was a small, but terrible, part of me that wanted to show up and show off. As arrogant as it may sound, I'm pretty happy with my life currently. I'm fit, I'm working an awesome job, volunteering with great organizations, making a difference and happily married for many years. It would be nice to show some of these people that the band geek runs now, that the shy girl is now on two community organization boards, that the boring one now has a really good, stable life.
I felt smug for about a minute and a half. My chest was all puffed up and I was thinking how awesome it would be show up in some cute outfit and have heads turn. "Is that... Kristin?" They would exclaim, jaws hitting the floor.
But then I had a reality check.
First, arrogance in any shape or form is just plain stupid, not attractive at all and not a part of my persona.
Second, success is a matter of perspective.
While I am completely comfortable and happy with my life, I thought for a second what someone from the outside, hearing only the major details, might think.
I am the girl who dropped out of college to marry her high school sweetheart. I work part time at a retail job and part time at home. I have no kids. I seem obsessed with my body because I work out and am into nutrition. I talk way too much about (and to) my dogs. I still only have a small handful of friends and call my mom almost every day.
Again, that's not how I see myself. They may be true, on the surface, but I love all of those things about myself. But I imagine walking in all tall and proud and having people raise their eyebrow at me. Instead of the "Is that... Kristin?" it would be "Oh... so that's all you've done with your life?"
So, I will not be attending our reunion, Class of 2005. Sorry. I hope you have a lovely time, I hope you reconnect in ways you want. I'll just stay here, go for a run, talk to my dogs, and go on a date with my husband instead. If you want to get to know the adult Kristin, feel free to reach out.
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Dear Jim -- An Expectant Adoptive Father
Dear Jim,
In the past few weeks, I have seen you interact with a lot of kids. From a just learning to walk infant to busy 6 year olds, you were quiet and stand-offish at first, not knowing where you fit as a man who has not yet been a father, but soon enough you were welcomed into their little worlds. You read a book to one little girl. You held another on your shoulders and helped her out of her car seat. You held a boys hand as he crossed the road and kept a hand lightly on his shoulder as your navigated a busy parking lot. You played catch and fixed bikes. Your eyes were bright, you were so excited.
And on the drive home from each time spent with kids, I felt the disappointment and could see it in your face. I know you loved the time with them but it gets harder with each visit. With each sweet little smile or cute little giggle, you are reminded again that you are not yet a dad. So, when after a long silence you say, "I'm ready." I know exactly what you mean.
I remember when we were carefree, looking at cute little babies and keeping a safe we-don't-know-anything-about-kids distance, when the "someday" in "someday, when we have kids" was a daydream in a far off land that would become our reality at some time in the future. A daydream we fueled with our naive conversations about having perfectly well behaved kids, still having time for ourselves, being perfect parents. A daydream with scenes of us sharing a quiet afternoon in a well-manicured back yard, you playing ball with a son and me serving pink lemonade at our daughters tea party.
I was with you when our dreaming evolved into excitement and a sense of urgency. When we put smiley faces on certain days of the calendar and suddenly noticed every little kid between the ages of 0 and 10. When we planned cute ways to tell our families about a pregnancy. When it wasn't a question that we would soon be parents in that blissful daydream we've cultivated for so many years.
You were a part of sitting on the bathroom floor waiting for a stick to tell us our fate. When we read reviews on every possible fertility enhancement we could find. When we learned the lingo of people who are officially trying to conceive. When we would analyze pink lines every day I was testing for ovulation.
I was the one that you held tightly when I broken down on Mother's Day last year. I was the one you treated to flowers and chocolates and kisses and back rubs when I couldn't take infertility any longer. I was the one you cared for and protected, because that is who you are.
I know that you have, like me, wondered if it was your own body that was betraying us. Wondering if maybe it's discipline from a past sin or something you are doing wrong. I know that you have started taking multivitamins and avoided bacon (your favorite) and other foods that might be the problem. I know it has worried you.
I was sitting beside you when you realized adoption was the plan for our life. When your voice got quiet and you told me you thought that was the right path for us. I experienced the excitement in that car as we drove to Thanksgiving dinner, I was amazed when we made plans and agreed on everything.
I helped you while you fixed our banister, plugged every outlet and childproofed our home. We sat together nervously as a stranger interviewed us to become potential parents. You drove us two hours each way, two weekends in a row, to go to more interviews. You went through fingerprinting, background checking, piles of paperwork and filling out profile information beside me. You helped pick out the pictures to submit, you organized the tax documents for me.
I know at times it felt like you weren't as important. In adoption, the initial focus seems to be the birth mother, which sometimes extends to the adoptive mother, with the adoptive father sitting behind. I know that Mother's Day sermons are about how great moms are and Father's Day sermons are about stepping up. I know that because you don't openly share your concerns with the world, you don't have the support that I do. But I want you to know that I support you.
