Support, Part 2

In 2006, our family contributed to the Kinship Caregiver Coalition's Christmas basket fund. They distribute baskets of toys, books, and food to help kinship caregivers pay for this most expensive holiday. This year, however, we received a Christmas basket--well, trash bags actually--filled with toys, books, clothing, and food. Our benefactor is a ministry called Project Help. Does our shift in position from givers to receivers reflect a change in our economic status? Or is something else going on?

After I attended the support group meeting I wrote about in Support, Part 1, we started getting offers of --well, assistance. Not just the Christmas basket but another group offered to give us a Thanksgiving basket a few weeks before. I don't remember supplying any financial information to or requesting aid from the organization that sponsored the meeting. Yet, here we are, on their list to receive -- assistance.

I have to admit, it felt odd to be "in need of assistance," as in "so and so charity provides clothing and toys to families 'in need of assistance.'" BD and I declined the Thanksgiving basket. "Certainly there are other families who need food," I condescendingly explained to the person who called to deliver our basket. "We have our Thanksgiving dinner, thank you. So, just give our basket to a (needy) family." I did not say "needy" to her; I said "another." But needy is what I meant.

Why is it that accepting charity, assistance--financial or otherwise--should make us feel ashamed, embarrased, needy?

It's not like we haven't received assistance before. When we first brought Sun home, a place called Hannah's Closet sent baby clothes, plush toys, crib linens, a car seat, a stroller, bottles, and diapers to us for free. When the children were infants, we received WIC program coupons for formula (expensive stuff!), milk, and juice. Our state offers a monthly grant to kinship caregivers based solely on that fact, regardless of income. It is not much, but I got a letter today stating that, come January, the amount will be increased. In these tough economic times, it's incredible that the State of Ohio affords even a minimal increase. In these economic times, it's good news for us.

But somehow "needing" a basket at Thanksgiving and Christmas carries a connotation that made me uncomfortable. Why? Years of indocrination, I suppose. We're supposed to beleive that anyone who needs and accepts assistance is lazy, a cheat, of low value in society. A leech sucking money from the hardworking taxpayers.

I know that's not true for us. We're two of the hardest-working people I know. I don't believe it's true for other kinship caregivers. Raising children is the hardest and most worthwhile work you can do. I doubt it's true for any of the other (mostly) women lined up along with me in the freezing cold and falling snow to receive our Christmas baskets from Project Help this year. Some of those women could not even stand in line. They were on canes or had arthritis so bad they had to be escorted along the "shopping" areas. All of them--every one--had children they had to get back home to. One woman I talked to is caring for four foster children, all boys. Whew!

So, yes, I accepted this offer of Christmas toys for our family, though BD was not 100% for it. I accepted not because we can't afford to purchase some gifts for Sun and Raine. (But any money we save now is only going to benefit them in the future.) I went there today because here was another chance for me to get the kind of support I do need: the company of people who are experiencing the challenges we're experiencing; the chance to share stories, make connections, get information; and, most importantly, the evidence of the good and loving impulses in our species in the fact that so many volunteers gave up hours of their life to make accepting assistance an efficient, pleasant, humanizing experience. Not at all like mall shopping.

Not just those volunteering today, but the many people who worked in the weeks leading up to this day, gathering donations, sorting, boxing, labeling. And not just the people doing the physical work, but also the stores, organizations ,and individuals who donated food, toys, clothes and school supplies. And not just the donors, but also the spirit of the woman who started Project Help 22 years ago--Mrs. Claire Lilla Waters. By accepting their assistance, thier gift, I am touched by and connected to them all.

Mrs. Waters' daughter, Sandy Waters-Holley, is carrying on this annual event now that her mother has passed. I can't help but feel good after just a few minutes in her presence. She is spirit-filled. "This is not about Santa Clause," she told us. "This is about Jesus."

Where is the shame in accepting such help as this?

I read a prayer recently, written by a 17th Century poet: "Thou that hast given so much to me, Give one thing more, a grateful heart."

It's not an economic shift, but a spiritual one that allows me to accept this charity with a grateful heart. Thanks to the volunteers with Project Help Clothing Ministry, FirstLink, the State of Ohio, and taxpayers (of which I am one), for this wonderful Christmas gift.

USA 2.0

When a major revision of a computer program is released, that version is called 2.0. A 2.0 release is an improvement over 1.0 because the known bugs have been fixed and new features added. Windows 2.0 brought improved graphic support and overlapping windows. Web 2.0 is the “next phase of the evolution of the Internet.” A 2.0 release is a major break or change from the old version. Now that we have elected Barack Obama as our country’s 44th President, the United States of America has a chance to release our 2.0—the new, improved, more user-friendly version.

The great experiment of representative democracy, formed in the minds and souls of our founding fathers and mothers over 200 years ago, professed that all are born equal and have the same opportunity to rise to the top. The founding of our nation represented a break from the past. Yet this version of America was released with a major bug in the system, a fatal flaw, a stain, The Birthmark upon its beautiful face. That was slavery.

Stolen from Africa, sold by their own kind into a vile Slavery-Mercantile Complex, Africans survived the Middle Passage and their descendents endured centuries of oppression and discrimination under USA 1.0. While the birthmark may be faded, it yet remains, compelling people to look away in disgust, denial, guilt, and fear. But with the election of President Barack Obama, the stain can all but disappear. This bug that has escaped fixing even up to the present day, we can address in USA 2.0.

I don’t think we should forget our history as a slave-holding nation. On the contrary, we should build museums, mark historic sites, remind people of the fundamental wrongs of slavery. We should also appreciate the strength and endurance of this new race of people, African-Americans, mestizos, a mixture of Africa and America. They survived, endured, and helped build this nation. And today one of them, Barack Obama, LITERALLY an African-American, will become President of the United States of America.

