Workin' It

This isn't really an "official" blog; more of a dry run.  I just became an Amazon Associate, and the ad to the left is a Kindle "book".  Now, I don't know if I'll ever own one of these; I'm a person that just LOVES reading a real, physical book.  But who am I to get in the way of progress?  As long as there are ways to keep reading, to be able to get lost in a story, to be pulled into an adventure, to be wooed into a romance, I'll be there.

I hope my friends and family have enjoyed my blog.  I appreciate everyone's efforts at helping me get this started.

I LOVE YOU ALL!!!

The Kitties I have Known part 1

In an effort to prove to someone that I'm not all doom and gloom, that my life really doesn't revolve around adoption reform, I want to change things up a little bit.  Add some spice to my blog; I want to introduce the cats in my life.  :)

 Introducing Oscar.  He's an 11 year old tabby, with an old man attitude, a crook at the end of his tail (I think that his tail was stepped on as a kitten, but I'm not sure), and the deepest purr you've ever heard.  He's my buddy, and I'm his person.  He tells me LOUDLY when it's time for bed, and woe to me if I don't listen, or get out of bed after I'm safely tucked in.  He's the patriarch of our kitty clan, and takes no guff from anyone!  He was recently diagnosed with asthma, and has been having a difficult time of it lately.  His wheezing has been keeping me up at night, though, and there was one time I thought he'd just curled up next to me and slipped away.  Imagine his ire when I woke him up rather violently.  I think I was lucky to come away from the encounter with all my fingers in place.

This is Cleopatra, a 4 1/2 year old tabby and the matriarch of our kitty clan.  She is the Queen; you can call her Mama Patra, Auntie Patra, but just don't call her Cleo.  You'll get a paw full!  She is a definite daddy's girl; its especially funny to watch her jump on her daddy's lap and start to tread on his belly, purring up a storm an drooling all the while.

 

This is Qu'ushi, a domestic medium furred kitty.  His name is Hebrew for "little black boy"; in some ways, not very original, but Qu'ushi is a one of a kind cat.  He's a small fur kid, with a small voice, but a lot of love, and very much a daddy's boy.  He is Cleopatra's Prince Consort, even though he walks like a dandy, with a distinct swoosh to his stride.  And while he is a black cat, his time spent outside has bleached out some of his color, so he has patches of a deep mahogany brown.  If he wants something from you, he'll stand on his hind legs and stretch his forepaws up your leg and dig his claws in, meowing in a complaining voice until you figure out what it is he wants.  Typically his requests are for food, to be let outside or occasionally to be picked up.

These three cats are what I call our triumvirate.  They are the original cats that my fiance and I brought to the relationship when we moved in together.

Meet Jazz.  Beth is HER girl, and she is claimed by my daughter.  Beth is the one who found Jazz and her brother (whom we gave to some friends) on the grounds of the commercial nursery that we lived in for a year.  This 2 1/2 year old tabby quickly edged her way into our hearts.  She is named Jazz because she "sings"; her voice is melodious, for a cat, and she is a very vocal kitty.  She and Cleopatra tend to have arguments over who is dominate.  I'm not really sure if Cleopatra wins all the time, but Jazz is gracious enough to not shove it in her face every minute of the day.  Part of why Jazz thinks she's a contender for the throne is the fact that she's had several litters, and thinks that makes HER the Queen.  Which, in cat worlds, it does, but not necessarily in this household.

This handsome fellow is Pinkerton.  He was originally named Pinky because as a kitten, his fur was white, and showed a very pink skinned kitten.  At the time we thought he was a she, so Pinky would have been a perfectly acceptable name.  Boy, were we surprised!  So, his name morphed into Pinkerton; sometimes Stinky Pinky, Detective Pinkerton, and Pretty Boy.  He's about a year and a half old now, and is a short haired, tabby-Siamese mix.  We're not entirely sure where the Siamese comes from because ALL of his siblings, except for one have been either black, tabby or gray.  He's a very sweet boy, and always looking for a pet or to play.  We have an arm chair that is next to a walk way in our home; he'll jump up on the edge and either reach out a paw in play or he'll cock his neck to one side coyly asking for some love.

These are the first five of our cats...there's more to come so stay tuned.

The Brainwashing of America part 1

For several generations now there has been a huge misconception in America that pregnancy, labor and delivery are medical diseases, in need of medical management and treatment.  Look around you, it's everywhere!  In our popular culture from movies to sit coms; every pregnant woman you see is a screaming, out of control banshee, blaming the man who put her in that condition.  While it makes for a laugh, this is perpetuating a myth that began when medicine became industrialized.  In reality, it began much longer ago than that with the persecution of midwives as witches by the male dominated medical profession.

