LIvin' the Dream

When the kids were little, my husband always worked two jobs. This was for multiple reasons, but more than anything, he worked hard so that I could stay home with our tiny pre-school; four kids under five. For 15 years, he worked sun-up to sun-down, sometimes traveling great distances, and sometimes working for 2-3 businesses in a day. When we moved to Georgia, for the first time in our married life, he comes home at 4pm everyday. He is home on weekends. It's taken some time to adjust to his regular presence and...well...energy. Additionally, I joined the work force in 2017. I have responsibilities outside of this home and I enjoy what I do.

A few weeks ago, my husband had to travel for work. This is a once-a-year situation, but the timing was unfortunate. It was our first week of foster parenting. While I bonded with Number 5 during the day, I missed the element that he adds to our regular lives, like dad-jokes, walking with me in the evening, helping with transportation, and general encouragement.

Our kids have turned out pretty well so far. In front of people, he always gives me credit for doing the child-rearing. I give him credit for teaching me to use the washer/dryer, how to leave dishes in the sink so we can visit a little longer with friends, and how not to take myself too seriously. Last week on Sunday morning, I sat in our custom built library and looked around at our house. I love it. We have been here almost three years. Any other time in our life would mean that we were about to move, but not now. This home is ours for a while. It's strange to feel contented and semi-permanent. It's strange to be crossing off the list of improvements we hoped to make knowing that we may finish them before we leave the house.

It's also strange to consider that our kids will launch from this house. They will leave for college, ricochet back in the summers, leave for the military, maybe even get married (remember, we should be here at least 10 years yet). I made a book for Number 1 with all of the houses she's lived in. I'll print it for each of the kids when their time comes. The last page is a picture of her on her first day at her college dorm. I'm not much of a crier, but that day, I did the moment justice. It was like my heart was bursting and broken at the same time.

We were talking about life the other day and we both agreed that we are in a really good place. As we reflected on the why, we realized it's about dreams. We dreamed we'd have a house one day with a guest room and extra space. We dreamed our teens would come to us with hard questions, big failures, and great successes in equal amounts of trust and love. We dreamed we would send our kids to college. We dreamed we would be Foster parents. We dreamed we would host epic holiday gatherings with family who are like friends and friends who are like family. We dreamed our dining table would be filled with games and laughter.

We are living the dream. It's a cliche, but seriously. Yard work, mortgages, tuition payments, successful jobs, it's all part of it. When we got married 18 years ago, we chose this verse for our invitations; "For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." I believed it then and I believe it now. Despite the hardships, the losses, the pain, and fear, we've seen firsthand hope and future. We joke about mortality, but if this was it for me, I've lived a good life. I've snorkeled in the Mediterranean, climbed the Eiffel Tower, watched Fourth of July parades and fireworks in DC, enjoyed patio campfires, birthday parties, and so much baseball! At 38, my experiences have been rich. I have loved and been loved. I'm livin' the dream.

Foster Parenting 101

We are Foster parents, officially.

In my past blogs, to protect the identity of my own kids, I've called them 1, 2, 3, and 4. Some of you know them by name, but I always thought it was a good practice anyway. I will use the same method for our Foster placements. Number 5 moved in yesterday. She's 17. I can't begin to explain the thoughts and feelings that run through my mind. It's like pregnancy in ways, both exciting and terrifying. I don't know what to expect. I don't know if I'm prepared. I don't know if I'll mess her up. But that's the same for every parent, right?

In August, after a long series of failed medical treatments for a skin problem, I decided to go dairy free. I very quickly recognized that 80% of my diet was dairy. Milk with breakfast, half & half in my coffee, yogurt and granola for a snack, cheese at lunch time, you get the idea. Quitting dairy for me was very challenging, but I've learned to get creative and how to curb cravings.

When we sat down with 5's case manager yesterday, we weren't aware she was allergic to milk. I said, "I eat dairy free, so this shouldn't be too difficult." She smiled, giggled, and took a deep breath. I thought I was nervous, but I can't imagine how she must have felt.

