burnt toast life

this story will make you smile

Something exciting happened in our family.

I have a new cousin.

But she’s not a newborn. Not even close.

Let me explain…

I don’t have to preach to this blog’s audience about the pervasiveness of infertility. I don’t have to tell you about the thousands upon thousands of childless couples suffering in silence. I think that now in the blogging age, things are a little different, and more open. But even in this open, tell-all climate of oversharing, some of the blogs I follow remain anonymous. There’s still a stigma surrounding infertility. I would imagine that ten or twenty years ago it was even worse.

I found out that my aunt and uncle wanted to have kids and couldn’t many years after they had probably stopped trying. Anyone could see that they would make excellent parents. Back when I was young and much more self-absorbed, I didn’t spend too much time wondering why they never had children. It was only after my mom told me about it that it all started to make sense. And it made me so, so sad.

I don’t need to go into the details of their struggle, nor could I, because I don’t even know the half of it. But what do the specifics of dates and treatments really matter, anyway? We all know the story. Many of us lived it, or some version. Try. Fail. Try again. Spend money. Spend more money. Cry. Cry again. Keep hoping. Give up hope.

My uncle and I never sat down and had a heart to heart when I opened up about our struggle to get pregnant, but we did discuss it a little bit. I remember complaining over the exorbitant cost of Bravelle and he laughed quietly. “Is that all? It used to cost ten times that much,” he said. And yeah, then I felt bad for complaining.

It brings joy to my heart when I think about how many of us have made it through to the other side. I started blogging about infertility in late 2012. As of now, every single infertility blogger who I followed through the years is now a parent through fertility treatments, adoption, luck, or some combination of those things. Many of them stopped blogging or don’t blog very often because they’re so busy parenting that they don’t have time to write anymore. That’s amazing. I hate that, because I don’t have as many blogs to read, and I LOVE that, because it’s awesome.

But I promised the story of my new cousin, so here it is. Last summer, the email group my family uses to stay in touch received an interesting message. My uncle announced that he and his wife would be hosting a little girl from Colombia for part of the summer. In his words…

Her name is Paula and she is 12 years old.

Paula is an abandoned child who has been living in an orphanage in Colombia. She will be staying with us this summer through the Kidsave Summer Miracles program. Kidsave is a nonprofit organization that attempts to find families for children who have been deemed “unadoptable.” Usually, children are deemed unadoptable when they reach the age of 11 or 12.

Paula will be living with us from June 27 until August 3. Each weekend, we will take Paula to a special “Kidsave event.” At these events, Paula will be introduced to families that are interested in adopting her. These are in a sort of speed-dating format.

Paula is a very nice little girl who is very shy, lacks confidence and is in need of some encouragement. She seems to have talent in both art and music.

Just as I expected, the outpouring of excitement over meeting Paula began immediately. This is something I love about my family – we welcome people in. No matter who you are, you are welcome. I can’t tell you how many Thanksgivings and Christmases have included invited guests from a variety of circumstances… people who were new in town, coworkers with nowhere else to go, neighbors, friends, anyone. My favorite part is how we never treat it as a strange situation to have a random new dinner guest. No one gushes over the new person or makes them uncomfortable, but rather they’re absorbed right into the family as though they’ve always been there. To be fair, holiday celebrations are incredibly hectic, so maybe no one notices a few extra people thrown in…

Anyway, I knew she’d be accepted and loved from the moment she appeared on the scene. I met Paula at my parents’ 4th of July party in 2015, and then spent the week with her (and approximately 40 of my extended family members) when we went on our annual beach vacation. We couldn’t communicate much beyond “Hello” (she only speaks Spanish, and once again my 5 years of honors French proved utterly useless), but she was always smiling, taking everyone and everything in. My then 10-year-old sister Allie and 13-year-old cousin Kate adopted her into their pre-teen girl gang (Lord help us all). There were dance parties. There was fun. And just as I expected, Paula fit in as easily as anyone else who has ever accidentally or purposefully been initiated into my family.

She left a short time later, and I think we were all secretly wondering if my aunt and uncle would want to adopt her themselves. In late November, we had our answer— they announced that they had sent their letter of intent to the Colombian child welfare agency, stating that they wanted to adopt a specific child.

