My father

My father, Anthony Ciaramitaro III was born August 20th, 1947 in Memphis, Tennessee. He was born to Loyse and Anthony Ciaramitaro, a blue collar family. He was born in a time of reserved family structure and economic recovery after World War II. Men were returning home from the war, and women were intent on making a home and raising a family. Karl Marx’s communist principles were being fought against, and democracy was a proud and noble thing for all Americans. Unfortunately, this great American story would not follow the cultural norm for that day and time. It defied all logic and reason, and the birth of Anthony Ciaramitaro would change the world and people’s stereotypes for a lifetime.

After returning from the second wave of the D-day invasion, Anthony Ciaramitaro II married Loyse Smith in the fall of 1945. Anthony was not a wealthy man, but his family owned a grocery store, and he was proud he was able to take care of his wife. He was the son of dedicated Catholic Italian immigrants who came to this country in 1920. They came to pursue the American dream. In fact, owning their own business was one of the greatest accomplishments of their lives. Loyse wanted only to be a house wife and make Anthony proud by giving him a son. In that day and time women were not encouraged to work outside of the home, but Loyse did help out in the family grocery store from time to time. Loyse was raised a southern Baptist, yet she converted to Catholicism to be married in Anthony’s church. Perhaps this was not enough to forge a relationship with her in-laws, for they never quite got along. Still, Loyse was intent on being an agreeable wife and tried to be as polite to Anthony’s mother as possible.

Getting pregnant with their first child should have been a happy event for the young couple; instead the tears of happiness were mixed with sorrow as Anthony was diagnosed with a brain tumor within the same month. Medical treatment was not as sophisticated as it is today, and he died on the operating table in May of 1947. Loyse was terribly frightened and devastated, yet she had a piece of Anthony growing inside of her, so she struggled on. Anthony’s parents offered their daughter-in-law no help after the death of their son, but her mother moved in and they decided to raise the baby together after it came. August 1947 Anthony Ciaramitaro III was born with shock and awe. He came crying into the world 5 weeks premature and with what society called “physical handicaps”. Anthony’s arms were shorter than “normal” and he had only two fingers on each hand. His “birth defects” were very similar that of children born to mothers taking Thalidomide, but Loyse had not taken that medicine during pregnancy.

A child being born should be a joyous and wonderful occasion, and in many ways it was to Loyse. Little Anthony was born early, but he was healthy and reminded her very much of her late husband. Still Loyse’s mother-in-law was very insistent that Anthony have immediate surgery to try and correct his hands and arms. However, Loyse knew nothing could be done to change them and would have never risked her baby to even try. This young mother had already lost a husband on the operating table and was determined her son would not suffer the same fate. In the 1940’s children like these were often institutionalized, as they were not only though to be deficient in physical aspects but quite possibly mental faculties as well. In spite of this uncertainty, Loyse took her son home and set about raising him into a man.
Anthony was raised in a home with his mother and maternal grandmother. He was doted on and spoiled immensely. As much as she tried to shelter him, Loyse knew that when he was 6 he would need an education. In the 1950’s children who were victims of
polio were sent to Shriners schools where they were educated and protected from the stress and cruelties of society. Anthony was sent to school with these children. As we still see today, children are not as accepting of what is different, and it was thought to be in the best interest of these children to be separated instead of mainstreamed. Not to be outdone, Anthony excelled in academics and won many state awards for his grades and test scores. In the sixth grade Anthony came home and told his mother that he no longer wanted to go to the Shriners school; he was ready to be like everyone else. Today if a parent wants their child mainstreamed they work with the school and if it’s in the child’s best interests it happens. In 1958, a pediatrician had to write a letter and petition the school board to make this occur. However, Anthony’s pediatrician would not do this because he didn’t feel that this little boy could handle the stress. As always, everyone around him underestimated Anthony. He fought to win his doctor over, and out of sheer frustration the pediatrician gave in and wrote the letter. Anthony was moving ahead, and not much would stop him from there on out.