During the weekend, we were also placed with a 16 year-old girl, 6. She will only stay until Monday. Georgia has a really good program for respite care for Foster parents to provide support if an emergency arises. We were the best option for now.

We were all helping to unpack 5's stuff in her room. I watched as these young ladies compared their lives, stories, and heartaches. They showed each other their special bears, the kind of stuffed animals we would try to pry away from our kids before they were six. It required some focus for me to hear these things and not burst into tears. At one point, 6 said to 5, "I think you'll be really happy here. I'm happy for you."

In this process, I can also feel the support of those who are behind us. It was in the weighted blanket that 6 used last night to sleep. The ham/swiss rolls I made for breakfast for the family. The reminders of prayers and love. We have embarked on a dangerous journey. Our clothes are clean, our shoes neat and dry, and our backpack carefully packed. But I'm no fool, and I know the deeper in we go, the more treacherous it may become. I might mess up, but I've got to try.

Birthday Reflection

It was my birthday last week. I won't disclose which one or on what day, but it was important. As always, I started my early morning with a couple cups of coffee. I thought about where I was a few years ago, at 29, living in my parents' basement, waiting for paperwork to clear so the kids and I could join my husband in Russia. We were broke, scared, and desperate. Enough that we would move far, far away with four small children.

It made me think of Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken." I hope right now you can read this out loud, slowly. Take it in.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

And that has made all the difference. I'm not the person I was when I left. I remember her, but she is a minuscule piece of what I am now. The grit and endurance she undertook, the sheer guts to move away from everything familiar, made me alive. When I recall birthdays past, I have glimpses of the happiest moments of my life. The time my husband threw me a party filled with my favorite things and my favorite people in the country air. The small, private gatherings of our closest friends in a crowded Russian cafe. Being around a friend's kitchen table with European goodies and my favorite Czech beer. Homemade cakes with matches for candles.

The strange thing about getting older is that I don't feel it as much as I see it around me. With one kid in college and another one looking, the time moves like a flashback movie scene. On Friday, our final approval for Foster Care came through. We will get placements in the next couple of weeks. I also re-applied to college and will begin in January as a transfer student at the University of North Georgia. Time continues and the opportunity to choose a road less traveled constantly presents itself. I choose the uphill climb because I know that the views are exceptional and worth the sweat.

The view from the top of Amicalola Falls, Dawsonville, Georgia.

Ready, Aim, Launch!

When I was 17, I had a set of wedding rings in the bottom drawer of my dresser. My husband and I had saved up and purchased them out of the bargain corner in the newspaper. That Spring, I graduated second in my class and commuted to college in the Fall. It was an uphill climb for me. I paid my own way, filled out my forms, and bought my own books. I had to drive the 40 mile round trip route five days a week. After school I worked to pay for my car, gas, and insurance. I took a grueling 21 credits per semester and maintained a perfect GPA. After my third semester, I quit to get married. Nine months and five days after our wedding, I delivered a baby girl. Three more kids followed by the time I was 25. I went back several years later part time, but then we moved to Russia and I had to leave it again. I only need 50 credits to finish and I still have a 4.0.

I had a teacher in high school who I suspect saw my potential. He said to me once, shortly after graduation, "You have to be great. You owe it to us. All of us." At the time I thought that his expectations were not appropriate. That he didn't get to own a part of my success any more than he owned my car or my books.

Exactly 20 years later, my 17 year-old daughter moved to college. A large 55,000 student state university. She'd never met her roommates before that first awkward day. She has swam in the Atlantic, Pacific, and Mediterranean. She's been to Europe without us, and on trains, planes, and automobiles by herself. She doesn't have a boyfriend. She knows what she wants to do and how to get there. She's focused and driven and anyone with eyes can see it.