I can’t believe how long the adoption process takes. I can’t imagine how expensive, and nerve racking, and exciting it must have been for all those months between November and now. They had to skip our family ski trip in March because they assumed (correctly) that any and all vacation time would be spent in Colombia, where they’d need to run around for many weeks cutting through all the red tape. We were hoping they’d make it to the beach trip, which grew to 50 people this year, but they ended up missing it by a matter of days. You know what? It’s OK, because all three of them will be there next year.

Everyone is home now. I officially have a new cousin. I did ask permission to tell the story here because I wasn’t sure how they felt about having their story broadcast to the world (not that millions of people read my blog, but you know what I mean). I was just so excited to share it, especially with people who “get it,” and I hope that by this point you are smiling.

Smiling because it’s never too late.

Never too late to become a parent if that’s what you really want.

Never too late to find a family, even if you’ve reached an age that some consider to be “unadoptable.”

I’m smiling because I was at a family party last weekend, and I’ve never seen my aunt and uncle so happy.

Paula looked pretty happy, too. I still can’t understand a word she’s saying, but I hugged her and she kissed my fat baby and squeezed his chubby cheeks, which is something that supersedes any kind of language barrier.

Sometimes, at the end of a long road, there is redemption.

with the judge, in a special dress, getting her new birth certificate

with the judge, in a special dress, getting her new birth certificate

OCMD, 2015. I asked my uncle to send me his favorite picture of the 3 of them, and here it is

OCMD, 2015. I asked my uncle to send me his favorite picture of the 3 of them, and here it is

something very bad will probably happen soon

This post has been floating around in my head forever. I guess it’s time it finally came out. Sit back and relax…it’s going to be a long one.

It’s actually quite exhausting to try to sum up what it’s like being related to my brother Eric (not to be confused with my husband Eric). The simple fact is that he has always been an exhausting person. High energy from the very beginning, really for as long as he has been alive. Outgoing, popular, self-confident. Always quick to make friends. But also selfish, demanding, and exceedingly self-absorbed.

Here’s an old story – I’ll never forget one year on our annual beach vacation when he decided he needed a very specific logo screen printed onto a t-shirt. I can’t remember what it was for, or why it was so important – rest assured that it was not required for any event or team, just that he got it in his head that he needed it. He couldn’t have been more than 10 at the time. We literally spent the entire week stopping at various print shops all over Maryland trying to find someone who could create this specific t-shirt he had dreamed up in his imagination. My grandmother, an artist, tried to draw him the exact logo as he described and even that wasn’t good enough. He talked about it day and night, and our planned family activities were all cut short in order to just “check out one more place to make the shirt.” Several shirts were made but none of them were just right, and so we had to keep trying, daily, for the entire week. In the end, I don’t think he was ever satisfied with the dozens of shirts that were printed for him. But also, more tellingly, he felt absolutely no shame over hijacking the entire summer vacation and ruining everyone’s good time in order to get what he wanted. In his mind, he was – and is – the only person who matters.

That my parents allowed him to act in such a way and endlessly bent to his wishes has always been a sore subject. He was for a long time the only boy and the baby of the family – the stereotypical golden child who could get away with anything. But then again, he was obnoxious to the point of delirium. If they hadn’t taken him to every screen printer on the Eastern seaboard, he would have just kept repeating himself and pleading his case ad infinitum, until we all wanted to jump off the 20th floor balcony of our beach condo (or just push him off – which in retrospect, would have solved a lot of future problems).

This is just one example of many to illustrate the sort of person my brother is and always has been. The first descriptor that comes to mind when I think of him is selfish. He is spoiled and selfish and for the past God knows how many years, he is also a drug addict.

And yes, these traits go hand in hand, though I think the selfishness in this case did precede the addiction. If you’ve ever seen an episode of Intervention, then you know that my family’s story is hardly original. (Though I do feel like, on Intervention, there’s always that moment where the text appears on the screen that says, “And that’s when Carrie’s dad left,” when you can say to yourself, ahhhhh, ok, now it all makes sense. In my brother’s case, I can’t think of any obvious moments like that.)

I come from an upper middle class family, a safe neighborhood, two loving parents and a relatively normal upbringing. We’ve always had more than enough and as I’ve already mentioned, my brother has always had even more than that. Naturally gifted and athletic, he was a nationally ranked wrestling star with a bedroom full of trophies and medals and more friends than I could ever keep track of. Despite the fact that I was seven years older, people would always refer to me as “Eric’s sister,” and most of them didn’t even realize he had two older sisters since neither of us played sports or stood out in any way – at least not compared to him. He was outgoing and talented and impossible to ignore. And then, at some point, it all fell apart.

