This past Sunday I told my oldest child that I was thinking about going to church.  I don’t go often. She asked me in a very serious voice to be sure to pray for her sister.  I was surprised by this and jokingly asked her if she wanted me to pray for her sisters soul.  She said “Yeah mommy”.  I asked her why and she told me that when the girls attended a memorial service for a friend earlier in the week, she was saddened that her sister didn’t seem to know the words to the prayers that are so deeply instilled in me that I can recite them in my sleep; that she didn’t take communion; and that she didn’t even seem to remember when to stand, when to kneel or how to pray.

She totally caught me off guard and I felt like she kicked me in the stomach. Wow… Where did that come from? I didn’t go to church on Sunday after all.  I have spent the past couple of days reflecting on what she said.  Although I am comfortable with my own spirituality and my relationship with God, I am not so comfortable with the fact that I have evidently broken my promise to my daughter’s birth mother.

Twenty two years ago when this precious baby girl was placed in my arms, I was given the most amazing gift. Her birth mother trusted me to raise her child, provide for her, protect her and love her unconditionally.  She asked for just one single thing in return… That I raise her child as a Catholic.

From the day we brought her home, she was raised just as my husband and I were raised, in a good, Catholic home. One of her Uncles is a priest and he baptized her within the first month. I took her to church and she learned all of her prayers.  She made her first confession and she brought me to tears when we celebrated her first communion.  We recognized all of the holy days of obligation and to this day, we say grace every night before dinner. She attended a Catholic pre-school and kindergarten and I taught CCD classes. For years, her religious life was happy, consistent and never questioned.

When she started high school, she started playing basketball.  Everything she did revolved around her team, her games and her friends. She loved it. It was the most important thing in the world to her. We supported her, attended her games, and encouraged her to give it her best and most of all to have fun.

As a freshman, she attended CCD classes to prepare for her confirmation which she would make the following year. No problem.  When she became a sophomore, the evening CCD classes conflicted directly with her basketball schedule.  Big, BIG problem. Here was a kid that ate slept and breathed basketball. She was on the varsity team and there was no question that she was doing what she loved.

I called every church in town to try and find classes that might be held on a Sunday after Mass. Nothing. Every single one only offered CCD class during the week, after dinner.

I sat down with her and told her I was sorry. She would have to speak to her coach as there was no way she was going to miss her CCD classes and not make her confirmation.  She didn’t argue. She knew my position. She knew about my promise.  Her coach however, saw things differently. She needed to be at every practice and every game or she was off the team. Period.

And so it began… The crying, the screaming, and the begging. There was door slamming and foot stomping. There was my precious baby girl, curled-up in a ball on her bed, truly heartbroken. As adamant as I was that she attend CCD, she was adamant that I was ruining her life.  It was a complete and utter disaster.  Because it’s what I’ve always taught my kids they need to do, it was now my turn and we decided to compromise.

She would stop going to CCD, remain on the team, and attend adult CCD classes when she got out of high school. This was a huge compromise for me. I felt sad that she wouldn’t be making her confirmation with all of the other kids her age; and guilty that I was not living up to the promise I had made to her birth mother. I believe that my promise to raise her as a Catholic, includes making sure that she receives all of the sacraments, particularly those of her childhood years. I have never kept anything from my kids.  She knows her adoption story and she knows how important it was to her birth mother that she be raised Catholic.

Long story short? She played for another year, graduated a year after that and now at 22, has yet to be confirmed. So what happened? How did I fail so miserably?  I should’ve forced her to register as soon as she graduated. I should’ve cried, screamed and begged until this time, she was the one who caved. I should’ve pulled out the guilt card and reminded her of my promise. Instead, I just let it go. I took the path of least resistance. I choose not to go to war with my then 18 year old. I rationalized that she was raised “right”, that she was a good Catholic and she would keep her word.