Nor do I think all racial tensions will be resolved with this election. Far from it. However, I do have greater hope that my grandchildren will inherit a better nation, one that truly lives up to Dr. King's dream that people should be judged by the content of their character. I want Sun and Raine to know every time they see a picture of President Barack Obama just how great this country is. For that to happen, I believe, we must all take part in this new release. For those of us who look at other Americans and still see the birthmark, take this opportunity to be released from your old, tired attitudes. We don’t have to look away. Instead, we can engage each other, discuss, exchange, and basically, GET OVER IT!

Instead of fixing our gaze upon the mark, let’s look each other in the eyes and embrace USA 2.0.

Raine as Sarah Palin: "Now can we all just get along?"

See the Dayton Daily News article about our Bus Trip to the Inauguration. Contact me at jabarnes937@gmail.com if you'd like to go along.

Day Care, Part 3

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about Raine's experiences in an early intervention program for children with physical or mental delays. These many days later, I'm finally getting around to writing about Sun's experience in a Christian day care center. I apologize for the delay. I wanted to get an audio recording of Sun singing "Let's Go Fly a Kite" so perfectly as he does, so I could post it here and show everyone what a great vocabulary he has at two years old. (One of the perks of being a Grandmom/Mom is that you can gush about your grandchildren unashamedly.) But it was taking too long to actually get that accomplished. That was asking too much of Sun, of the blog, and frankly, of me. However, I did get an "imperfect" and yet engaging performance from Sun, which you can listen to by clicking the attachment below (if I can get it loaded).

Let the Sun Shine

I've had two children and been around a lot more, so I can say with some authority that Sun's communication skills are advanced for his age. I started keeping track when he was 14 months old and spoke 29 clearly articulated words, one of which was "book". A month or more later, he more than doubled the list, with 65 words, including "oxygen" after his sister's oxygen generating machine and tanks were added to our household decor. I lost count around 17 months and by 20 months, he was speaking in 3-4 word sentences. He could sing his ABCs, recognize people from pictures and say their names (including "Obama!"), and ask for just about anything he wanted. He made observations about the world around him. Once in a woman's office, he heard a train whistle from some distance away and said, "Train, Mama." The woman was so amazed not only because he said this, but because she had worked in her office for years and never heard a train go by.

Not long after 21 months, I noticed Sun using similes and metaphors. That's when I knew--I needed to get him into some kind of formal learning environment because he was quickly going to exceed my teaching abilities. So I started looking for classes and day care centers, which I wrote about in an earlier post. That's when I ran into the "High-Cost-of-Daycare" wall.

I'm happy to say that Sun is now enrolled in a Christian day care center that we all like. It has a friendly, professional, caring staff; a wonderfully colorful, diverse, and expansive facility; a website, a newsletter, a camera in every room so parents can observe their children; parent meetings, daily reports, lessons in values and world cultures (!); and (this is what I really love) a big comfy sofa in every classroom.

All of this is not cheap. Sun attends only one day a week. It's what we can afford. At first, this appeared to be a problem. Sun cried when we arrived on our one morning a week. But yesterday, for the first time, he did not shed one tear! He let go of his Dada's hand and joined the class at snack time. When I picked him up later, he did not cry. He was glad to see me, ready to go, but he didn't look as if he thought, "You found me! Get me out of here." He told me on the way home, "I want to go to school AGAIN!"

His teachers report he is always polite, active, talkative, and loves the playground. He asks for the potty (sometimes). He makes wonderful art/science projects. The latest is one of those telephones you make with two toilet paper rolls and string. This arrangement appears to be working out well.

There is a down side. Today, Sun is running a fever and throwing up. The same thing happened with Raine last week. Their pediatrician said there's a bug going around. As Charlie Brown would say, "Rats!" Last week, a notice came home with Raine saying, "Your child may have been exposed to head lice."

"Good grief!"

Venturing out into the larger world, being stimulated by other sites, sounds, and people, learning, growing, having fun--all that is great. The colds, the germs, it's all part of the experience. Just means we have to be even more diligent.

I am a "Wiping-Noses" Mom Again,

signing off.

Day Care, Part 2

Both Sun and Raine are now attending “school” part time. How did that all come about and how much does it cost? How is it working out so far? Today, I’ll blog about Raine, and the next blog will be about Sun.

Raine is a Lake.

I’ll answer the last question first. So far, so good. Raine, who is now 20 months old, has shown great physical and mental growth in the last several weeks. She stands up, she cruises, she walks with help. She still scoots but she's starting to crawl. She's actually doing this wierd combination of the two. She's communicating better, saying more words, and using sign language. She can say “eat,” in both English and sign language. She can say "more" in both. Raine likes to eat, eats a lot, and eats just about anything. She’s like Mikey. On the daily report from her teacher, under snacks it says, “Ate it all." So it's not surprising she's mastered those two words.

Raine is attending an Early Intervention Program at a school run by Easter Seals. She goes to "school" four times a week, for two and a half hours. She is in a classroom with a half dozen other students who are all slightly older. She hardly ever cries, and she plays well with (or around) the others. She gets speech therapy, physical therapy, and occupational therapy from specialists who come to her classroom. The school is housed in a beautiful new facility, with a youthful and friendly staff.

And it is all paid through the local "Help Me Grow" program, which identifies children with delays and helps get them enrolled. The goal of the EIP is to help children with mental or physical delays overcome as many as they can before age 3. It’s a wonderful goal, and it's made possible, believe it or not, through the "No Child Left Behind" legislation. (However, there are massive waiting lists because of insufficient funding.)

I used to wonder if Raine was mentally delayed. Not just because she wasn’t walking and talking, or that she was an extreme preemie, which increases the chances of a child having mental retardation. It was, also, a certain expression she showed sometimes, a look in her eyes that said, "I'm just not getting it. Life is confusing. I don't want to THINK about it!"