Bringing her to school was entirely more emotional than I thought it would be. I kept trying not to project, but I realized as I walked the poorly lit institutional halls that she is my dream in motion. She didn't ask for this and certainly reminds me that she didn't ask to be born when I was 20. But all the same, I feel feelings. I get it now. I understand my teacher's sentiments because I can see greatness, too.

Beyond generous gifts from friends and family (thank you) who helped pay for dorm supplies and immediate costs, we are paying for most of her education. Because I think it's important. I sometimes ask myself what I would have been if I had married instead at 22, finished my education, and waited to have kids. Yes, I would have been older. I may have even had a successful career start under my belt.

But the fact is that I am a 37 year-old mother of a college student. I am proud, humbled, and grateful that each generation gets a fresh start.

Superheroes have Sidekicks

When the kids were little, people often said to me, "I don't know how you do it?" I had four kids before I was 25 and stayed home full time to care for them. My response was usually something like, "I have the stamina for it. Instead of cramming for finals, I'm staying up nights with infants and spending my days making macaroni art and potty-training."

I still get asked this a lot, especially with four teens and pending foster kids. But today, I want to tell you a couple of secrets.

Thing one. I'm proud of my work. If I ever judged you internally or openly for being a working mom, I apologize. It's the hardest freaking job in the world! When kids have dentist appointments, sick days, and forgotten lunches, it's rarely my husband who volunteers to double up on parenting duties and work. If you know my husband, you know he's amazing and extremely supportive. But I've recently read reports that working moms work up 100 hours per week. That's a lot.

I'm fortunate to work from home as a virtual executive assistant. I regularly start my days at 5 or 5:30am to get a jump before the kids all have their morning routines. I try to take a walk if it's not raining and get in my first cup of coffee. Then there is hair to be braided, dinner prep, lunch prep, and carpool. When I come back home, I'm dressed and prepared for video calls and complete attention to work. I may throw a load in the laundry or vacuum my room if I have time. In the evening after dinner, I'm washing dishes, finishing up the laundry, and preparing for the next day. But I like working. I can't imagine what I would do with myself at home alone all day.

Thing two. I pay someone to clean my house. It took me a long time to accept this as ok. When I stayed home and home schooled, I liked cleaning the house. It was something new and different to do. Plus, I got to enjoy the cleanliness first hand. Now that I'm working, the kids help less, and we are gone most evenings, it's totally worth it to have a tidy house. I don't feel guilty about this. At all. In fact, I see it as an opportunity to help out someone else and live in the kind of home I prefer.

I had a major surgery this past October. I knew I wouldn't be able to keep up or help my family achieve my standards of cleanliness, so I hired a bi-weekly cleaning lady. I kept it a total secret from the kids. They didn't catch on at all that the main level of the house was spotless every other Tuesday! I kept the secret until a couple of weeks ago when she showed up and they were all home on summer vacation. I didn't want them becoming entitled or thinking that they can just make messes for other people to clean up so they still have to do their own rooms/bathrooms. It's only fair.

Thing three. I no longer clip coupons and spend hours at the grocery store. I get my groceries delivered from Publix via Instacart. I paid for the yearly membership ($99) so for a minimum $35 order, I get free delivery. That means I get groceries delivered for free twice a week. I keep a running list on the app on my phone, and when it's big enough or I need something ASAP, I submit the order. In less than two hours, or at the appointed time I choose, my bagged groceries arrive at my door. I don't have to drive to the store, pick the groceries off the shelves, put them in the cart, put them on the belt, load them in the car, or unload them into the house. Now, because of this great system, my kids answer the doorbell and put the groceries away. I've actually found that we spend less this way because I don't impulse shop or fall prey to my hunger pains.

Thing Four. I take myself out to lunch once a week. I make the weekly menu, shop for the groceries, go to Costco (I haven't found a service for that yet) and keep everyone fed. So sometimes, I take myself out for sushi or Greek because I deserve to have a meal prepared without having to do the dishes. It's a small thing, but it helps me keep my sanity.