Part of the problem is that we lived this nice, innocent, normal existence and really had no inkling of the warning signs of drug addiction until they were smacking us right in the face. Even then, it took my parents a really long time to admit how bad the problem was. They both worked long hours and relied on us kids to be self-sufficient – we were left home alone and expected to take care of our own after-school snacks, homework, and entertainment. My sister and I never had a problem with this. For my brother, the lack of rules and structure turned out to be disastrous.

Who knows how it started, when it started… at this point, I’m sure it doesn’t even matter. It’s been going on for so long that my memories of those early days are hazy and it’s really not worth going back and rehashing every painful moment (plus, my memory has never been that good). There are just a few things that stick out in my mind–

All the things he stole. Oh, did he steal. Things from my parents, mostly. Irreplaceable things. All of my mom’s jewelry, both my parent’s class rings, the silver flatware we used to eat Christmas dinner, phones, iPads, tools, cash, purses, televisions, car batteries… everything. Anything. Things we still don’t even realize we are missing.

Once he stole my father’s air compressor and sold it to a pawn shop. My dad went and bought it back. Then Eric sold it again.

The worst for me was when he stole my laptop, which had pictures I hadn’t backed up and would never see again. The next morning we brokered a deal with the drug dealer he sold it to and offered him $600 cash – no penalty – to get it back. We of course never got it, and the cash disappeared, too.

You know what, that wasn’t the worst. The worst was when he stole my little sister’s gift cards that she got for her birthday party (maybe she was 4? 5?) and told her that he took them because he planned on taking her to the movies. He never took her to the movies.

All the times he has ruined. I guess the beach story was just a harbinger of things to come. He has a knack for choosing moments to ruin – mostly vacations, and always Christmas. Eventually it just became commonplace that he would fall asleep at the dinner table or need to borrow a car and go out on some urgent errand. That he needed money for the errand. That he would pester and plead and threaten and scream until you gave in and gave him what he wanted just so he would shut the hell up. Then he’d bring the car back with fenders missing or giant dents and no reasonable explanation, only that it “wasn’t his fault.” I can’t tell you how many of my parent’s cars he has ruined.

Or how about the Christmas when my mom was cleaning his room, getting ready for the guests we have every year, and pricked herself with one of his used needles. My mom is so strong but when I walked in and saw her crying, helplessly, I genuinely didn’t know what to say or do.

All the potential he wasted. You see stories of these kids, born into poverty, toiling day and night and to get into decent colleges and then working their asses off to become doctors and lawyers…my brother is the exact opposite of that. He was born with every opportunity, with so much talent and potential, on the fast-track to getting a full-ride to college on a sports scholarship and then doing whatever he wanted with his life. Making money, being successful, making his dreams come true. Instead, he got kicked out of high school, eventually did get a GED, and has had yet to hold down a real job. He mooches off my parents or whatever girl he happens to be seeing and has absolutely nothing to his name. You know what he has? He has one small duffle bag of clothes and a cracked iPhone. That’s about it.

There was a brief, shining oasis in the middle of this when I actually thought he was “cured.” I remember it was 2010 because they allowed him to leave rehab to be in my wedding – and he looked better than he had looked in years. He smiled, made eye contact, engaged. Didn’t disappear mysteriously. Acted like a normal human being. It was the longest I’ve ever seen him sober and the difference in his demeanor was astonishing. Naively, I allowed myself to imagine it was over.

It wasn’t. It isn’t. His drug of choice these days is heroin, and has been for a long, long time. Maybe I should just count my blessings because it’s actually much better than crack – crack makes him wild, crazy, uncontrollable. Heroin, at least he can function. He can pretend to the point that I wonder if he’s still doing it right up until the point that one of my parents mentions he’s in rehab – again.

Writing this post was supposed to be therapeutic but now I don’t even know. I’ve written this much so I might as well finish. There is no ending, no resolution – he still is who he is and I stay out of the drama as much as possible. It’s just a fact at this point – either he’s finally going to get clean, or he’s going to overdose and die. I’m not sure it makes much of a difference now.

For me, I’ve managed to distance myself emotionally, because what else can I do? He and I were never close – I’m 7 years older, and in general just a very different kind of person. He has always frustrated me, even before the drugs, and now I just can’t muster the sympathy.