Raine’s eyes are so expressive and dramatic. They are big and brown, and her lashes are thick, long, and curled. When she first came home from the hospital after being hooked up to oxygen, feeding tubes, and monitors in a NICU for the first three months of her life, she looked at us with mistrust. As if she were saying, “Okay, how attached do I get to you before the next shift comes in and takes your place?” I would tell her over and over that she was home now. She could relax. But Raine definitely had a “wait and see” approach. I thought she had a problem forming emotional attachments.

Gradually, though, she began to trust us. Gradually, she began to know she belonged to us and we to her. Her eyes no longer showed suspician. Instead, sometimes, I found a look of incomprehension, that vacant look you get when you're asked a question and you don't know the answer.

I no longer see that look in Raine's eyes. Since she started school (actually, a couple of weeks before that), that vacant look has been replaced with curiosity , discovery, and devilment. Her expression says, “What is that? What can it do? How does it taste? What happens if I push that button? What happens if I push it again even though Mama said not to?"

Her teachers report, "Raine had a wonderful day." Perhaps they say that about every child to keep you coming back. But I see the “wonder” in Raine’s eyes now.

One morning I was still sleeping when Sun came to my bed and said, “Raine is a lake.”

“Sun?” I said, through my sleep fog.

“Mama.”

“Yes, Sun.”

“Raine is a lake!”

“A what?”

“A lake.”

Sun pronounces his W’s as L’s.”

“A lake. Raine is a lake,” he said.

“Ooh,” I said, “awake. Raine is awake.”

“Yes,” Sun said, “a lake.”

That’s what I see in Raine's eyes now. She’s awakened from her preemie fog. It’s exciting to see, and I can’t wait to be a part of what’s to come.

Support, Part 1

In the mid-1990s, in New York City, a group of 15 custodial grandmothers came together for a course in empowerment training. They met at the Graduate School of Social Services at Fordham University. Their median age was 64, and among them, they were raising over 30 grandchildren. Only two were married with living husbands. The oldest was 75.

The Graduate School developed the class specifically for these African-American grandmom/moms. It covered topics like communicating with grandchildren and talking about sex, HIV/AIDS, and drugs to legal issues and how to negotiate systems. At the end of the 6-week class, none of the participants wanted the sessions to end. So they formed their own support group and began making presentations to other custodial grandparents. They became advocates in their local communities, and at least one grandmother “demanded to be placed on an advisory board so that she could have direct involvement in policy.” The results, the authors of this pilot program concluded, was a “discovery” that grandparents raising grandchildren have “a plethora of needs,” but they also have “formidable strengths and resilience” to meet them.

The New York grandmothers were not the first to get together to learn, support each other, and become advocates for their cause, but since the 1990’s, as the numbers of grandparent-as-parent headed households increased, support groups for custodial grandparents formed in communities across the country. Today, you can find them in every state. After nearly three years, several phone calls, and a 15-minute drive that turned into an hour drive because I relied on MapQuest and got lost, I finally arrived—late—at my first Kinship Connection Support Group meeting in downtown Columbus.

By the time I got there, the meeting had already progressed to the “Any New News” segment of the agenda. About the room, a dozen or more people sat (two men, the rest women). A couple of children were finishing up their pizza and soda at some tables in the back. The women were eager to discuss new news, which in this case, is old news: money, or more specifically, the lack of money to support raising their grandchildren.

Some custodial grandparents continue working when they take custody of their grandchildren, but others retire early to start their new full-time job as caretaker to young children. Either way, the operating budget gets slimmer and spreads only so far. Realizing this, government agencies have instituted cash support for kinship caregivers—that is for some kinship caregivers and not for others.

For instance, in our state, we have what is called a Kinship Permancy Incentive Program. Qualifying custodial grandparents can get an initial payment of $1,000 and $500 payments every six months up to $3,600 if—a big if—they took custody of their grandchildren AFTER 2005. Other conditions apply as well, having to do with household income, background checks, and court orders, but it is this one—the arbitrary (it seems) cutoff date, that raises some people's ire. “My grandchildren are teenagers now. I took custody of them when they were little—before 2005. So, I can’t get the KPI.” This woman is facing foreclosure. Yet, she did not appear to be bitter or helpless. She has agreed to let me interview her for this blog, which I will do in the coming weeks.

Another young woman explained that her parents took custody of several children who are not related by blood. At first, these children were considered foster children, and the State supported their caregivers with a monthly stipend. But case workers in Children’s Services allegedly convinced the family to take legal custody. As we custodial grandparents know, the stipend for someone with legal custody is considerably less than that for a foster parent. Worse, this family could get no financial support, it seems, because the children are not “kin.” Some other issues may be involved, including language barriers, but the point is they are in financial straights because they reached out to help children whose own parents could not or would not take care of them. How much money will this family save the State when these children grow up to attend college instead of taking up a prison cell?

As I sat listening to this young woman advocating/ interpreting for her mother, what struck me was her clear narrative about the family’s predicament (in a language that must have been at least her second as she was from Ecuador) and the avalanche of information and advice that came pouring from the other women. This topic took over the meeting, but by the end of the discussion, the young woman had the name of an attorney to contact and some specific steps to take. She also had, I hope, the satisfaction of knowing how well she advocated for her family.

I read about the New York City grandmothers support group when I first became a Mom Again. Since then, I have been searching for such a group, and now I have found one. I cannot say yet how much benefit I will get from attending meetings, or how much I can contribute to the group—but attend I will. I will also talk to the other members and invite them to contribute to this blog. I hope we can convey on these pages at least half of the information, support, and wisdom I saw displayed in my first meeting.

As always, your feedback is welcome.

Mom Again

Potty Training, Part 1: Just Do It!