Thing Five. Having kids in public school opened my eyes to the constant permission slips, forms, and checks. So I opened a checking account for school stuff. I require my kids to fill out their own forms, fill out the check, and all I do is sign. It's life changing! They pay for haircuts, field trips, and other miscellaneous expenses and I don't have to do more work. Just sign.

So now you know, I don't do it alone. I have help and helpers. And I try to be kind to myself so I can be kind to others. This phase won't last forever, but at least I'll be sad to see it go instead of resenting the time.

You Choose Color

Every time we move, I end up painting a little bit. Or the whole house. It just depends. I’m not moving now, but our life is about to shift. One of my wise foreign-service friends once said to me, “I will live in this house for 104 weeks. If I spend two weeks painting it on the front end and two weeks painting it back at the end of our tour, I will have enjoyed 100 weeks of a homey, warm environment.” She was right. Paint matters.

One particular week was super weird for me. Number 1 graduated. Shortly after, I dropped her off at the Metro station to go to ATL so she could go to Europe for eight days. Number 2 went to Parris Island for MCJROTC boot camp. While he was gone, I painted his room. He’ll be moving out of it and into a smaller room to make space for Foster kids. Like many times before, I was painting the walls thinking about the people who will sleep in there. I consider their dreams, their mornings, and their quiet sobs on pillows. I do not yet know the history of those who will inhabit these beds, but I am already caring for them. It’s like pregnancy and different.

Number 1 will move to college in August. She will inhabit a dorm downtown, but in our home, she will lay claim to a top bunk in her sisters’ room. Her old room may also inhabit unknown faces. I painted over the coffee shop themed, burnt orange walls with a gentle, neutral beige.

For whatever reason, I seem to always remember the names of paint colors. In one house it was Brazil Nut and Summer Sage. It’s been Sahara, Lemon Cake, Unicorn, and Pumpkin. When the previous inhabitants of one of our spaces has left walls with unlabeled paint cans, we name them ourselves. Some we remember not so fondly are Smog, Toothpaste, and Bowling Alley.

The color in one of our new rooms is called Pebble Gray.It’s a very soothing color. It feels fresh and clean and has a little bit of blue.

Several months ago, I moaned to one of my kids' mentors saying, ”She’s going to leave me!” This wise woman who has been gently guiding my 17 year old said to me, “Oh, dear one. That’s what you raised her to do!” It’s true. I should blame myself. Helping them to become self sufficient was the easy part. Realizing that they don't need me as much is a bit harder to swallow.

(The one in the cap and gown is Number 4. She's going into 7th grade. The real graduate is wearing the striped dress.)

I can’t tell you anything about the kids we will house except that they will be teen sibling groups, but I can tell you what I’ve done so far to prepare. We’ve attended 26 hours of parenting classes complete with tests and role-plays. We’ve been CPR certified, had drug tests, bought fire extinguishers, and CO2 detectors, We’ve purchased extra beds, sheets, and towels. We’ve filled out references and gotten physicals. I think we are more ready to parent than we were 17 years ago when we brought home our firstborn and made her a bed in a laundry basket.

How Is It Supposed to Feel?

We have a high school graduate. She's currently in the French Riviera celebrating her freedom. Jokingly, one of my husband's co-workers said to her, "Don't get kidnapped!" Really, moron? Really? This will be her second time to Europe without me since we've been back in the States. I'm completely jealous and yet totally happy for her solo adventures.

People keep asking us the same question; "How does it feel?"

How did it feel having four kids under five? How did it feel moving my family to Russia? How did it feel when my kids fired me as their home school teacher? Exhausting? Terrifying? Incredible? All these things and more.

Today my husband and I took an American Heart Association First Aid/CPR class which is a requirement for our foster journey. I was required to watch a brief video of this in order to take Number 2 home from the NICU 15 years ago, but other than that, I've never gotten certified. I sure am glad none of my kids have needed it because I wasn't equipped. Sheesh, my house is safer now than it has ever been!

"Are you ok? Are you ok?"
Begin 30 strong chest compressions to the tune of "Stayin' Alive."
Two breaths.
Listen.
Use the AED.
Repeat as needed.