I reminded myself that when I was a kid, I skipped all of my own CCD classes, hung out at the beach, was grounded for 10 months because of it, and that I didn’t make my confirmation either. I made it when I was in my twenties. When I was old enough to decide that I wanted to get married in the church and that I wanted the sacrament of marriage.

My daughter is an amazing young woman. She is beautiful not just on the outside, but on the inside as well.  She is helping to raise a baby that like me, she didn’t give birth to, but that she loves unconditionally. Life is full of twists and turns. We make decisions that at the time, seem like the very best decisions to make. We make promises that we intend to keep but later find impossible to fulfill. We beat ourselves up over all the “I should haves” and the “I could haves”. We spend an incredible amount of time on all of the “what ifs”…

I broke my promise. I know that. I get tears in my eyes just as quickly as my fingers can type the words. Her birth mother asked me to do just one single thing and I failed. My heart breaks to hear that my daughter can’t remember the words to the prayers that are so much a part of my faith and her birth mothers faith.  I feel sick to my stomach that she isn’t sure when to kneel out of respect or bow her head in prayer.  I am frightened that if something happens to her, she might not be right with God.

Great… Now I’m really crying.  This sucks. I thought that by blogging about this I’d have an ah-ha moment. No such luck. Its just made things worse. Maybe if she went to church, any church, I’d once again use all my wonderful powers of rationalization to convince myself that I didn’t totally screw up. But she doesn’t go to church, not any church, and no amount of pretending is gonna change that.

I guess I just have to trust that God will somehow show her the way back to Him and that if her birth mother is out there, she never finds out how horribly I dropped the ball and broke my promise. I should’ve…. I could’ve… I’m sorry.

Until next time,

When I was a little girl in elementary school, one of the things I always looked forward to was the school Book Fair. A week or so before the big day, our  teacher would give us a colorful, newsprint-newsletter, that was filled with pictures of the wonderful books you could buy and a short description of each.

I loved going home, having my snack, and then sitting on the couch and reading about the books. I’ve always loved to read and I remember how hard it was to narrow down my choices to the 4-5 books I knew would be my limit.

The day of the Book Fair was exciting! It was held after dinner and my mom or dad always took me back to school so I could get my books in person. I can still remember the main doors of the school opening and the hallways filled with big, colorful displays of all the books shown in the newsletter. There were always tons of kids running around, parents mingling and teachers joking with their students. There was a feeling of excitement in the halls and the kids were having a good time. The best part was taking my list and searching for all the books my parents said I could get. Inevitably I would find a few more books I just had to have, and my parents were wonderful about indulging me.

As I was driving home yesterday I passed one of the local schools and saw a billboard about a book fair that was being held. I wondered if the book fairs today were anything like the book fairs I loved so much as a kid? I decided to pop in to check it out and I have to say, I’m sorry that I did.

When I entered the school I was surprised to find so few kids at the event. The books that were displayed were laying flat on 3 folding tables, had obviously seen better days, were not for sale, and were for display purposes only. A half-a-dozen bored teenagers were in charge, and they were so busy texting and chit chatting that they paid little attention to the kids or the few adults that were browsing.

What a disappointment. If a child wanted a book, they had to pay for it, order it and then wait 4-6 weeks for it to be delivered to the school. There were no enticements to get the kids excited about reading. No visually appealing presentations that are so attractive to children at this age. No teachers mingling and encouraging the students to read by pointing out books that they might like.

The thing that really topped it off was when I found out the kids could have have any book they wanted immediately, if they ordered it on their Kindle or other e-reader. WHAT? Sure I have a Kindle, but for kids? This was an elementary school!

Don’t our kids spend enough time in front of screens? TV screens, computer screens, little smart phone screens and now e-reader screens? At the very least shouldn’t we make them hold a book in their hands? Turn the pages? Feel the textures? Smell the newness? Learn to care for it? Use a bookmark, or better yet, make one? As it is, many schools don’t even issue text books anymore. Kids sit in front of a computer at school and then go home and get on-line to do homework.

