Gambling for Good, Not Evil
I work up yesterday morning at 4, with a throbbing headache, which attacked sporadically through the entire day. I took a lot of Motrin. I am cautious about it, though; I wasn’t eating them like candy. I had no Motrin all afternoon, choosing to endure the pain rather than the occasional wooziness. I call them my “mini migraines” – mini only because I am very familiar with real migraines and these don’t approach that intensity.
[My mother used to suffer from migraines when I was a kid. She would sometimes have to stay in bed in a dark room all day. Once she started taking blood pressure medication in the early 1980’s the migraines stopped. I have always wondered about that connection, since all the blood pressure medicine seemed to do was make her run to the bathroom every 20 minutes.]
No, my mini migraine was simply hormonal, I believe. I am surfing the sometimes choppy waters of menopause. A co-worker, alarmed by my paleness and wooziness when trying to change paper in the common printer yesterday, asked me what was wrong. When I told her menopause, she was startled. I have very little gray hair and can usually pass for younger than my 46 years. I explained that I started my periods at 9, so it’s time to wrap things up, as far as I’m concerned. Thanks to the miraculous maca root pills I take, it’s usually not bad. About once a month I have a headache day, though.
Now the baby-making plumbing is shutting down, I have thought a lot about the fact I never used the equipment I was issued. If I have any regrets about my life, it’s that I never experienced birthing a biological child – but that’s a teeny weeny regret. I fully believe God gives us the children we are meant to have. I don’t feel like my children are in any way second best, or not mine, simply because we don’t share biology.
I am reading a fascinating book called “Replay” by Ken Grimwood. It’s about a man who dies at age 43, only to find himself back in college. He relieves 25 years of his life, with his memories of the former life intact. Fascinating premise. I can understand why people are intrigued with the book and it has a cult following. The main character gets to “replay” 25 years of his life several times. He’s learning, of course, each time. In the first replay he fathers a child. In the second replay of this life he gets a vasectomy, so he won’t go through the pain of dying again and not seeing his child grow up. However, he and his wife eventually decide to adopt two older children. The author says pointedly that losing them in another replay won’t hurt so much because they are “not my own.” Ouch. That line almost made me throw down the book in utter disgust.
Yet, if I am being truthful, I cannot be too harsh towards people who share that idea, that an adopted child isn’t really “your own.” I once had the same bias. For instance, I wondered if I should invite the grown adopted children in my extended family to family reunions. That ignorance probably was fostered by my father, totally innocently, because he used to say “You are part of me. When you are happy, I’m happy. When you hurt, I hurt.” He was a tough businessman, but he absolutely adored his children. He wasn’t a perfect father, but he loved us as perfectly as any human being can love.
Last night when I was tucking Michael into bed, he was lamenting the tough new fourth grade teacher he has. After I got home, it took us 1 hour and 45 minutes to do his language arts assignments last night. He reads slowly, of course – he’s only been reading English 1.5 years. I have to stop and explain things. He can read and comprehend on grade level, though which is an immense achievement. I told him he is an amazing boy and I am very proud of him. He looked at me sadly and said “But I have no friends, Mom.”
My heart just broke when he said that. He was hurting. I was hurting. It only occurred to me later that I understood so well what my dad had told me so many years ago. That stabbing empathy pain is a bond that I share with my son, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with biology.
In addition to being a bit chubby as a child [not grossly obese, just chubby] I was also the tallest kid in the class, until 7th grade. How would you like to be 5’3 in the fourth grade? I was – and I hated it. It was only in 7th grade that two of the boys got taller than me. Then suddenly in 8th grade, I was 5’4 and the rest of the class was all taller – everyone grew that summer. I trotted to the back of the line, where the tall kids stood, when we lined up by height, for pictures. Everyone started laughing and gesturing for me to go to the front of the line. I thought they were being snotty until I realized I was looking up at everyone. Finally, I ended up about 3rd from the front. I never grew any more, which is no big deal, but I always carry with me the feeling of what it’s like to be viewed as a physical freak of nature. The first time I saw the movie The Elephant Man I had to leave the theater, I was crying so hard.
So I not only sympathize with Michael, I understand his pain. He is different. It’s not only the missing hand, it’s his sensibilities. Even if he were 9 or 10, like his classmates, his life experiences would mark him as different. When you look in his eyes, you see wisdom beyond his years. He’s not more mature, really, just wiser about how the world works, from living on the streets. Yet, he is physically affectionate like a much younger child, always wanted to be held. It’s hard to explain.
One reason I am so stingy when it comes to videogames like X-Box and Wii, and computer time for my kids, is that I want to encourage human interaction, not electronic interaction. Yes, computers and games like that are the way of the future and they will get those skills almost by osmosis. However, I want my children to value things that are far more enduring and important, like growing vegetables, and loving literature, and music and art.
When I was a child and felt so alone sometimes, I took great comfort from books. I would also spend hours listening to music. I never got into any big trouble as a teenager, and I think that’s because my mind was always busy and I was always learning. I tell my kids all the time that learning is something they will do all their lives, not just as kids in school. I have faith in God, faith in love, and faith in learning.
I also thought a lot about God when I was an adolescent, and tried to understand the phrase “being a good Christian.” I now realize that part of it is learning how to gamble. You have to gamble that your beliefs are the right ones. You have to take a chance on Jesus. [I could make a fortune writing bumper stickers! LOL]
Some people think I gambled in adopting my children. I don't see it that way at all. I listened to the voice inside me that told me they were my children. I call that voice God. [You may call your inner voice, Jesus, The Universe, Yahweh, G*d, Mohammed, Vishnu, or Morgan Freeman. To me, it's God.]
I need to teach Michael how to gamble, and be strong, win or lose. He's already intrigued with gambling, wanting to make bets all the time. It's a boy thing, I know. I discourage that sort of gambling, big time. However, he needs to take a chance on getting to know other kids, and not being afraid of them. If they don’t want to be friends, he needs to shrug it off and move on. It’s a very difficult thing for a kid who is physically different, and a bit shy – it wasn’t easy for me until I was in my 30’s. Michael needs to learn it now. Another big obstacle for him to conquer. I hope we can love him enough and make him strong enough to do it.
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I meant to thank Renia for her comment about the book Michael read in Kazakhstan - yep, it was Go Dog Go - parts of which I can still recite. "Do you like my hat? / No I do not like your hat!" Brilliant.
