Update on Emily Giffin Interview

Dear Readers,

In August 2012, I reached out to New York Times bestselling author Emily Giffin’s assistant requesting an interview.  Giffin’s most recent novel, Where We Belong, has adoption at its core, and an interview with her seemed a perfect fit for My Three Sons.

I received confirmation from her assistant that once her tour was complete, she would be able to answer a few questions.  We set October as the time, and I wrote about it here on the blog.

My book club chose to read Where We Belong, and at one of our meetings we brainstormed questions to ask the author.

I sent along the questions and several follow-up emails but heard back today that the author is too busy to answer questions as she is working on her seventh novel and that I should check back in the spring or summer.

For fans of Emily Giffin, you can follow her here on her public Facebook page.

I apologize to my readers who were looking forward to the interview.

Sincerely,

Samantha

Just the Two of Us

Some time ago, I was asked to write a five-part series for our adoption agency, Children’s Friend and Service, entitled “A True Tale of Adoption.”  The idea is that the first installment would be about life before children, then an installment about each of our sons, and the final installment about our life as a complete family.

Here, with permission of Children’s Friend and Service, is Part I of the series . . .

I suppose we have Hurricane Gloria to thank. In September 1985, when I was a senior in high school, I had applied for two part-time jobs to supplement my nonexistent income. Wind damage had knocked out the power at one of the businesses to which I had applied—a local grocery store around the corner from my home—and they needed immediate help to retrieve the items from their freezers and save their stock. They called and told me I was hired and asked if I’d be willing to help out. With motives more financial than magnanimous, I eagerly accepted the job and skipped on down to lend a hand. And that’s when and where I met my future husband—though he didn’t know it at the time.

He was 24 years old, so definitely (to my 17-year-old self ) fascinating by virtue of his advanced years, and he was handsome and a guitarist in a band. Enough said. I was in love. We worked together and became friends until that fateful night in November 1986 when my appearance and corresponding nasal sound effects revealed I had a bad cold. Don came through my line at the store with water, cough drops, and a small orange juice. I rang up the items, not thinking a whole lot about them, until he said, “Here. These are for you. Feel better.” Now, of course, it was clear to me that he too was in love.

Photo Credit: Jan Armor

On December 13, 1986, this grocery store held its annual Christmas party—and both Don and I decided we would attend . . . well, we’d meet there. It wasn’t a date or anything. Except by the end of that evening, which we count as our “first date,” it was clear that this was one love story that was meant to be. Eight years to the day, on Tuesday (yes, a Tuesday), December 13, 1994, we were married.

Both Don and I were deeply entrenched in our education for a very long time—he pursuing his Master’s in Musicology at Tufts and I, a full-time public high school English teacher, a Master’s in English at the University of Rhode Island. We both started our Ph. D. programs—he at Brandeis and I continuing at URI. We also traveled—a lot: London, Paris, Budapest, Vienna, Helsinki, Prague and destinations throughout the United States. The world was our classroom, and we were avid readers and explorers.

The idea that we would ever even want to have children didn’t really pass through our shared consciousness. We saw ourselves as one of those “sophisticated couples” who would spend our luxurious days taking classes, eating exotic meals, traveling to distant locales, seeing independent films, and strolling through museums.

Then one afternoon in 1995, Don and I were out on one of our sophisticated dates—a movie . . . Babe . . . yes, the movie about a talking pig. We sat through the credits (mostly, I’m sure, to consume the last vestiges of our exotic bucket of popcorn) when the name Oscar Farias, a production assistant on the film, appeared. That’s when Don—Don Farias—turned to me and said, “If we ever have a son, can we name him Oscar?”

If we ever have a son . . .

We See What We See

When you have to keep a six-year-old child up until 2 AM–especially a six-year-old child who loves to sleep–you have to get clever.  Of course, because it is a six-year-old child, you can only get SO clever.

Edgar’s sleep-deprived EEG scheduled for 9:30 AM on Friday morning meant that he could get only four hours of sleep on Thursday night.  So, where do all the cool six-year-olds hang out in the wee hours of the night?  Wal-Mart and Stop & Shop are open until 10 PM and midnight respectively, which left us with two hours to finagle. 