It feels like that. It feels like I have to keep breathing. Keep counting. Keep living.

In the Blood

I like John Mayer. I'm not ashamed. He's one of the great modern day poets. Listen. Really. Here's a song that's got me choked up lately:

How much of my mother has my mother left in me?
How much of my love will be insane to some degree?
And what about this feeling that I'm never good enough?
Will it wash out in the water, or is it always in the blood?

How much of my father am I destined to become?
Will I dim the lights inside me just to satisfy someone?
Will I let this woman kill me, or do away with jealous love?
Will it wash out in the water, or is it always in the blood?

I can feel love the I want, I can feel the love I need
But it's never gonna come the way I am
Could I change it if I wanted, can I rise above the flood?
Will it wash out in the water, or is it always in the blood?

How much like my brothers, do my brothers wanna be?
Does a broken home become another broken family?
Or will we be there for each other, like nobody ever could?
Will it wash out in the water, or is it always in the blood?

I can feel love the I want, I can feel the love I need
But it's never gonna come the way I am
Could I change it if I wanted, could I rise above the flood?
Will it wash out in the water, or is it always in the blood?

I can feel the love I want, I can feel the love I need
But it's never gonna come the way I am
Could I change it if I wanted, can I rise above the flood?
Will it wash out in the water, or is it always in the blood?

In our parenting class for prospective foster/adoptive parents, we were making a list of positives and negatives about foster/adopted kids. One I hadn't thought of is that a child who isn't biologically your own won't share your worst behaviors, traits, or family tendencies. You know what I'm talking about. When your kid looks at you with a snotty face and says some cutting remark and it seems familiar, because you've said it and done it in the same way.

But it's also scary. Scary to take on a new person who you don't know. Their origins, their history, their perspective. We've always told our kids out loud, "I'm glad God made you a Goudy." If I believe that, if I really do, then I have to believe that God put me in my family, too. And that God put kids who will come to our home in their families. Obviously, it didn't work out for a time, but it doesn't mean they aren't who they are meant to be.

Family's a tricky thing. It can mean everything to some people, it can mean nothing to others. It can be the beginning of pain or it can be rememberances of deep joy. I won't pretend that my family or my kids are perfect. They aren't because we are people. But they're pretty good at loving and welcoming others in. They're good at putting extra beds up and moving things around to make some space.

Loaded with Expectation

I don't really like Mother's Day. I never have. When I was a kid, it meant that we had to behave properly during church to "honor" our mother and that dad would try a little bit harder to make things easy on mom that day. It meant obligatory flowers and lunch. I always thought that requiring kids to make moms feel special was kind of inauthentic.

As a young mother, it meant that any three out of four years, my kids threw up on me. In my bed. "Happy Mother's Day! Blechhhh." I'm not kidding. I actually quit planning to go to church on those mornings. I also hate the expectation that for one perfect day, my kids are supposed to pepper me with sugary compliments and flowers because that's what everyone else is doing. And Hallmark said so.

One year, some friends of mine were comparing what they were getting for the holiday; diamond necklaces, flowers, a day at the spa. One of my friends said to my kids, "What are you doing for Mother's Day? What does your mom want?" Number 1 said calmly, "All my mom wants, all she's ever wanted, is a quiet day alone."

She's right. I don't want the flowers, the brunch, or the plastered on smiles of small children. I want peace and quiet. A day to ponder.

I'm in Boston as I write this. My husband and I came up here for the weekend to catch a Red Sox game and since I work remotely, for me to visit my office to meet some colleagues face to face for the first time. I forgot it was Mother's Day until I looked at the calendar. When we lived overseas, we didn't really celebrate Mother's Day. They have instead, International Women's Day. I like this much more and here's why.