Anthony Ciaramitaro III was the first in his family to graduate from college. He attended on a full paid scholar ship and still brags today about the 31 he received on his ACT. He graduated Memphis State with a Bachelors of Engineering in Electrical Engineering and Bachelors in Business. He was the first one in his household to own a car and have a career. In many ways, he lived the American dream that his paternal grandparents came here in search of.

I met my father when I was two years old. My bio parents were going through a divorce, and Tony (his nickname) met my mother and they became friends. He still tells me today
that he fell in love with me first and then my mother later. What greater compliment could any daughter wish to hear? While my father was not very demonstrative with his affections, my brother, sister, and I always knew how much he cared for us.
In many aspects, my father’s life was very different from many families that he grew up along side. He was raised by a mother and grandmother, and never knew a father. His mother chose never to remarry or even date. She gave all of her attention to her son, yet he chose to eventually leave the nest and make a life for himself. This man who was not taught about fatherhood became a phenomenal dad. He had no rule book or experience to go by, just determination and love.

While my life has not been picture perfect, I feel that being raised by my father has armed me with the tools necessary to defy prejudices and stereotypes. My daughter was born when I was seventeen. I too had a full scholarship to college, though having my daughter made going to college directly out of high school not possible. My father never showed disappointment in my actions; instead he asked me what I was going to do to make my life better. Being his daughter, I knew that society could never limit what I was capable of. They would never categorize me, for if they did I would defy everything they thought. I went to nursing school, and for several years I did private duty nursing for developmentally delayed and differently abled children. I became my patient’s advocate when they could not speak for themselves. I fought for their rights and better care, like my father taught me to.

The last object of this paper is to tell to what extent I feel that I am a product of my family’s history. The only thing I can say is that I am my father’s daughter. I was raised
and loved by my hero. Anthony Ciaramitaro was not a saint; he was just a man. However, he taught me to live life without limitations and to exceed expectations. He lived an ordinary life extraordinarily. When I recount my family history, I am able to tell my children the story of a man who was born in a time when fear and ignorance was prevalent. Through my father, my daughters are able to see how far our society has come. They see more children in their schools with various impairments, and know that it was not always so easy to accomplish this. My father has taught them how much our culture has evolved in its way of thinking.

How?

How do you go back to the person you were before? How do you think about buying a new car when you know the cost of one is equal to that of a child's life? How do you even think about buying a dooney and burke purse or dolce and gabbana pair of sunglasses(all things I was partial to) when you know how material things just don't matter anymore? How do explain that cruises and Hawaii vacations that used to be so important don't matter anymore at all? How do I get people to understand that nothing is the same for me? The way I see the world and the things that are important in my life have all shifted. How is it possible that a little 5 year old boy that can play with a straw or stick for hours and find joy has changed me this much? How can I get anyone to understand that I spent my life waiting to be his mother, and when that happened, everything that was once so dull came into focus. How can I be more patient and less judgemental with those who don't understand? How can I keep from screaming that the perfect healthy child is just a myth? We are all flawed, some of us just have our flaws written on paper. How do I admit to my husband that one of the reasons I keep O in private school is because it's only a few streets away from my work and it makes me ill to think of him being too far away? Will anyone understand that when he is with me, I feel whole, as if what I was searching for my entire life was just waiting in Estonia to be found? When I look at my children all together I know that it was meant to be exactly like this. I know who I am, and I am becoming who I want to be, and each day I have to pinch myself because God loves me so very much.

Just pictures

Mother's day

This day has always held a little sadness for me. When I was growing up, my mother refused to let us celebrate it or do anything for her. That was just the way she was, her b-day was the same. By the time I became a mother, I had also lost my own. So each year, though I adore my babies, I have just a little twinge that I never had a mother to buy flowers or a card for. I never had anyone to take out for a special lunch or all that stuff that seems to go on. I did have a dear friend for several year I bought a card for. We fell out of touch a while back though.