Sun is almost two and a half and should be potty trained according to his great grandmothers. I agree, and it's not like we haven't tried. Each time we get into the sitting on the potty routine, Sun seems to develop constipation. Then again, I haven't been good about keeping to that routine, in part, because we have so many interruptions in our daily routine that I would hesitate to call it such. For instance, in a few days, we will go on a five-day road trip. Why try to potty train Sun when he's going to be stuck in a car seat for hours on end, in unfamiliar locations, and totally off of any "schedule." This is what I tell myself, but it's probably just an excuse.

Like this one: I want to get him a more comfortable potty chair. When I bought his current potty chair, I was in the old Baby Boomer mindset: We don't need a tricked-out chair with music, a rack for holding magazines, and a flushing sound. So, we bought the basic model plastic potty, the most tricked-out feature of which is a rubber splash guard. Then, I see in the learn-to-go-to-the-potty videos and books these smiling babies, straddling what looks like a pony or a duck, contentedly bouncing away while doing their business.

Sun doesn't look like that when he sits on his potty. He looks--, well, bored. Maybe confused. He will sit there while I read to him or talk or sing. (I no longer run the water faucet to "encourage" him.) He sits there and sits there, and does nothing. I want to say, "Just do it!" but I don't. I know one day it will all click for him so I'm not anxious about this. The doctors, nurses, and teachers I've talked to sort of expect that a boy will not be potty trained until he's closer to three.

But today, my mother brought the subject up again. Gingerly. She had read an article in the newspaper about some parents who were still changing diapers for a three-year-old. That is unnecessary and unnacceptable, say the great grandmothers. I agree. "Sun is ready," she said. "He could learn in a couple of days. The article said parents put it off, but you just have to do it."

Just do it. Long sigh. Just do it.

Motherhood and Menopause

Paris Hilton has nothing on me. She may think she’s hot, but let me tell you, at 50, I am hot, hot, hot.

A month after I turned 48, I became a grandmother and a Mom Again. Two months later, I went into full, undeniable, merciless menopause. The menopause was chemically induced by gonadotropin-releasing hormone agonists. But my break from reproductive fertility was clearly on nature’s horizon because I had been in peri-menopause for years. Boy, was that fun! Now, menopause has arrived with a vengeance. At 50, I occupy two contradictory stages of womanhood, changing diapers and the change of life.

Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot

Holding and snuggling an infant or toddler is a joy divine, but these little suckers are warm. During a hot flash, which is pretty much constant with me these days, this beautiful bonding experience can be excruciating. It does not matter that we’re in the middle of summer; in any weather, I’m fifteen degrees warmer than everyone else in the room. The little bundles add another ten, squirmy degrees. Most days, I feel like I’ve done a heavy workout at the gym when all I’ve done is be a Mom in Menopause.

Another problem--I no longer know how to dress the children for the weather. When it's hot outside, I blast the air conditioner in the house. Consequently, Sun and Raine wear sweaters in the middle of August. When it's cold outside, I find it nice and comfortable. But I misjudge how many layers the children need. I have to ask BD to pick out the appropriate clothes for the day.

I’ve resisted taking any treatments for hot flashes or other symptoms of menopause in part because with all the conflicting information, I don’t know what’s safe, and in part because I do not have health insurance. If I had the time and energy, I’d read up on homeopathic remedies, but I have neither right now, nor the patience. So I sweat. And Sun and Raine are growing up with the constant whirring sound of my little black fans.

I’m not complaining. There are, of course, wonderful things about being in menopause. Especially since I’ve moved from Georgia to Ohio. And then there is the no-more-period thing. Freedom! But with freedom, comes heat. And from what I’ve been told by other women, the heat does not go away. So, I am truly a hot Mom Again.

Eat your heart out, Paris.

P.S. Does anyone know a good deodorant? Not an antiperspirant. I like to sweat, but I don't want to smell bad.

Dad Again, Part 1

Black fathers have gotten some attention in the mainstream media recently, most of it negative. The latest round began with Senator Barack Obama’s Father’s Day speech to the Apostolic Church of God in Chicago. The media seized upon his comments about “absent black fathers,” which was only part of the speech. (See it here). The TV talking heads began channeling Bill Cosby, and the news magazines gave editorial space to people like Michael Eric Dyson. One CNN commenter conjured up the old Booker T. Washington/W. E. B. DuBois schism, although he mistakenly referred to George Washington Carver instead of Washington.

For weeks, CNN promoted its “Black in America” series. I had high hopes for the show. I remember reading a series of articles in Life magazine from the 60s which focused on the “Negro” in America. Did you see the CNN program? I admit I did not. I was turned off by the panel discussion a few days before, “Recovering the Dream.” The panel consisted of the usual suspects: Cornell West, Julianne Malveaux, other celebrities-who-don't speak-for-me. CNN reporter Soledad O’Brien fed them one Tragic Truth about Blacks in America after another, and they chewed on these like hungry dogs: out-of wedlock birth rates, absent fathers, AIDS, gang violence, poor education, poor health, poor housing.

What little I did see of the “Black in America” series seemed to be more of the same. First of all, it was divided into two segments: Part I. The Black Woman &Family. Part II: The Black Man. See the problem already?

It left me wondering: where are the stories about Black fathers like the ones I’ve known in my life, the ones who are WITH their families, struggling and surviving, doing the right thing most of the time, working, paying the bills, loving their children and their wife. You know who you are. If I start naming you, I will run out of space and time. Where are your stories?

I want to give some space to one Black man who is not only a PRESENT BLACK FATHER, but also a Dad Again—my husband (BD—for Big Daddy).

