“My wife’s aunt passed away recently and we attended her funeral. Her passing will leave a void but I write not about her death, but about the stupidity (my view) of the situation. Her son did not see his mother since his wedding over 10 years ago. There was a disagreement at the time of the wedding. On finding out about his mother’s passing, he decided to attend the funeral. He had apparently stormed out of his home and attended.

“I find it sad the dispute has lasted so long and that there can be such hatred towards others that they do not find it in themselves to be cordial and perhaps forgiving. This son visited a corpse. He will never be able to speak to his mother and I guess that he will have to live with that. I do not know if his mother accepted the situation or whether she secretly hoped that he would come around. We will never know.

“This son should have visited his mother. This situation should not have been allowed to happen. In hind-sight, friends and family should have intervened. We know but I think that it needs to be re-iterated that death is final and to this son and his wife, the dispute is now over.” (letter shortened)

Dear Rod:

I take the liberty of addressing you as Rod because to me you are a friend I meet every weekday at breakfast. I am from Dbn and read the Mercury every morning. I too have been subjected to invasive questions such as those listed. Fortunately (or unfortunately), I have no illusions about how insensitive people can be and take it in my stride. It is when my adopted daughter, who is now 15 years old, is at the receiving end , that I get upset. My way of dealing with this is by ensuring that my daughter feels very secure and loved and is able to talk to me about her adoption any time she needs to. (She was told by us, her parents, at a very young age, that she was adopted.) We, of course did this appropriately, taking her age into consideration. She is aware that most people are unintentionally hurtful and is past making her adoption the focus of her existence. You, of course, have it different because yours is also inter-racial and an adoption is more obvious. You have my greatest respect and good wishes and you and your children will always be in my prayers.

Regards and best wishes

Faeeza

(In response to column published 8/22/06)

“My dad was not an emotional man and on his deathbed a few years ago I urged him to tell me he loved me. This sounds selfish but I knew it was something we both needed. Before he died I saw him cry, I heard him tell me he loved me and I felt the joy of being a young child as he said it. I think this conversation made his death easier for him and for me.” (Letter shortened)

1. Have a wedding that you can afford without going into debt. Debt kills joy.
2. Regard your wedding preparations as a metaphor for how you will probably conduct life. The groom who sits back and lets a bride do all the planning and preparation is likely to sit back and expect her to do many of the important tasks the couple will face.
3. Remember getting married will not solve any but the most cosmetic of issues you face as a person and as a couple. A legal contract signed and witnessed between you will only serve to amplify any issues you already face and awaken a whole lot more. People who are unhappy single are likely to be more unhappy when married.
4. Pay the minister, priest or rabbi more than you pay a DJ or the barman. A lot of insight can be gained about a couple who expect to pay huge amounts for their wedding (expensive dress, excessive floral displays, rental of exotic cars, a flashy reception and an exotic honey-moon) who sneer with surprise, even disdain, when the pastor, rabbi or priest sets a healthy fee for his or her services.

(To my second son’s Birthmother on Mothers’ Day 2003)

You are mother......

There’s a woman somewhere in Indiana, whom I do not know, who has immeasurably blessed my life with the gift of her son. And now, the infant, bulging with good health in his dark blue sleepers, is asleep in a crib in a quietly lit upstairs bedroom.

Thanks, Birthmother. Your gift to me, I know so painfully offered by you, has vastly enhanced my life and life of the baby’s older brother.

You do not know him as he is now, but of course, he is very real to me. I know his sounds that announce when he is hungry, and I know when the dog has entered his room by the unashamed thrill in the child’s voice.

I know he is real to you, too, for you carried him within your womb. Now, and I am only guessing of course, he is probably real to you in the manner the baby of a distant relative might be to me. I know the child exists, but I do not have the smells and the sounds that make him a person. I hope it is something like that for you. I hope you are not daily in pain over your decision to give him to me. I want you to know he is safe, and, although I do not know you, I hope you are, too.

You are “mother,” and even though the boy is very young, I regularly tell him everything I know about you. I tell him that you carried him to full term; that you spent hours at his bedside in the hospital before you signed the papers consenting to his adoption.

A nurse, who would not describe you to me or tell me your name or estimate your age, leaked that she watched you sit lovingly with your son for several hours while he was in intensive care. She said your love and your anguish were very evident. She told me she watched you place a final kiss lovingly and gently on his brow, as if to say goodbye for years, but not forever. She said she watched you turn for the large glass double doors of the hospital ward and walk away to your hard life.

We do not know each other, but we do have something in common. I have your child. He is here. He is growing up under my roof. You completed all the paperwork, and now he has my last name and the first name I chose for him because no other name would fit.

I want you to know that he stands up by himself now. He walks holding onto things. He likes to play, and his favorite game is crawling away as quickly as his little legs will carry his little body when he sees me coming to do one of those repetitive parental tasks like change a diaper or wipe a nose.

Thanks for trusting me with your son. Thanks for believing a single man could do it. On this particular weekend, his first Mother’s Day, and on a day when his image and memory must surely visit you more than it does most days of the year, I want you to know the baby is safe with me. He is deeply and profoundly loved and widely celebrated.