Still, my children did their best to make today special for me, and they did very well. Miri got up and made me breakfast, A.J. is still asleep but she assured me she had pictures she drew for me, and O made me a lovely stepping stone with his name and hand print engraved. Andy even came over and wants to eat lunch just the two of us some time this week. So all in all, I'd say my kiddos made me feel very special and loved.

However, my heart still hurts a little as I think about O's mother. I think about all she is missing and wonder if she just puts it out of her mind, or if mother's day causes her pain. I wish their was some way for me to tell her what a wonderful little boy our son is. I wish she knew that he gives the best kisses and hugs around. His laughter could cheer the saddest day, and his heart is bigger than anyone I know. More than all of that, I wish she knew that someone across the world held her in their prayers and loves her very much. Whether intentional or not, she gave me a pretty amazing gift.

Happy mother's day to all those mommas out there. Whether you have your babies near, whether they appreciate you, or whether you can squeeze them anytime you want, being a mother is the most precious of all things. Only a mother could admit to the courts that she wanted another chance to raise her son but knew he was better off being adopted. Only a mother would give up every dream she had to fly across the world and bring her son home. Only a mother would become a woman at the age of 17 and raise a child no one thought she could. Only a mother would make her daughter promise at the age of 12 to finish raising her brother when his mother was gone. Only a mother would put a child's needs before her own and do it gladly. Being a mother comes at a great price, and to do it well, it takes everything a woman has. No one writes the rule book, and it takes about 18 years to perfect the task and then it does not even seem like it's half way done. Hug your babies and thank God for them. They are only little for a small time.

Thanks for all the kind comments. Most of the time I keep rolling and do very well, but I guess everyone has their bad days. Anywho, I finally got some sleep, and that alone makes me feel much more human. We are also trying to make plans for some sort of vacation this summer. I don't vacation well, so I have been told. I like everything planned ahead of time. I get up between 5 and 6 on vacation days. It drives me crazy that some people see vacation as just a time to sleep till 10. Why should I pay for a trip when we could just stay home and sleep in for free?

Sometimes I wonder if I can do anything right. I want to do it all, and I just can't. Andy thinks I am an old fuddy duddy. Yes, that is what I said. He does. Apparently everyone in my life thinks I am too judgmental, too religious, and I'm not any fun. Even perfect O's screeching is giving me headaches. A.J. is super jealous lately and feels like she is not the baby anymore. Miri is just Miri. She is always trying to grow up and not stopping to enjoy being a child. MY spouse, is well my spouse for all intents and purposes. I used to write grand things and letters about him, but one day I woke up and realized my personal relationship was not for public consumption, so you'll probably never see me go there. I will say it would be nice to have a little help every now and then. When I mention that, he offers to hire someone to help with the kids or clean the house. Enough said about that huh?? Sigh. Most of the time I really try and stay optimistic. I really do. Sometimes though, I hit a wall, have a migraine, and then it just feels like it's all too much. Tomorrow everything will be better though. I'll wake up to O's big smile, A.J. will come down and tell me she has brushed her teeth, and Miri will ask for money for something. I'll get a load of laundry done, maybe cook, a meal, the house will be in order, and I will have worked a full work week. That's what makes me happy, running like hell, doing too much, and every once in a while, saving the world before bedtime, my world.

So it's been rumored that some believe that O is my new found favorite. Of course anyone who REALLY knows me sees that that is not possible. I am good at one thing, and that is love. I'm not the kind of person that would ever favor one child over another. My heart is big enough for all of my children, and each is special in their individual way.

Here's the deal though. I'm not entirely sure I knew what love could be until Oskar came home. When you have a biological child you bond and fight for them. It begins int he womb. You nourish your body and do the best to make sure everything is as perfect as it can be.