Our kids are getting cheated in so many ways. I know that we live in a technology driven world, but I think schools, teachers and parents have an obligation to expose our children to some of life’s simple things. Things that are not always driven by electronics or technology. Things as simple as a good book and genuine enthusiasm. Things like taking some time to create a fun presentation that is visually appealing to children. Things like encouraging a child to pick up a book, hold it, feel it and maybe even take it home that day.

These aren’t big things – these are little things, but they are important things. These are things that are sadly and slowly falling by the waist side as we rush through life, and become more and more reliant on technology, speed and the ease of taking the path of least resistance. I find this frustrating and sad.

Until next time,

Last week I met my sister in Illinois to visit our Aunt and Uncle. While we were growing up, they lived way out in the country, in the middle of acres and acres of corn fields, in a beautiful white farm house. One of my favorite places was the old barn.  Even though it was scary at night, I still remember the smell of the hay, gasoline and fresh soil.

The ride out to the house was just beautiful.  Not a cloud in the sky, crisp fall air and long, winding, quiet roads.

When we got to the house, we walked around just remembering all of the fun we had as kids. We were outside from sunrise to sunset. Playing, running, catching fire flies and picking corn.  When I turned to look down the driveway, I saw this man just driving his tractor slowly down the road.  He didn’t seem to be in a rush or have a care in the world.

Sadly, the farm house is for sale as my aunt and uncle are older now and have moved closer to the “city”.  I took a lot of photos and I know this place will always hold a very special place in my heart.  So many memories… Such good times… Good-bye farm house…

Until next time,

The very first time I remember being bullied was when I was just 6 years old and in first grade.  We lived in Miami Beach and I spent a lot of time outdoors playing in my bathing suit or little sundresses. I thought I had a lot of self-confidence for a 6 year old. After all, I was a big sister and I had lots of playmates all through nursery school, and a mommy and daddy that adored me. I was a very happy child and I skipped off to first grade without a care in the world.

I liked my class and I liked Mrs. Rose, my first grade teacher. I did not like P.E. Everyone wore shorts, so I did too.  I have a port-wine stain birthmark on my right leg that extends from my ankle, all the up my back. It is vivid and obvious and red, and until then, not something I ever gave much thought too.

The first day I had P.E., changed my little life forever.  The game was called dodge ball. If you’ve ever played dodge ball then you know the way it works.  A bunch of kids stand against the back wall and a bunch of other kids throw big, hard, red gym balls at you. Your job is to avoid getting pounded by “dodging” the ball.  I assume the rules went something like this:  Avoid the head, aim for the legs.

On that day, I met the boy who would spend the next 6 straight years not just bullying me daily, but convincing other children to join in.  His name was Jeffrey.  On that day, Jeffrey must have taken one look at me and knew he found his target.  For the next 30 minutes he screamed at me. He called me “jelly leg” and “crispy girl”. He teased me by calling me names I never heard of as he pounded me over and over again with those dodge balls. No rules here.  My head and stomach were the targets. It hurt and it stung and I couldn’t seem to get away.  I ran from one side to the other but soon a few of the other kids on his side of the game joined in, and there were suddenly 6-7 balls coming at me all at once.  I was now the only kid getting hit. Everyone else on my side just stood by and watched. Mrs. Sussman, our P.E. teacher stood by and did absolutely nothing. And I mean NOTHING.

When the class ended, I remember going into the girl’s bathroom and crying. I was devastated.  Why was he being so mean to me? What did I do? How come my friends just stood there? Why didn’t Mrs. Sussman make them stop?  I stuffed a wad of toilet paper in my mouth because I was sobbing so hard. My face and nose turned red and my eyes were all puffy. I wanted my mommy and I wanted to go home NOW, but I had to go back to class.