BD grew up without his father in the home. His parents divorced when he was a toddler. Although his father was in his life, they did not have a close relationship. What BD had, what many Black children had in the 50s and 60s, was a great mother and role-models in the neighborhood: coaches, teachers, business owners, ministers, extended family and friends. Still, BD grew into manhood without the day-to-day experience of having a father in his home.

When he found himself a father, he struggled with some of the same issues because he and his son’s mother lived in separate homes, sometimes in separate states. He wanted very much not to be an “absent Black father,” so he maintained a relationship with his son, who is now a father himself. Furthermore, BD took on the responsibility of helping to raise my two children when we married. My children split their time between two households, so even then, BD was not a full-time father in the traditional sense. And now, here he is in his 50s, a Dad Again.

How are you doing, being a full-time Dad? How are you?

BD: As far as I know, I’m okay.

What has been the most surprising thing about being a Dad again in your 50s?

BD: What’s surprising is how little things have changed. The other day, I was blowing bubbles and Sun was chasing them. I have a picture of my son (now 26) doing the same thing. It’s fascinating to me because I didn’t see the everyday growth before. It’s great. It’s so much fun.

Tell us about your relationship with your son and his family.

BD: We have two grandsons around the same age as [Sun and Raine]. They live in North Carolina. We have pictures and use a webcam, but I hate that I can’t seem them more often. Talking to my son about potty training, who is walking and talking, comparing notes with my son, trying not to be competitive (laughs). That’s a surprise.

Really, this is my first time being a full time dad. From the time my son was two, I had him with me a lot, but not full time. Now, he and his wife are Sun and Raine’s godparents. So it’s enjoyable having the kind of relationship we have now.

Do you have any fears about being a Dad again?

BD: No fears. What will happen will happen. I just want them all to be healthy, smart, and decent people.

Come on, BD. No fears?

BD: Well, I think about Tim Russert dying at 58 of a heart attack. Of course, I want to be around to see them grow.

Raine presents some issues because I don’t have experience raising little girls. She’s so small, you don’t want to be rough, but you don’t want to be condescending. I don’t know “girl” activities. I would do with her the same things I do with Sun. That may or may not be appropriate. I don’t treat them any differently, but maybe I should. It’s challenging to figure out how that goes.

I worry about “over disciplining” them. I spend a lot of time on discipline, setting limits. It’s who I am. You do things, and you don’t know how things will come out.

We’re living in a brave new world. We’re Baby Boomers. They will teach me. But there are some basics that transcend generation. Methodology may be different. It’s most important to me that they have good social skills, be respectful to others.

What is the hardest part?

I don’t find any of it hard. Challenging. Sometimes, I’m really tired. Sometimes, I need some down time, some quiet while I’m still awake. I miss not having my personal time. That’s a struggle sometimes. I need time to regenerate. I would like to read more (other than children’s books). I would like to ride my bike.

How has being parents again affected your relationship with your wife?

BD: It’s helped us focus. We still have a lot of stuff to figure out and plan for. I’m more willing to speak up when I feel strongly, not just go along to get along. In the past, I’ve let things go by regarding the children.

(Under my breath) Hmmmm.

BD: I’m also more patient now, more family oriented, not trying to build a career. We have a lot to figure out. Am I their dad, or their granddad? How do we handle that? How do we explain it to them? When they start interacting with other kids and see younger parents, how do we explain, “I’m your grandfather, not your father, but I’m the only father you know.”

Maybe, I’m struggling with this because my dad was my dad on paper, but not much of a dad. My dad didn’t teach me how to be a dad. We had no role models in our neighborhood. Mostly single mothers. A few dads.

What do you want most for your grandchildren that you didn’t have?

BD: Two parents. Still, I learned a lot of things from my mother, for instance, diversity of activities. She exposed me at a young age to things that weren’t expensive but were fun to do. She spent time with us and the other kids in our neighborhood. She took me out with her when she went out. I want Sun and Raine to have that kind of diversity of experiences. It helped me to be more open-minded about a whole lot of things. If you have limited experiences, your thinking will be limited, you will limit the kind of people you associate with.

I would love for them to be home schooled. We’re the best people to give them the kind of diversity they may not get in a school. Schools have taken away arts programs, phys ed., field trips. I’m not saying it has to be one or the other, but there are things that we will do better than a school.

What kind of religious instruction do you give the children?

BD: We pray together, but we don’t go to church regularly. Again, I want them to be firm in a faith, but also have the knowledge of other faiths and be respectful. So, we go to different churches when we go.

Do you have any advice you would offer to other 50+ fathers?

BD: Enjoy it. I would say that to any father.

Thank you, BD, for this interview.

BD: You’re welcome, honey.

Sun (from the backseat): You’re welcome honey!

Looking to Tell Your Story

Did you ever buy a new car and then see it everywhere on the road? That’s the feeling I have now that I'm a mom again. I see grandparents with their grandchildren everywhere. At the park. The zoo. The fast-food restaurant. The doctor’s waiting room. I see couples, but more often just women, with children 40 and 50 years younger than they are acting like parents. Two women in the waiting room had a grandson each with them, taking them to see the doctor in the middle of the day. I listened to them and wondered-- are they parents again?

First Lady, “We got seven of them [meaning grandkids] now.”

Second Lady, “Seven you say.? We got—[long pause to count]—eight!”

Their tone was not that of the “traditional” proud grandmother who loves her grandchildren to death and can “send them home to their parents!” These were not grandmoms just out for an afternoon with the grandson, or just doing mom a favor because she has to work. Nope. Each woman was taking her grandson to see a doctor; they were taking on the responsibility of a parent.

Am I projecting my identity onto people who could be hired help? Maybe. But there's something about being a grandparent/parent that attunes you to others similarly situated. Maybe it’s the places I go lately.

I notice these family groups and I want to talk to them, get the story behind the public picture. I want to interview them for this Mom Again blog.

