Posted by: Dylan Stafford | October 25, 2011

Jack’s Red Jacket

Jackson’s four and a half years old exactly today, October 25, 2011. I’ve got an important meeting in three hours, but I’m still in my PJs, sipping my coffee and failing at trying to not let work creep into my home life. I’m failing because I’ve already brainstormed four or five different scenarios of how to manage the meeting, already slain dragons and saved fair maidens in my mind.

My son’s the tallest “Penguin” in his daycare class. He outgrows clothes quickly and last week Mommy unveiled a new red jacket for Fall.

His previous jacket was baby blue and had dark blue stripes on the sleeves. He’d worn the blue jacket for a surprisingly long time; Mommy must have bought the blue jacket extra-large to get such a long life from it. It had a hood and Jackson looked baby-ish wearing it, like a toddler who still teeters left and right as much as goes straight forward when he walks.

But last week, when I was grabbing my coffee and my lunch and loading the car, Marisa brought Jackson out of his room sporting his new red jacket, a very bright red with white stripes down the sleeves. Gone is the hood and instead there’s a collar, very big-man-on-campus looking.

We exchanged our kisses in the driveway, me trying to be present while that day’s work challenges were similarly already bouncing around in my brain. Mommy played a game of peek-a-boo outside Jackson’s car window; the game they’ve been playing each morning for years.

I looked over my shoulder to make sure he’d latched his car seat—another marker of his growth, him latching his car seat himself—and there in the seat where my toddler sat was this new child, this pre-K young boy in his new red jacket.

“Let’s go Dad. Will you tell me a story? I want a Star Wars story. Remember, there are no witches or dinosaurs in a Star Wars story.”

Daddy-hood is my life now. I’m never “not” a father. Jackson is growing every day, week and month. There are the outward signs as his body gets bigger, the new vocabulary, the questions he asks and observations he makes. There are the pangs of melancholy-wow that grab at my stomach, these little moments each week as I witness a little life evolving. I still writing, still trying to catch a fleeting flicker, in between all the silly dragons.

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Posted by: Dylan Stafford | October 20, 2011

To Adopt, or Not to Adopt

Yawn. Good morning. About 6:40m in southern California.

We’re going to adopt a baby…

Or, at least I think we are.

My wife and I have been thinking about adoption for over five years. We started the topic back when we were told we couldn’t have a biological pregnancy.

“You have less than a 2% chance to get pregnant naturally. I can suggest an egg donor; we could get you an egg from a blond, blue-eyed donor. Or, here is the number of an adoption attorney.” Thus spoke our fertility doctor, after six months of lab tests on Marisa’s body.

That was a tough chapter in my marriage and in my life.

I’d just always assumed I’d be a dad someday. Then, it was presented to me “maybe not.” Maybe no daddyhood for you.

My book Daddy Muscles got started during this phase of my life, as I asked myself, what do I now? How important is daddyhood anyway? If I can’t be a dad, is that the end of the world? Have a I failed somehow? Will my life be somehow “wasted?” What’s this mean about my marriage?

I asked a lot of questions. I prayed a lot. God, I’m here. What’s this all about? What’s the plan, big man?

Adoption.

Five years ago, we started down the adoption-education pathway. We talked to family and friends who have adopted. We got started learning about adoption, and then our miracle happened and Marisa got pregnant naturally. She’d gone to an Eastern Doctor, an American woman named Dr. Wilson who’d studied in China for five years and learned about fertility.

Accupuncture, warm protein with every meal, less time-zone-crossing travel, no ice, no yogurt. All this plus more was the coaching from Dr. Wilson. The coaching worked. My wife’s cycle regulated, something it had never done her whole life.

28 days. 28 days. 28 days. Boom. We were pregnant.

I watched all this happen, from “Less than 2% chance” to “That’s a heartbeat on the sonogram; You guys have a baby in there” and it all humbled me.

It’s all so important, making a family. And, it occurred for me like I was along for the ride. I couldn’t control it, speed it up, slow it down, determine if it would really happen. It was a great chance to be powerless.

And here we are now.

Adoption.

Kind of similar to pregnancy, and kind of something new entirely.

We’ve been thinking newly, again, about adoption. This whole year, we’ve had the topic on the table. Lots of new questions, options, actions to take. Domestic adoption? International? Boy? Girl? Healthy? Special needs? Ethnicity? Infant? Toddler? Foster care? One baby? Sibling set?

Boom. I’m back to square one. Kind of overwhelmed. Fight, flight or freeze? Maybe I’ll freeze, and wait for “the answer” to come. But not really. We’ve been in action. We’ve found an adoption agency. We’ve been to the two-hour orientation. We’ve been to the two-hour intake interview, and been accepted. We’ve gotten our big stack of paperwork to complete and return with our first check.

We’ve lost the big stack of almost-completed paperwork…

We’ve somehow hidden it from ourselves, and even though we’ve searched for two weeks, we can’t find it. All three doctor’s visits, financial statements, an emergency evacuation plan, consent forms, all of it we’ll have to do again.