I swear that boy was grinning from ear to ear.  I kept my head low and I tried not to make eye contact with anyone.  I remember this distinctly.  I just wanted to disappear. Until the class was called to order, the girls were whispering and pointing at me, and the boys were chanting “Jelly leg, jelly leg, who set you on fire?” They called me ugly and gross and told me to hide my disgusting leg. They made pretend they were throwing up and telling me I had cooties.  This is a lot for a six year old to handle.

When the day ended, I shyly looked for my friends. The same friends that I had skipped to school with just that morning and had played hop-scotch with yesterday afternoon.  They were just ahead of me, walking home. When I called out to them, they turned, looked at me, laughed, and ran away giggling. I just hung my head and walked home alone for the very first time.

I remember walking into the house to the smell of warm brownies and my baby sister. Two of my favorite childhood memories, but feeling so sick that I just went up to my room. I remember crawling into bed with my dolly, pulling the covers over my head, and just crying and falling apart. I didn’t understand. I think this is the first time in my life that I felt sadness. I didn’t like it. It scared me. My tummy hurt. I must have fallen asleep because when I woke-up; mommy was rubbing my back and asking me if everything was alright? I remember crawling into her arms, and smelling the familiar, comforting scent of her Jean Nate perfume, and finally feeling safe, as she stroked my hair and told me everything would be alright.  But it wasn’t. It wasn’t alright for a long, long, long time.

Until next time…

Last week, a young boy was found hanging in his backyard by his sister.  He was only 14 years old and had just started high school.  He left behind a family, friends and people that cared. He also left behind a bunch of kids that spent a great deal of time doing everything they could to make him miserable. They bullied him, taunted him, brought him to tears and eventually, drove him to take his own life. What kind of kids do this?

I don’t like to talk about bullying. I don’t like talking about it because I was bullied. But it’s time. It’s time that all of us started to talk about bullying.

I was bullied for so many years and in such horrible ways that sometimes I wonder how I survived. My earliest memory of being bullied was when I was in first grade. It wasn’t until I was in third grade that my mom went to school to “talk to my class”. Suffice it to say that it was a complete and utter disaster and had the exact opposite effect of what I am sure she was trying to accomplish.  It got worse.  I didn’t tell her it got worse because even then I knew that she was just doing what moms do… She was trying to protect her child. I can’t begin to tell you the number of times I went home and hid in our big backyard tree and cried.  But by the time I got out of elementary school, I was pretty sure I had learned how to cope. I couldn’t wait to start junior high. I knew some of the bullies wouldn’t be going to my new school.

That sure proved to be irrelevant…. Before my  first week at the new school came to an end, I had a knife put to my throat.  I still didn’t tell my mom or dad. I just decided to make pretend I was sick. It worked. For two days – and then I either had to tell or I’d have to go back. I told and I never set foot in that school again. I was immediately put into private school. We were moving, so the timing had a lot to do with it, but my days of public school education came to an abrupt end.

It made no difference. I spent the next year and a half staring at a blank wall during lunch. I had not a single, solitary friend. Every day was torture. My mom was sick so I told no one about being bullied. And then my mom died and I started another new school. By now I was in 7th grade. For the next two years I was bullied every single day. I was bullied in class, in the halls, and always, always at the lockers.  I was followed home. I was beat up constantly. I remember girls sitting on my back and holding my ponytail and slamming my head into the sidewalk until I bleed, all while others cheered on. It was horrible.

Starting high school meant starting another new school.  Although the bullying was never as bad as it was during elementary and middle school, the scars and the damage had already been done.

I still cry when I remember the pain. Not just the physical pain, but the psychological pain. I cry for the little girl who hid in the tree and put a pillow over her head so no one could hear her. I cry for the lonely and scared pre-teen who was bullied both verbally and physically, and I cry for the sad and angry teenager she became. Most of all, I cry for all the kids who are bullied so badly that they feel the only escape is to take their own life.   It’s been 30 years and the viciousness continues. It sickens me. Bullying should be considered a hate crime. Maybe that is what it will take to get it to stop. Something has got to give.

Until next time…

elayne