As I do talk to these second-time around parents, I will post the interviews here. Even if you are not a grandparent/parent (and don’t kid yourself that this will never be you: if you have children, it could be), it may be of interest to know what grandparenting means--at the ground level--in the 21st Century.

The first interview will be with my spouse, Dad Again.

If you are a Mom or Dad Again and you want to tell your story, contact me.

Here’s Looking at You,

Mom Again

Some of the Six Million*

On Father’s Day, I talked with another grandparent/parent couple in a Metro Park in our area. They have three of their grandchildren living with them, ages 9, 5, and 1 ½. The father of the children (or at least one child) may live with them as well as he was at the park with the group. I did not want to ask too many questions, but my reporter’s curiosity and my own self-interest wanted to pry into their lives to glean what I could about how people are dealing in their "nontraditional" family.

The truth is, I probably would not have gotten past “Hello” if they hadn’t spoken first. “You got your hands full,” she said as I plopped S & R into the baby swings and began to push.

“Yeah, I do,” I laughed. People often say this to me. I must look like I’m struggling to handle these two little ones, but I don’t actually feel like I’m overwhelmed. Anyway, it was an opening. We started talking.

They were in the park that morning because their house was being shown. It has been on the market almost a year with only one “bite,” which evidently didn’t work out. They need to sell the house, the woman told me, to pay bills and cut expenses. They plan to move to a trailer on a relative’s property once the house is sold. All of you in a trailer? I wanted to ask. “How big is it?" but I didn’t. There’s evidently a financial strain, but who isn’t feeling that these days? Certainly, I didn’t expect them to start spilling out the details of their financial woes to me, a stranger who had not even given them my name at that point. But the story led me to ask if they knew of any support groups for kinship caregivers in the area.

“For what?” they asked.

“Kin--, you know, relatives, like grandparents, who are raising their grandchildren.”

“Oh,” they said. “No. No. Don’t know of anything like that.”

It’s like they had never thought of such a group. Like they never needed any support group. They were fine. And yet—they hinted they did not get along with their relatives as they had decided, since her mother had recently died, not to attend the family reunion this year, held in this very park. “I don’t need to see those people,” she said. They were evidently not church goers, as she could not name a church in the area, and here they were in the park like me on a Sunday morning. Also, she takes care of the children all day even though she’s on disability and has a plate in her back and fibromyalgia.

“How do you pick up the 1 ½ year old?” I asked the woman.

“Vicodin,” her husband quipped.

We all laughed. They sure seemed fine. The grandkids looked happy and were well behaved. The girls were fascinated with Raine, who was sleepy and content to recline in her stroller while they oohed and aahed over her as if she were some rare museum exhibit. They offered juice and cookies to Sun, who was being anything but sunny. He refused a cookie! (He was sleepy too, but fighting it.)

So, okay, I thought—they don’t need a support group. Why not? I wanted to ask, but didn’t. I have competing urges when I meet people who intrigue me: the curious writer wants all the details, motivations, and innermost thoughts and feelings; the shy person pulls back in the belief that most people just want to be left alone. Indeed, some people in the park that day, even those with children, appeared to want just that. I understand and let people be.

But I want to fight the urge to stay disconnected from strangers, and especially from friends and relatives. I dislike “networking.” But it is a necessity in business today, and even moreso in our social lives. I need to push beyond my barriers and connect with others. This couple complained about “all the Mexicans and Somalians” that are moving to this area, “not speaking English.” I’m sure they or some others in their family had the same disdain for African Americans in the past (maybe still do). I wish we could find a vehicle to connect with each other as neighbors, to push past the barriers of language and culture, nationality and race, native and newcomer—in our wee little cubicle in the universe.

This park, this beautiful park where the woman’s family has its annual reunion, could be a gathering place for people to come and get to know others unlike themselves, instead of sitting alone on a park bench and reading the paper like one woman did, or moving as a group to a secluded area as one family did, or disparaging people based on surface differences as this couple did, or just staying aloof from the lives of others and secluded in our own, as I did.

When we left, I did not ask for their phone number. I did not even say, “Maybe we’ll see you again in the park one day.” I did not make any effort to try to keep in touch. I don’t remember their names, and I doubt they remember mine. This haunts me, this idea that I left it that way. Why am I looking for a support group to connect by proxy and passing on the opportunity to connect in the old-fashioned way--by proximity?

Perplexed,

Mom Again


*"In the United States, more than 6 million children are being raised in households headed by grandparents and other relatives. 2.4 million grandparents report they are responsible for their grandchildren living with them: 29% of these grandparents are African American; 17% are Hispanic/Latino; 2% are American Indian or Alaskan native; 3% are Asian; 47% are White."
From "GrandFacts: A State Fact Sheet for Grandparents and other Relatives Raising Children," at http://www.grandfactsheets.org/doc/National%202007%20New%20Template.pdf

Day Care, Part 1

How do people afford daycare?

I have been looking into sending Sun to daycare part time. I think he needs some more social interaction now that he is two, and frankly, he's too smart for me. He needs some more stimulation than I'm able to deliver right now. Truthfully, all I really want is for him to be in some kind of class--music, art, sports, etc.--not necessarily a day care setting. But, I am having a hard time finding a class for a two-year old where he can be somewhat independent of me and he can make "friends" (as much as a 2-year-old can) that he will see on a regular basis. So, I thought--a couple of days in a quality day care program might be the best alternative.

So, I started checking out places in my area. I will not name names, but let me just breakdown what I have learned so far:

Nationally recognized school program - two 1/2 days--$400/mo.; two full days--$510/mo.
Highly recommended local day care - three 1/2 days (their minimum)--$135/week.
Another highly recommended day care - two full days--$440/mo (and they include lunch!)
Church day care program - two full days--$470/mo (and no openings until Fall!)