We landed at Ma’s Donuts–a local 24-hour eatery–a little after midnight and selected any number of high-calorie treats and sat down. 

As Edgar and I were talking–about school, about his upcoming visit to the hospital, about Halloween–I removed the cover from my hot tea to let it cool.  He stared in amazement at the steam, and I could see the proverbial wheels turning.  He removed a flashlight he had procured at Wal-Mart two hours before from his pocket and asked, “Mom, what would that steam look like if I flash my green light on it?” 

He turned on the light and aimed it at the steam, marveling at the swirl of green fog and remarked, “Whoa . . . It looks like special effects.”

Our evening continued, and I finished my tea.  Edgar asked to see my tea bag–and before I could explain how steeping works, he had the teabag open and was arranging the damp tea leaves on a plate, creating a city with buildings of varying height.

By 1:15 AM, our remaining crumbs attracted the attention of the resident fruit fly.  While most people would shoo the creature away, Edgar invited it to join us, was sad when it momentarily flew off, and was anxious to talk to it.  When it eventually returned and perched on his plate, he looked at it with what I can only term love and said, “Guess what, fly?  Tomorrow the doctors are going to look at my brain!  Isn’t that cool?”

As I sat there at in the middle of the night at a mom-and-pop donut shop and stared in awe at my beautiful boy, I thought about what the doctors are going to see when they “look at [his] brain.”  And I realized that no matter what they see, they won’t see what I see–a creative, compassionate boy who can see theatrical effects in a cup of tea, a city sculpture in a pile of tea leaves, and a confidant in a fruit fly.

There is no one like Edgar.  How could there be?  And while an EEG and neurologist will see much, they won’t see that.  And I realized at that moment how very lucky we are.

It’s the Chicken’s Fault

Approximately ten years ago, on a pre-movie dinner date at a quiet restaurant in Providence, I ordered, without much thought, a shrimp and pasta dinner.  Instead of eating the shrimp, however, I opted to push the critters to the side, out of my way, and probably even put a few on Don’s plate.  And as I ate the pasta, it dawned on me:  I didn’t have to eat the fish.  I didn’t want to eat the fish.  After thirty-plus years of eating meat and fish out of mere habit, I could make the decision to stop. 

And so I did.  Right there in that restaurant–and for the next ten years.

Admittedly, I’ve probably been more of a carbotarian (if that’s now a word) than a vegetarian (though there really are plenty of vegetables I like); but as far as meat and fish–none, not for a decade.   I made an exception when my unfortunate genetics required my adding a fish oil tablet every day (along with a potent high blood pressure pill) to my diet.  And even though my doctor suggested eating tuna–and I tried–that was short-lived (as in one sandwich).  I couldn’t.  I wasn’t ready, and it wasn’t time.

But something changed this summer.  And though I’d love to brag that I made a conscious decision to eat meat and only meat that is raised on happy farms, it wasn’t quite like that.  It was a crockpot full of chicken teriyaki, the smell of which I had bonded with throughout the entire day.  When it was time to taste-test, instead of giving some to my friend, who was willing and able to try it and offer her opinion, I grabbed a fork, fished for a cube, and, to her horror, I think, popped it in my mouth.  And it was good.  And probably not raised on a happy farm. 

So for the last few weeks I have been dabbling–slowly, but most definitely surely.  And my cooking life has become easier in ways I never could have imagined.  I can actually make the same meal for everyone–no variations on a theme required.  And when you’re cooking for five, anything that makes life easier is welcome.

And I am at peace with this decision.  We aim to avoid attaching much emotion to our eating and try to teach our children that you need to listen to your body in terms of food–eat when you’re hungry, stop when you’re full.  And I think the same is true of what kind of food one eats–eat meat if your body is asking for it; stop if it’s asking you to stop (or to take a break). 

But stay away from that siren that is crockpot chicken teriyaki.  It has power enough!

Just Curious

Hi there!

Today WordPress let me know that since this blog’s inception     nearly three years ago, it has had over 25,000 “hits”–a bit of a milestone.  The one thing WordPress can’t tell me is who’s reading.

So here I am–curious and not a little nosey–wondering who it is who is checking in. 