When you adopt, you start out behind the 8 ball. Often, you know your child was neglected before they even made it into the world. Yet, you jump in heart first and decide you will make up for everything. You set out to earn your child's respect and love. You are determined to prove you will always be there for them and even though they tell you it's not possible, you try and make up for lost time. You cuddle, baby, and dream of all those moments you were not there for.

All in all though, there are so many adoption stories floating around. There are two schools of thought I have found. 1 is to be realistic and share the good and bad. Others like me forget about the bad and just roll on. Neither are right and wrong and both sides certainly need to be shared. Adoption is not all roses. Children don't act perfectly all the time. Still, I did not really care about much of that. I wanted my child home. I promised God I would deal with anything if he just got my baby home. So when he did, it was good enough for me. I got through the first month of exhaustion and adjustment, and life just moved right on for me.

Still I had my little suspicions and nagging theories about all this love stuff. I wanted to think I loved my bio kids for their own worth and merit. However, they were mine, half of me, so did I see them through rose colored glasses? Was it possible for me to overlook their imperfections and see them as little people? Did I choose to love them, or was I born to love them? I was pretty sure love was a choice up to that point, but I was not certain.

Then, a little Eesti prince came in and rocked my whole world. Don't you see? HE did not have to love ME. Of course I was going to love my son, that's all I do right, love. Still, there were no guarantees about his feelings toward me. Make no mistake though, I went in prepared for him not to bond, and for me to earn his love. I was willing to take as much time as needed. After all, I took him away from everything and one he ever knew. I did not speak his language, cook his food, or truly know what was going though his precious little mind and heart.

With all that being said, he gave me one month of hell, and then he jumped right into my arms and never looked back. He told me he was mine. He waits at the window and waves goodbye each and every day I drop him off at school. He picks me flowers. He kills bugs for me. He rubs my head when it hurts. He jumps up and down if I buy him a pair of shoes. He's trying to let me teach him how to dance. He tells me to drive faster and laughs the whole time. He lets me rock him and cuddle him. He often runs and jumps into my arms. You know what? I totally forgot that I have a bad back and God willing until I can't lift him, he will be able to be carried as much as he wants.

This perfect little boy had every reason in the world not to give me a chance. He did not know me. He did not know what mothers are or what families can be. He could have chosen fear, and in the beginning he chose anger. I have many holes in the walls to prove that. A lot of the rules did not make sense. Maybe I am naive or as my other half says, trying to save the world. Still, I did not mind the holes. I did not mind the anger. He had the right to feel the way he did. I had faith. I knew it would pass, and it quickly did.

Something clicked in my son's mind and heart. Something told him that he was mine and I belonged to him. He managed to overlook my flaws as a mother and a person in general, and he gave his entire heart over to me. He could have held a grudge. He could have longed for his friends, the orphanage, or what he always knew. Instead he chose to look forward and accept me as he mother and that he was finally home. This was about the time he started asking why he wasn't in family pictures and where were his baby pictures.

Nothing much mattered about the past after that. 18 months of pain, trials, and every cent I could scrounge up was forgotten. I was in love. I had totally fallen in love with my son, and he with me. Each day we learned more about each other, and many times laughed at our differences. I still try and get him to eat pizza and he laughs and tries to make me eat cucumbers. We take it one day at a time, but we take the road together.

My son teaches me to love each day that he draws a breath. He teaches me that blood, distance, and contrast makes no difference. He chooses to love me and accept me as his own. So I learn to love from a child. I learn to accept that Santa is real, mothers never leave, and unconditional love is possible. I learn to hold tighter, stress less, and maybe just hang a picture on the wall over some holes. What are a few holes anyway? After all, I had a rather large one in my heart for the 18 months it took to bring him home.

Make no mistake. I know worth when I see it. My son has more love in him than anyone I have ever met. I choose to accept the gift I have been given and will allow myself to be taught, even if it is by a child.

Oskar is not my favorite. To tell the truth, I think I am his.......................