These figures are for a PART-TIME schedule. I'm afraid to ask what the full-time rate is.

When I was raising my two looong ago, I was outraged that I was paying $80.00 a week!!! for TWO children, full time. Of course, we were a struggling newly married 20-something couple, so that was an outrageous price for us to afford. But we did it somehow.

Today, though, with my part-time salary, it is not "cost effective" to enroll Sun in day care, even part time. I would have to work full time to afford part time care; and then I would need full time care, of course, for TWO children again. Two children in day care at these rates. I ask again, how do people do it?

There is a program called Title 20 that helps low-income parents, and kinship caregivers like us, with the cost of daycare. After seven pages of paperwork, you still have to wait a month or more before you get a response (so I'm told). Also, you have to name the center where you want your child(ren) to attend. The problem is that most centers I've contacted have limited space available, and some have none at all at this time and no guarantee they will have any until Fall. Even then, you're on a wait list. So, how can you choose a place, wait 30 days, during which time your spot may be taken, without shelling out the first month or two (because the schools make you pay ahead of time) of these exorbitant fees? It's a Catch-22.

I know that with diligence and a lot of phone calls and site visits, I could probably find someplace affordable, but will it offer the kind of stimulation and interaction I want for him? As with anything else, you get what you pay for.

For now, he's staying home with me. One ray of hope--I contacted a group of Mocha Moms here and they have play groups, field trips, and Mommy Meet-ups. I have not attended a meeting yet, and I suspect these Moms will be in their 20s and 30s, not 50 like me. Where are the Grandmommy Meet-ups, the Mom-Again Meet-ups?

I have not yet found a support group for kinship caregivers in my area (Columbus, Ohio). My husband's advice--start one.

More about this later. In the meantime, if you know of a support group for Kinship Caregivers in Columbus, send me a lifeline--uh, I mean an email.

I am an Older Mocha, Mom Again

Replacement Babies?

Recently, on the same day, three people asked me the same question: Is it the same raising Sun and Raine as it was raising your first two? They ask this because I had two children, a boy and then a girl, when I was in my 20s. Now, 50, I have two children, a boy and a girl. So, it's a natural question to ask.

People who know me also know that last year (2007), our son--my oldest child--was shot and killed. When it happened, one of my best friends said to me, "Maybe God gave you these little two because He knew--."

At the time, I thought, "How cruel." How cruel to take away a beloved son (and a beloved daughter who is struggling with mental illness) and also give me two more--at my age! I did not think I could do it--I did not think I could go on and take care of Sun and Raine. I did not WANT to be responsible for two more lives. I did not want to even go on with my own.

Now, I realize that I could not have gone on very well, if at all, if it weren't for Sun and Raine. They are the reason I get up in the morning. Everyday I think of my son, and the thought stabs me in the heart every time. Sometimes, I think about him as soon as I wake up, but most of the time, it hits me in the middle of the day. Until it does, I'm busy changing diapers, fixing meals, reading books, playing with puzzles, going to this Appointment or that, taking them to the park, etc. etc. I have to be "okay" for these two children. I don't have the "luxury" of not going on. And I am ever grateful to God for Sun and Raine.

To answer the question: No, it is not the same. It is not the same, first of all, because I am not the same. I am not the ambitious, career-driven 20-something I was. Before, when I stayed home with my babies, I was always itching to get back into the rat race. I was a professional, after all, a college professor, and I loved my work. I did not think about being a stay-at-home Mom, not only because I was ambitious, but also because we needed my income. Really needed--not just wanted--a second income. Now, I am a stay-at-home Mom Again, and we're living on much less. I still work--still have to. But it's part time and I work from home. I do not want to get back into my previous career nor pursue the second-career I had started (law). And while I am still ambitious (meaning, I still want to be a writer; I can't tamp down that instinct), I devote much more of my time to them than I do to writing. That may spell doom for any profitable writing career, but that's just the way it is now.

I am different because I have lost a child. I am different because I have a child struggling. I am different because I am in a different marriage. I am different because I have been through divorce and have moved several times and have lived in three different states. I am different because I have published several novels and have written and directed several plays. I am different because I don't have to prove myself (as much) now. I am heavier, grayer, older, more settled, and I have my priorities straight.

And, of course, Sun and Raine are different people from my two. And the world is different. When my son was born, there was no world wide web, for instance, and cell phones were nowhere near as ubiquitous as they are now. We were not at war. We did not have Bush. We did not have Obama. We had Newt and Clinton and people of that ilk. (I was, for the record, never a Bill Clinton fan, nor did I ever buy that he was the first Black president.) I had never worked on a campaign before--now I have.

So--no. It's not the same. I will never be the same. It's all new. But thankfully, I can bring some of my creativity, experience, triumphs, sorrows, and wisdom to being a parent the second-time around. This time, I know I have an angel on my side.

Schedules: Part 1

The key to managing two children under two, I read somewhere, is being organized. I must schedule our days' activities. I have a problem with this. I am an impromptu person, adverse to schedules. I'm not a 9-to-5, two-weeks-vacation kind of person. I do things differently, a recent psychological test told me. I USED TO BE ORGANIZED, somewhere in the far reaches of my pre-Mom Again days. I used to be a project manager. So, if I can just take that kind of approach to scheduling daily, weekly, and monthly activities for two children under two--. Forget it.

My problem with scheduling is that so many things get in the way of plans I have made. Someone will return a call, a person I really need to talk to about Something--and there goes my reading time in the morning with the children. An Appointment I made at what seemed to be a convenient time when I made it suddenly looms, leaving me scrambling and stealing time I had planned for something else. Just when I've been lulled into believing the children will sleep for a good hour (my Golden Hour) around this time, 12:00-12:30, one of them decides to stay up and scream his/her head off until I accept that he/she is not going to nap, no matter how little I promise it has to be. The other stealer of planned time is exhaustion. Sometimes I just don't have the energy to keep up with my demands.