I’ll be honest – I can be hard on people. I don’t understand weak personalities and self pity and addiction in general, despite the fact that I’ve known many addicts. I’m familiar with it – but I’m not the most sympathetic. Maybe it’s because I’ve been through some heavy shit in my own life and the most wallowing I’ve ever allowed myself are a few “woe is me” blog posts and some nights spent crying inconsolably. I’ve never numbed the pain with drugs and alcohol. I’ve always been of the mindset that life is tough, and you should buck up, work hard, and get over it.

The only people I truly feel bad for in this situation are my parents. I hate what he is doing to them. It’s funny, I often think of myself as more worldly, and more able to handle things than my parents – and in a way, like I need to protect them. Sort of like when I watch a movie and tell my mom it’s “too graphic, with too much nudity and violence” for her. My parents are former band geeks, high school sweethearts who have been married for 32 years and go to church every Sunday. My mom has never even smoked a cigarette. I really cannot fathom how they ended up with a son living this kind of life.

I think addiction is selfish. I do recognize that it’s a disease, and I respect that, but every time he goes to rehab (I’ve lost count, it has to be anywhere from 50 to 100 times by now), I expect things to change. He detoxes the drugs out of his system – gets sick – suffers. And then it’s a clean slate. A new beginning. Every. Single. Time. He’s lucky enough to have parents who are still supporting him (maybe not like they once did, but he is on their insurance, and has the opportunity to go to rehab in the first place). And yet, he comes home, and makes a call, and starts the cycle all over again. I just want to shake him. STOP MAKING THE PHONE CALL. START OVER.

So yeah, I’m tough, but I also don’t hold grudges. I will forgive and forgive as many times as it takes. If he were to get clean, for real, tomorrow, I wouldn’t constantly remind him of the past or harp on all the Coach bags that I still think about and will never be able to replace because they don’t even make them anymore. I would embrace him and forgive him and tell him he’s doing a great job. But with each passing day, I become less and less convinced that day will finally come.

My brother Eric is 24 years old and every year I doubt he’ll make it to the next one. This year he went really went off the deep end right before our summer vacation (of course) and we heard that whatever girlfriend he’d been crashing with had kicked him out and he was living under a bridge somewhere. I thought for sure we’d get *the call* while we were on vacation. (And even then I thought, yet another vacation ruined). But we didn’t.

These past couple months since we got back from vacation I haven’t heard much about him and I haven’t asked. It’s just easier for me not to know. Then this past weekend he was suddenly at our weekly family dinner, ostensibly making a 2-day pit stop at my parent’s house between detox and rehab. It was weird to see him. He didn’t know Molly could walk, didn’t know I was having a boy. I’m not sure when I’ll see him again.

And I might be too exhausted to care.

It’s not about the food (it was never about the food)

Try to contain your excitement…I figured out a topic to discuss other than indigestion.

I’m wondering if anyone feels the same way I do about this.

Friday was a coworker’s last day, and the tradition since I’ve been working here has been that he, another coworker, and I all go out to get lunch together on a fairly frequent basis. No one at my company takes full lunch breaks, but we do often run out to grab something from the myriad of nearby food places. As these things tend to be, it’s not so much about seeking sustenance – it’s about taking a much-needed break midday, breathing in some fresh air, talking, laughing, and generally bonding. At least, that’s how I think of it. Even when I bring my lunch, I usually go out with them and find something to purchase – a drink, some ill-advised chili cheese fries. These are trips that I wouldn’t bother to take by myself, but since they are going, I go along. Because… it’s not about the food. It’s not even really about taking a break. It’s about more than that.

So Friday, other coworker brought leftovers from home and decided she didn’t want to come to grab lunch…on his last day! I was trying to explain my whole theory of, “It’s not about the food…” but I realized that I was sounding nostalgic, needy, and perhaps a little silly. So I just let it go. However, it did make me think about how I always do this, and how maybe I’m the weird one. (And as a side note, we did eventually convince her to come and we had our final hurrah, so don’t worry).