So I hope this Father's Day you can celebrate. Celebrate your dad, and all of his good traits. Celebrate the father-figures in your life, or father's that you appreciate.
Celebrate the hope that someday we will be parents and hold on to that hope with me. Celebrate knowing that our "someday, when we're parents" will actually come.
And let me celebrate you. Knowing your character, knowing your heart, witnessing your actions-- I celebrate that you will be the father of my children. I celebrate your kind heart, your giving spirit, your love for me, your hard work, your wonderful smile and your devotion to the Lord. I celebrate being "your girl" for half of my life. I imagine you holding our baby, walking our young child across the street, holding our child on your shoulders, and I celebrate the future.
Happy Father's Day, Jim. You are my love, my best friend, and the better half of me. I can't wait until a little voice calls you Daddy on this very special day.
In the past few weeks, I have seen you interact with a lot of kids. From a just learning to walk infant to busy 6 year olds, you were quiet and stand-offish at first, not knowing where you fit as a man who has not yet been a father, but soon enough you were welcomed into their little worlds. You read a book to one little girl. You held another on your shoulders and helped her out of her car seat. You held a boys hand as he crossed the road and kept a hand lightly on his shoulder as your navigated a busy parking lot. You played catch and fixed bikes. Your eyes were bright, you were so excited.
And on the drive home from each time spent with kids, I felt the disappointment and could see it in your face. I know you loved the time with them but it gets harder with each visit. With each sweet little smile or cute little giggle, you are reminded again that you are not yet a dad. So, when after a long silence you say, "I'm ready." I know exactly what you mean.
I remember when we were carefree, looking at cute little babies and keeping a safe we-don't-know-anything-about-kids distance, when the "someday" in "someday, when we have kids" was a daydream in a far off land that would become our reality at some time in the future. A daydream we fueled with our naive conversations about having perfectly well behaved kids, still having time for ourselves, being perfect parents. A daydream with scenes of us sharing a quiet afternoon in a well-manicured back yard, you playing ball with a son and me serving pink lemonade at our daughters tea party.
I was with you when our dreaming evolved into excitement and a sense of urgency. When we put smiley faces on certain days of the calendar and suddenly noticed every little kid between the ages of 0 and 10. When we planned cute ways to tell our families about a pregnancy. When it wasn't a question that we would soon be parents in that blissful daydream we've cultivated for so many years.
You were a part of sitting on the bathroom floor waiting for a stick to tell us our fate. When we read reviews on every possible fertility enhancement we could find. When we learned the lingo of people who are officially trying to conceive. When we would analyze pink lines every day I was testing for ovulation.
I was the one that you held tightly when I broken down on Mother's Day last year. I was the one you treated to flowers and chocolates and kisses and back rubs when I couldn't take infertility any longer. I was the one you cared for and protected, because that is who you are.
I know that you have, like me, wondered if it was your own body that was betraying us. Wondering if maybe it's discipline from a past sin or something you are doing wrong. I know that you have started taking multivitamins and avoided bacon (your favorite) and other foods that might be the problem. I know it has worried you.
I was sitting beside you when you realized adoption was the plan for our life. When your voice got quiet and you told me you thought that was the right path for us. I experienced the excitement in that car as we drove to Thanksgiving dinner, I was amazed when we made plans and agreed on everything.
I helped you while you fixed our banister, plugged every outlet and childproofed our home. We sat together nervously as a stranger interviewed us to become potential parents. You drove us two hours each way, two weekends in a row, to go to more interviews. You went through fingerprinting, background checking, piles of paperwork and filling out profile information beside me. You helped pick out the pictures to submit, you organized the tax documents for me.
I know at times it felt like you weren't as important. In adoption, the initial focus seems to be the birth mother, which sometimes extends to the adoptive mother, with the adoptive father sitting behind. I know that Mother's Day sermons are about how great moms are and Father's Day sermons are about stepping up. I know that because you don't openly share your concerns with the world, you don't have the support that I do. But I want you to know that I support you.
So I hope this Father's Day you can celebrate. Celebrate your dad, and all of his good traits. Celebrate the father-figures in your life, or father's that you appreciate.
Celebrate the hope that someday we will be parents and hold on to that hope with me. Celebrate knowing that our "someday, when we're parents" will actually come.
And let me celebrate you. Knowing your character, knowing your heart, witnessing your actions-- I celebrate that you will be the father of my children. I celebrate your kind heart, your giving spirit, your love for me, your hard work, your wonderful smile and your devotion to the Lord. I celebrate being "your girl" for half of my life. I imagine you holding our baby, walking our young child across the street, holding our child on your shoulders, and I celebrate the future.
Happy Father's Day, Jim. You are my love, my best friend, and the better half of me. I can't wait until a little voice calls you Daddy on this very special day.
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