Your gift to me is of immeasurable worth, and the world is better off because of women like you. Thanks, Mom. You are his mother. He carries you around in his being as indelibly as the memory you doubtless have of carrying him within you for nine months. You have richly blessed me, and I am very proud to be the parent of your beautiful son.

First published in The Indianapolis Star, 2003

(Written to my first son’s Birthmother for Mothers’ Day 2000)

I watch my two-year-old son bending at the hip, one foot raised and turning until he falls gloriously to the floor in convulsive laughter, and a momentary pain lights somewhere so deep inside me I can hardly tell in which of my internal galaxies it sits. It is swift and pointed, like the touch of a darting and determined fly set loose in my emotional innards. Then the pain is forgotten, swamped in the exceeding happiness of watching him attack life’s toddler challenges. He’s hungrily learning a language now, having conquered walking and running, and expressing his brand new heart sweetly in partial, ill-formed words and sentences which tumble, jumbled and joyed up all over the house. Sometimes he runs, singing at the top of his voice like an emergency vehicle out of control. With siren blaring, he sprawls across the floor and careens into a heap of toddler chaos. Recovering, he mounts the coffee table against my flagging will and hee haas astride his horse, a precocious knowing smile flashing from his distant meadow. In all of this activity and fun he eases his way further into my being, a steel pylon thrust securely into waiting, willing ground.

I think upon his mother at such times.

The pain I feel is for all she has missed and will miss in the future, and how each day she is surely reminded that she bore a son whom she does not know. I think upon this brave and generous woman who, to me, gave this beautiful child. I will see and know and feel from him what she will never see and know or feel from him. I will hold his head in the palm of my hand and feel his soft breathing against my neck. I will carry his exquisite sleeping frame and lay him down in all the warmth and safety I am able to create.

I, deserving nothing, have everything.

She, even though by her own determined choices, has nothing of him.

He will ooh and ah into my ear. Love’s sounds from a two-year-old in the middle of the night will be mine, not hers.

For her there is nothing.

I am caught in all the love an adoptive father can know. I am exhilarated with the thrill of raising the boy I named. Seeing our last name (I, a single man) upon his birth certificate or printed large, in my hand, upon his “sippy” cup can totally immobilize me. It is as if a wild underground river breaks its banks inside my soul and I am submerged in the miracle and pathos of it all.

But I think, day by day, about her. She, who so willfully and willingly made me a dad the day Methodist Hospital, became holy ground. I took the child and left the building with a car seat and baby in one hand, my other arm precariously clutching the pile of supplies hospitals send home with new mothers. I felt crowned with blessing even as we left her upon the landing, delivery still in the air, looking frail, bare, beautiful and childless. She, who had born to me a son, watched us go from her as a team; her part already played.

Fixed of purpose, the brave woman stood, upon her resolve. But thoughts of her are always there. The images of the final kiss, the last embrace. The first touch of the newborn forehead, with a mother’s lips, loom like expensive art immediately beneath my awareness to enrich every moment with my child. I see her often, the pain lighting upon my hidden place of worship, a reminder of the person who gave me so very much, so willingly. She parted with a life, known so intimately within her womb. She held him passionately in her loving arms, knowing all she would forgo, and did so all the same.

First published in The Indianapolis Star, Mothers’ Day, 2000

Reader: I am livid with my sister-in-law who tries to outdo me at every turn. She is a “keep-up-with-the-Jones’” kind of person who always has to have the latest and the best of everything. I wouldn’t mind that except that she has a subtle way of telling everyone that she is better and richer and more traveled than I am and it is this that rubs me up the wrong way. My husband says I should just ignore her but I can’t. I don’t want to say something and cause a family rift. Please help me. She is driving me crazy. (Letter shortened)

Rod: What is it about you that you allow her behavior to annoy you rather than to amuse you? She is not driving you crazy. You are driving yourself crazy. Your husband is right. Ignore her. If you can’t do that, then at least humor her. Clearly she is hitting some vulnerable spot within you and might even be getting some obscure pleasure from doing so. This is not about her. Excuse the cliché but if she is getting your goat there must be a goat to get!

“My husband and I were happy until the birth of our son when our relationship changed. After our son was born he started cheating, lying, and drinking everyday. We spent less time together than we used to. I thought we were friends, but now it feels like we are distant cousins. Our sex life is boring.”

Your future must seem dull and painfully endless! While I am sad that you are victim to your husband’s cruel behavior, I am also sad for your child who is witnessing a marriage he could hardly want to emulate.

Please read David Schnarch’s book entitled Passionate Marriage. I will warn you that it is the very best book on sex and relationships I have ever read. While it is very sexual, it is never pornographic.

It is to be read as a whole, cover to cover, before judgments are issued on its worthiness.

The book outlines the journey of couples who have lives as miserable as you describe yours to be, and offers valuable keys for all marriages and all relationships.

I have gotten into hot water for recommending this book to couples, not only because it promotes very strong and healthy sex lives, but because it challenges people to live full, complete, and adventurous lives.