Another similar example: Eric has skipped many a family dinner because he had just eaten, or wasn’t hungry for whatever reason. But even if I had just eaten or wasn’t hungry, I would still go… to HIS family dinners at his parent’s house. (I guess they are technically my family too through marriage). I’ve definitely said these words to him before – “It’s not about the food. It’s about seeing the family.” But he acts like I’m crazy for going to a so-called dinner with a full stomach. As the nieces and nephews continued to multiply and my retired in-laws started to travel more, the family dinners went from weekly to practically nonexistent. I understand that it’s a lot to take on (and clean up), but at the same time the absence of them makes me sad, and grateful for all the times I went. I love family dinners. Even when I’m not hungry. This is why Eric and I live within a 5 mile radius of his parents, my parents, my sister, and all three of his sisters. All the aunts and uncles on both sides are within driving distance, and we literally see both sides of our family for every holiday. Yeah, we talked about moving to Denver last year, but was it ever going to happen? No. We’re both hardcore family people (despite his willingness to skip the occasional family dinner). If my house were big enough to take on the responsibility of hosting weekly dinners, I would do it myself. My ultimate goal is to have that one day.

It’s funny because as I said, my little sister’s 9th birthday was last Thursday and all she wanted was for the family to come over and have cake with her. Despite the fact that she’s a little kid and loves sweets, I know her well enough to know that the cake was not the important part. She wanted everyone to come over and hang out for a little. We couldn’t do dinner because she had to go church to fulfill her First Communion requirement, and yeah it was late for my other sister’s kids to be awake, but we all came over at 8:30 p.m. on a weeknight because to Allie, that’s what matters – seeing her family. I’ve never met a little girl who appreciated family gatherings so much. But I totally get where she’s coming from, because I’m exactly the same way.

"What a beautiful, perfect backyard we have. We should sell our house."

“What a beautiful, perfect backyard we have. We should sell our house.”

Anyone else watch the show Parenthood? Anyone else irate that they sold that house? In case you’re not a fan, here’s the long story short: these parents have a positively gorgeous, craftsman-style home with a beautiful backyard adorned with twinkly overhead lights. This is the hub where the family gathers to discuss problems, have rowdy dinners, and just generally live out their lives. But the matriarch decides that she wants to be closer to the city so she can go to art galleries and stuff on a whim. Her husband, the ultimate homebody, is initially opposed but eventually bends to his wife’s wishes and sells the beautiful, perfect family home in the season finale. I understand that different people have different values, and that no one way is better or worse than another. But in this show, that whole scenario is exactly opposite of what I want for my life. I am seeking out that house where everyone gathers, and I would never, ever, EVER sell it. As my father likes to say, they’d be carrying me out feet first. There’s nothing I want more than an outdoor picnic table and some strategically placed Edison bulbs on a string for ambiance (can you tell I’m a little obsessed with lighting in general?). I want to create a warm, welcoming home where family comes together… even when they’re not hungry. Even when it’s not a special occasion. Even when it’s a random Tuesday.

Because it’s not about the food. It was never about the food. It’s about the family, and it’s about the friends, and it’s about the connecting with the people in life who mean the most to you. Who’s with me?

A quiet house

I have always known that I wanted children, and here is one of the reasons why.

I grew up in a loud house. There was always someone yelling, lots of commotion, and lots of noise in general. I was one of three (for a long time, until I was one of five), but I would argue that my brother Eric counts for two or even three in terms of noise-making abilities.

Holidays were even crazier, typical Italian drama-fests with an entire extended family crammed into tight quarters. I loved it. That is what spoke to my heart. It felt comfortable, it felt safe, it just felt like home.

One of the first things I loved about Eric was his big, loud family. I immediately felt like I belonged there, because it felt just like my family gatherings. One of my great joys in life is our weekly Sunday dinner at his parent’s house, a cacophony of kids and grandkids and spouses.

Naturally, I imagined a noisy house of my own, filled with the harmonious sounds of kids and dogs and happiness. Of course, I treasure silence at times, but I like it as an unexpected surprise, not a normal state of being. This morning is so quiet here that you can hear the fish tank filter humming. Sometimes we keep a TV on to drown out the silence, but sometimes we don’t. And in those moments of quiet it can be so lonely.

The silence felt oppressive when there was no solution in sight. Now that we hopefully have one, it feels like the quiet before the storm. It’s a quiet anticipation. It’s like we’re collectively holding our breath, waiting for the next moment, waiting for the noise to finally come into our house. I like when things are clean and orderly, but once the laundry is done and the dishes are done and the vacuuming is done it’s a little bit sad. I definitely feel a sense of “Now what?” I mean, it’s obvious that I’m lacking a purpose. But it’s not so much lacking as it is having a purpose that’s unfilled for right now.

I’m just really looking forward to the noise.