I know a lot of incredible females. Some of them will never have children. Some have lost children. Some are in custody battles and won't see their kids today. Some are insecure about their parenting and aren't really sure they should have had kids. When I got on the bus in Boston today, the driver asked every female rider if she was a mother. I wondered about their stories. Do they have a child who has died? Maybe one in prison or lives far away? Maybe their kids were placed in Foster Care and they never got them back. I'm not unbiased about this holiday situation. I think Father's Day is equally difficult.

So I'm not going to write about my own motherhood. As I think about new kids coming into my home, I want to minimize my successes and instead cherish what other people teach me. So on that note, I'm going to share a few life lessons that I've learned from my non-mother friends about life and humanity.

One has taught me enthusiasm for the unknown. One has taught me that diving in head first to social justice requires more than 40 hours a week. That having hobbies isn't a crime. That your closet needs well selected quality items to look your best. That traveling alone can be an invigorating experience. That being an aunt/neighbor/mentor is really fun and has great benefits.

Hello, Can You Hear Me?

It's been awhile. A long while.

Since my last post in November of 2015, we moved within the Northern Virginia area, then moved to the greater Atlanta area, quit homeschooling, took new jobs, and settled down. We've been in the same house, same school district, same jobs for two years. Which is when we start to get an itch. The kind of itch that causes complete uprooting, shifting, boxing, and changing everything.

But we made a promise to our kids that they could all (ALL) finish High School in this district. That gives us six more years.

So we are starting a new adventure. One that made me dust off the ole' keyboard and get up at 6am on a Saturday to deliver the news to you. Who am I kidding? I get up every Saturday at 6am. It's quiet and I can sip my coffee in silence.

Foster Care.

When I said that, did your heart skip a beat? Did you start cold sweating? When we mentioned this idea to our kids, they were unanimously supportive. One child said, "Hey, at least we aren't moving!" But wait, let me go back. There's more to the story.

When we moved to Georgia, I asked my husband to buy us a house. He and I have moved together 11 times. He knows what I like. He also knows that most of our houses are temporary and I'm not too fussy if it's not going to last forever. But this time, wow, he nailed it! Each person got to pick one thing they might like in a home. Here's the list:

Husband: An unfinished basement so he could have an eternal project for weekends that adds value to the house.
1: A fireplace where she can curl up, read a book, and drink her tea. Her spirit animal is a cat.
2: The same distance or less than we were to the school in Virginia (2.6 miles) for easy activity participation. His spirit animal is a dog.
3: Her own room. The only TRUE introvert in our whole family. Trust me, we did the Myers Briggs and tested everyone!
4: A flat driveway where she could roller blade with EVERYONE in the neighborhood.
Me: A Gas stove. I've lived in enough places to know that electric is a pain in the butt, and frankly, I spend a majority of my life in that location.

He found all this and more. He built me a library. The house had four bedrooms, but he built a fifth and a sixth. At Thanksgiving, when 20 people are here for the week, it feels right. But most of the time, the house is just too big. As you are reading this to yourself, please do not think, "What a complainer! Who thinks a house is too big?! What's her problem?" The thing is, I know our capacity. The six of us have cozied up in a three bedroom apartment, in tiny townhouses, and shared a single family home. We know how much space we need and this house has an excess.

Also, if you know us well, you know that we rarely collect "stuff" and instead collect people from our various homes. Which brings me back to our greedy house. In the quiet of six people living here, it groans. It whines and complains that spaces aren't getting used and noises aren't being made. Please understand, I'm not pining for babies or wishing for the old days. I just like to see happy faces gathered around a kitchen table playing games, eating food, and sharing laughter.

So we're doing it. Foster Care. We've been wanting to for a very long time, but didn't have the stability. But it's finally happening. We have completed background checks, submitted applications and references, and finished 28 hours of training. We are rearranging rooms and beds and making things safe and welcoming for some new kids. Not kid. Kids. Actually, we're on the list for teen sibling groups. Because nobody else is. And they're people who need support. So, I'm back. To update, to share, and to invite you along our journey just like I did so many years ago when we moved to Russia. Hang on tight. This is going to be a wild ride!