My father has a saying, “If all that’s between you and the money is the paperwork, then do the paperwork.”

I’m adapting his saying to adoption. “If all that’s between us and adoption is the paperwork, then–now in our case– re-do the paperwork.”

It’s 7:02AM here in Los Angeles. It’s overcast with the marine layer of early morning clouds. The sky is lightening softly. Marisa’s finishing her shower, as she has an early appointment. Jackson’s still in his bed, sleeping in his Batman pajamas, my four-an-a-half year old first-born.

I’ll never have a “second-born” but we do have the chance to expand our family. We have the chance to adopt.

I’m still full of “What about-s?” and “Is this the right thing-s?” When I intellectually think about more children, about the money, time, space, details of having a larger family, I still get overwhelmed. But this is a bigger decision than just my “thinking.”

The saving grace? Grace. If this is supposed to be, it will be. If not, not.

My job? Take the footsteps.

The results? Not my business. I’m staying out of the results business, and focusing on footsteps. First footsteps, re-do the papers. Mail them back. Today, go to work. Be present. Laugh. Trust. Be here now.

Happy Thursday.

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Posted by: Dylan Stafford | October 9, 2011

Pumpkins, Penguins and Anniversaries

It’s Sunday night. I’m on the couch with “The Good Wife” playing in the background on TV. My face is rosy from being outside all day today, seven hours at a pumpkin patch with Marisa and Jackson and friends.

I had to work yesterday and I’ll go back tomorrow. Part of me wanted to have a cave-day today, to let Marisa take Jackson to the pumpkin patch without me so I could have the house to myself and try to squeeze two days of weekend restoration out of one day at home.

“Vladana’s going, plus Virginia and Anna,” Marisa told me.

Those three women are all mothers of children who’ve been Penguins with Jackson, they’ve all been in daycare together over the last four years. Those three families were part of our life through the morning / afternoon drop-off / pick-up rhythm of daycare. They were part of our family by sharing birthday parties–numbers two, three and four–plus a couple of Halloweens.

“I’ll go too,” I told Marisa.

“Really? Don’t you need some ‘downtime’ after your big day yesterday?” she asked.

“Yeah probably. But it will be fun to see them all, and I liked when we went to the pumpkin patch last year.”

We gathered sunscreen and the camera and I loaded the address into the GPS and we left the house about 10:30am. We were headed to Moorpark, about 45 miles north and west of where we live in Culver City.

California was bright and dry and traffic was light on a Sunday morning. We arrived to the farm to find the parking lot already full so we parallel-parked out on the country road, slathered on the sunscreen and held hands to cross over to the farm.

We were early, the other families not there yet, and we watched Jackson run around the fields of pumpkins sitting out in the morning sun. There were the regular orange ones, but also lots of other more exotic types: greens and whites, small to huge, oblong and lumpy.

Virginia arrived first, with her daughter Alina in the back seat. As their mini-van drove by they tapped the horn and Jackson realized he was about to get to play with his buddy Alina, who left his daycare about a month ago.

Jackson jumped up and down, both feet leaving the ground and knees pulling into the air, while he squealed at seeing Alina drive by.

It took about ten minutes before they parked and walked up, and when they did Jackson played like he wanted to show me something and ignored Alina. He’ll do that I’ve seen, get so excited and then almost act like whatever he was excited about doesn’t exist.

The rest of the day would be the great Penguin reunion as also joining us were Alexandra and Cameron, two other former daycare buddies.

Tomorrow is my eight year anniversary with Marisa.

There’s that adage about people coming into our lives for a season, for a reason or for a lifetime. All Jackson’s daycare buddies are in our life for a season, a very important season called his childhood.

This is Los Angeles. I know that the odds of him keeping up with these families through elementary school, junior high and beyond are very low. I get that intellectually, and every time there’s a transition at daycare where someone moves on I accept it.

But still. Here we were today and I couldn’t help slowing down to get that these people were part of the fabric of my life these last four years. Four years. The time it takes to go to high school or to go to college. Four years seemed so long when I was 14 or when I was 18, starting either of those two experiences.

But as an adult? Four years is a weekend. It’s over in a flash.

I wanted to get melancholy today, but the carnival atmosphere of the farm kept me focused on being present. This place had everything from a corn field maze to hayrides to the Lion’s club selling hot dogs to pumpkin decorating. I followed the mom’s and the kids and the one other father and I took photos and I had a good time, eating too much junk food and getting too much sun on my face.

My big take-away? I’m glad I get to be married. I get to be with Marisa for a lifetime, not just a reason and longer than just a season.

Jackson? He’ll always be my son, but he’ll grow up some day and he’ll need to spread his wings. My family? I love them all and we’re close but everyone goes their separate ways. Friends? the same.

Being married. It’s a cool proposition. It’s so much all wrapped into one: love, romance, family, parenting, finances, faith, family. Tomorrow I will have had 8 of my 42 years on the planet as a husband. It’s a good thing. I’m grateful for it.

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Posted in Acceptance, Anniversary, Appreciation, Bein' married, Dylan's Diaries | Tags: , , , , , ,

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