I think in the world of blogs, they call this a “roll call.”  Would you mind commenting on the blog and letting me know who you are, how often you check in, and, if you’re inclined, why you check in?  Are you a family member or friend?  Fellow adoptive parent?  Have we ever met? 

I write for my sons, but I am also aware that I am writing for others–some of whom I know, and some I don’t.  As a writer, this is interesting territory, and one I am only beginning to learn to negotiate. 

So, if you have a moment, say “hi” through the blog’s commenting feature and let me (and the boys) know who you are!

Thanks so much,

Samantha

Mr. Mustache

Oscar likes to remind us at regular intervals that on his birthday he will be five years old.  He also likes to tell us that he is now forty pounds and show off his burgeoning muscles.  In other words, he’s feeling as though he’s growing up. 

On Friday he mustached himself for his role as Oz at school, and when he appeared at Applebee’s later that evening, the lovely Quinn remarked on how mature he looked. 

Today when I picked up our growing boy, he was as pleased as he could be to show us that despite the fact that his previous mustache had disappeared sometime between Friday night and Saturday morning, another one magically appeared today!

And be warned:  Oscar has stated that when I pick him up on Thursday, there will be a beard as well.

A Letter to My Sons

Dear Oscar and Edgar,

As I watch you play this morning just a few feet from where I sit, I am struck–as I so often am–by your sweetness, your beauty, and your joy.   And as your mother, I want so much to protect you, to shield you–literally and figuratively– from life’s obstacles, life’s pain, from grief.   That comes from my love for you–visceral, primal, all-encompassing parental love for you. 

But I know that I can’t.  Though this life offers to us many opportunities for great joy and happiness, there is also great suffering.  And ultimately one the best gifts I can give to you is to show you how to handle life’s losses with heart, with grace, and ultimately with acceptance.

This was quite a week for our family.  On Wednesday and Thursday, we thought that you were about to become big brothers to a beautiful baby boy.  And on Friday everything changed.  We may never know what caused such a change of heart, but I do have faith that one day we will understand why this happened.  When I look at you both, I see my history–the challenges and obstacles that led me to your father and then to you.  No matter how senseless things may have seemed at the time, when I look at you I know unequivocally why things happened the way they did–it was part of my journey to you. 

When we told you the news yesterday you reacted in such a way that reminded me what is best about our family:  that we are here for each other.  You were able to express your feelings and ask your questions.  There is security and love here that frees us and gives us space to express ourselves honestly and without fear. 

 There are very few promises one can make and even fewer guarantees, but I can promise you this:  You are loved, you are treasured, you are ours and we are yours.  We are traveling this road together, and thank goodness for that.

With all my love,

Mommy

It’s in the Stars

In flipping the page of the calendar this week, I noticed that Monday marked the start of Chinese New Year, and 2009 is the Year of the Ox.  For me, astrology–Chinese and occidental–has been largely entertainment.  Yes, I always thought it intriguing when reviewing the personality profile of a Taurus that I seemed to fit it perfectly; and when visiting our favorite Chinese restaurant, I always gleaned a special satisfaction from reading on my placemat that my Chinese sign, the Monkey, was described as “clever and intelligent.” 

I decided to research all of our Chinese astrological signs–Oscar and I are both Monkeys, Don is an Ox (deemed an honest, dependable, and tireless worker); and Edgar is a Rooster.

A Rooster, you say?

A Rooster is–and I quote–”an impeccably neat perfectionist.”

Really?

I suppose it’s possible . . . just not quite yet!

Gratitude

On this Thanksgiving evening, before I crawl into the bed that is trying so desperately to pry me off this keyboard, I need to pause and express my gratitude for the people in my life–the people who listen when I need to talk, who talk when I need to hear, who laugh with me and occasionally at me, who support me and care for me, for those who are there.  

To paraphrase Emily Dickinson, “My friends and family are my estate.”  

Happy Thanksgiving!

Elf Yourself

This may be the epitome of holiday silliness, but if you’d like to get a look at us in our elfin finery dancing for all it’s worth, click on the following link:

Happy Holidays!

http://elfyourself.jibjab.com/view/7RAoS9jshf5yEfx4