On Thursday, Saskia turned two-and-a-half*. We didn’t mark it beyond singing “Happy Half-Birthday” at a couple of random moments, which ultimately confused her. She understands birthday. This half stuff, well, she isn’t quite ready to parse out time that way. For the record, she hasn’t really accepted herself as a two year-old. Sometimes, she’s five.
Thursday, I also received a piece of very important mail: Remy’s first letter home from camp. It was a quintessential first letter home from camp, too.
I’d heard earlier in the week from Mim, our fabulous babysitter (the camp belongs to her boyfriend, Ira’s family, and Mim’s at camp this two weeks cooking and Ira’s there, as well; this made sending Remy off way easier, as I know there are adults on hand, one of whom has spent so much time with him she already knows how to read him). Mim’s message on my Facebook wall said he was eating raw chard and making a wooden spoon and the staff concurred with my having described him as “plucky.”
I’m not sure I expect happier letters or anything, yet I know if he were truly miserable I’d hear that from another (adult) source. I’m almost one hundred percent positive he’s having a blast. I’ve been sending upbeat notes, and have been careful to heart him a lot and mention missing him not at all. That, I decided, is a given (duh, he’s seven and I do miss him like crazy) and potentially a burden. The chard and the spoon didn’t make me miss him less but I relaxed about his being okay and from there—even with the heartbreaking and heartwarming note—I trust in his pluck. And I look forward to seeing his spoon.
Late Thursday afternoon, I got an email that a spot opened up at Hilltown Cooperative Charter Public School for our rising seventh grader, Lucien. The sixth graders’ visit to the school overwhelmed our guy. The lottery numbers didn’t fall in his favor for Hilltown or the performing arts school (PVPA) and it just so happened that practically all of his peers either had some choice in what happened next (got into the independent school, or got aid from independent school, or got a good lottery number, you name it, choice, whatever the outcome) or were simply going to the school hoped for (a couple of kids have parents who work at schools so their paths were long-anticipated givens, for example).
Friday morning, we went for a visit and talk with Dan Latz (I should know his exact title, and I’m not sure what it is, but essentially think, principal). Picture a school in an old mill building, kind of jerry-rigged into the space. The result is that while with a lot of money the school could be gorgeous—it’s in a beautiful old building—it’s got a rag-tag feel, and I say that with huge affection. Rag-tag in this case forces the school to work hard to earn its coziness—and it does. I’m won over by places that reveal their hearts rather than dazzle with their polish. So, this school, not pristine, not manicured, not well endowed, it charms me.
More than anything, though, seeing Lucien wrap his mind around the idea of a small school filled mostly with younger kids and some gentle chances for independence (he can ride the PVTA bus to school and back—and he will) was the most charming part of all. We drove by yesterday (en route to Pittsfield) and he blew kisses to his new school. Given the politics of funding charter schools, part of me wishes our choice was a different one (we’ll also be Northampton High School parents come September; if you’re keeping count, we’ll be at four schools, then), the fact that our Lucien is happy about this and eager finally about making a big step forward into middle school, that makes me feel more than relieved. One mantra I’ve invoked a lot this summer when struggling with him is: happy trumps all.
*The day before and without remembering the half-birthday marker, Caroline rang up, just to say hello. She was glad to hear Saskia’s doing well and said she can’t believe the girl’s that big.
I’ve been reading—and thinking a lot—some blogs by first mothers in which feeling disappointed, or angry or in some way cheated by the relationships set up between them and the adoptive families and so I’ve been feeling worried about letting her down (and her extended family). Listening to what’s happening with her, I realized again that adoption—open adoption—isn’t one-size-fits-all. I also realized this summer’s been flying by. I hope that I can pull off some visiting with Saskia’s extended family in the midst of various trips, visitors, and back-to-school attentions.
Although I fear it begins to sound somehow clichéd, that half-birthday marker, for me, conjured tiny Saskia and the fact that I can’t shake off the sensation that along with all the complexities surrounding adoption, the incredible fortune of her having landed in my arms, all of our arms, really, will never fade. So, Thursday, I walked around feeling incredibly grateful.