But if I'm going to be the best grandmom/mom I can be, I will have to try. So, here is my first attempt at making and following a daily schedule.

Wake up: 8:00-9:00: This is optimistic. Most of the time I'm up before this, and for a spell there, Raine would sleep until 9:30 or even 10:00 if I let her (which I would sometimes do, just for the rare pleasure of having some one-on-one with Sun). Still, nowadays, we're mostly up by 9:00.

8:30-9:30: Morning meal: First there are the sippy cups of Pediasure. In Raine's case, this is still a bottle, but that will soon end, and she'll be taking this wake-up cocktail in a cup like her big brother. Somewhere between 9:30 and 10:30, I give them something more--oatmeal, scrambled eggs, fruit, etc.--which Sun will sometimes eat and most times not. Raine, on the other hand, would stuff everything into her mouth with her hands if I let her.

9:30-10:30: Bath or wash-up, diapers, clothes. I'm not a morning person, and I usually stay up late working or writing, so I admit, sometimes I don't change their clothes until the afternoon. I DO CHANGE THE DIAPERS, people. But sometimes they stay in their pajamas until after their nap. And I stay in mine. We clean up nicely, though.

I'm potty training Sun, and he is resisting, so sometimes we have to wait for his potty sitting (productive or unproductive) to end before he gets into fresh clothes. So, this part of the schedule is a crap shoot at best, no pun

1:30: Okay, it's a good hour since I stopped the paragraph above mid-sentence. Sun, who according to the Schedule is supposed to be asleep anyway, comes up to me with his hand smeared in poop. He smears some on me and I rush him to the bathtub where we clean up and then I have to trace his travels through the house to see if he left poop anywhere else. And now that I'm back trying to schedule the rest of the day, Raine is awake and crying , and no doubt must be changed as well.

So much for having time to keep a blog. So much for scheduling...

Mother's Day Tripping

Friday, I decided to beat the traffic and drive to my mother's house to celebrate Mother's Day early. My plan was to make the hour and a half trip, go to restaurant row and get some Boston Market, and have dinner with her. It was all I could manage with the two babies and moving into our new place just five days before. So, five hours before time to leave the house, I start getting the three of us ready to go.

As I'm cleaning them, dressing them, combing their hair, feeding them before we leave, packing up the diaper bag, trying to make my own self presentable (I've got baby locs), checking to make sure they didn't poop in the diaper I just changed them into--it happens--a feeling comes upon me and goes straight to my head: What if this is the day? What if this is our last trip?

I think about death often. Those who know me can understand why. This day, I think about crashing on the highway. I bought this new (used) van. I feel more comfortable driving two babies in it than I did my little sedan. My car was too small and nearly ten years old. It needed work. It was starting to sound and feel rickety. The van is big and roomy, and feels more sturdy. I think the babies are more protected in it. Yet, I know that if today is the day, none of that matters.

It's no use trying to ignore these thought-feelings. I can't. I have to let them rage, go with them along whatever road they take, tough it out. In my sadness, I hug the babies, talk sweetly, sing, make them laugh. Give them toys to take in the car, kiss their cheeks. Stop fussing. Stop rushing. If we have an appointment in Samarra today, we can certainly take our time getting there.

I start to get weak. I think about staying home. Mother's Day is another overhyped holiday. I don't have to buy into it. Mama won't mind. I don't want to have to think about last Mother's Day. It's cloudy outside. There have been killer tornadoes in the country. I should stay in the house. Hunker down.

How much worse these thoughts would be if we were heading out to catch a plane somewhere. I hate flying. No, of course, flying is great--it's the crashing out of the sky, that's what I hate. I think, If you will ever be able to get on an airplane with these two babies, to travel with them and show them new places in the world, you'd better get your ass in the car and go see your mother for Mother's Day.

So I load the car. Load the babies into their car seats, feeling so sad for them. Beautiful little souls, surely God will not let anything happen to you. I start the car and drive onto the street, pull onto the freeway, thinking of Susan Smith. How could she let herself get that desperate? God, don't ever let me be that desperate because I'm a Mom Again. What a horrid way for those two little souls to die, two babies strapped in their car seats, sunk into the lake while their mother crawled out of the mud and concocted a story about a black man with a weapon.

The thoughts of death and untimely death and unjust death and my own death deepen and I feel dreadful, on edge, hypervigilent driving down the expressway, looking suspiciously at every moving vehicle. If this is it, if this is it... God, if this is it, let the babies be okay. But if I am not here, who will take care of them? God, don't let this be it.

Eventually, the sun comes out from the clouds. And the babies laugh. Sun says, "It's light outside, Mama." And Raine wiggles and kicks her legs and shouts "Aaaaaa!" It works like a fast-acting pain killer, and like a mild headache, the dreadful thought feelings starts to fade. I forget about death. I am left with the two of them and the radio and what turns out to be a lovely drive to my mother's house. And back. Safely. This time.

When you are parent to your grandchildren, you know you have potentially less time to raise them, to watch them grow and develop, than their young parents have. You do not expect to be around long for their children, for instance. My husband and I have sole custody of these two babies. We are their grandparent/parents. We are middle aged; they are 1 and 2. We are Baby Boomers raising Millennials. What a gap in time. I do not fear death. I just want to live-- to a hundred or more, so I can be here for them.

I have a plaque that reads: "The best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time." Abraham Lincoln said that. Sometimes, it helps.

Hundreds of thousands of grandparent are raising their grandchildren. Some of you Second-Timers are on the Net. How do you handle these thoughts? Do you have them? Hello, is there anybody out there? (That's Pink Floyd, you non-Boomers.)

Alive so far, I am, gratefully, a

Mom Again