But that's for another blog.

When I had my first child, I went into labor and delivery willfully ignorant, believing that my body would know exactly what to do, and that I could just coast along for the ride.  I was sorely mistaken.  Yes, labor was painful.  Yes, labor is work.  And my mistake was that in not realizing that as a woman in an industrialized society, without the benefits of being raised around women that were either constantly giving birth, or helping someone else in labor, that my brain, and the brainwashing I'd been subtly subjected to my entire life didn't allow me to just "go with the flow".   Fairly quickly I began to request something for the pain.  Since pain medication is based upon your pre-pregnancy weight, I was given very little; my pre-pregnancy weight was maybe 115 pounds.  In the end, I had an emergency cesarean section.  Turned out, my son's umbilical cord was wrapped around his foot.  Every time he was pushed/descended into my pelvis, his cord tightened up like a knot, cutting off his oxygen and putting him into sever distress.

When I became pregnant with my next child, I made a conscious decision to be as educated as I possibly could about what was going on with my body, and how to successfully have a natural labor and delivery.  About my 20th week, I spent some time with my parents.  One day my mom and I were in a book store and I came across a book; "Husband Coached Childbirth", also known as "The Bradley Method".  My hopes, wishes and prayers were answered!  I devoured that book.  I already had this "off" opinion of the La Maze technique, but I didn't know why until I read that book.  When Dr. Bradley made a point of saying that animals pant to cool themselves off, but not humans, the light bulb went off over my head.  As a youth, growing up on a farm, Dr. Bradley had been exposed to all sorts of animals having babies.  He noted that many of these animals panted during labor, but understood as he began his medical practice that humans didn't need to do this in order to ease themselves during labor.

When he began to assist single women during their labor, he experienced a huge amount of displaced gratitude.  This spurred him to further research, and developing a technique that we can recognize now as directed meditation.  Taking long, deep breaths during contractions lessened the pain of labor, and made it more manageable.  For some women, music can help put them in a good place to concentrate on the kind of breathing needed for a smooth labor, for others it's building a "safe place" in their mind, and go there while her body is working to bring her baby into the world.

These are just a few techniques that a student of Husband Coached Childbirth learns, but the point is that he was able to give back to thousands of women the power to give birth in a dignified manner.

So, as soon as I got home, I started looking for someone in the area who taught the Bradley method.  I was blessed to find a woman who did double duty as our local Le Leche League leader and a Bradley method teacher.  My class was small, only two other couples, and we were Darlene's very first class.  It was a learning experience for all of us.  The other two expectant mothers were both due on the same date; I was due a week and a half after them.  We all ended up having girls, and they were all born on the same date!  My daughter was the youngest; which I always thought was appropriate since I was the one due last.

My testimony for the Bradley method is even more significant in that the night after my baby shower; I woke up at about 1:00 AM, no knowing which body part to put over the toilet.  I was violently ill for nearly six hours before I asked my husband to take me to the labor and delivery deck on base.  During an ultrasound, it was discovered that my daughter was only surrounded by pockets of amniotic fluid.  I was immediately put on an IV; both for hydration and a slow pitocin drip.  The plan was to have me on the drip for 24 hours to monitor my baby to see if she could tolerate the rigors of full blown labor.  If not, if she showed any sign of distress, it would be another cesarean for me.

I spent the next 24 hours worrying that my baby wouldn't be able to come into this world naturally; though I must admit that much of that time was spent trying not to get sick again.  It was the fastest flu I'd ever had, though!  By the time 24 hours rolled around, I felt fine, and my daughter was handling the contractions like a pro!

At that point, the pitocin was increased to truly start labor.  It's well known that women who have induced labor with pitocin have a much harder labor.  Their contractions, instead of slowly climbing to a natural peak, begin at the peak and last that way throughout the entire contraction.  And so my labor with my daughter was textbook, by pitocin standards.  Obviously having had another child, I had a good idea of what was to come, but I couldn't have really guessed how hard those contractions would hit me.  That's where the Bradley training came in; my husband was a miracle!  He helped me stay focused, especially when I needed it the most.  During transition, I was asking for a c-section; practically begging for it.  He used a technique that we were taught during class.  He recognized that I was in transition, and he made a deal with me; if I could hang in there for another hour, we would seriously consider a c-section, but just give it an hour.  I gave him that hour, sulking through most of it in between contractions, and then suddenly found myself in the pushing stage.

My daughter was born 4 hours later, 12 hours after the pitocin was amped up to put me into real labor.  It was shift change around the time my daughter was born, and I had an audience!  The reason?  No other mother had labored naturally through an entire pitocin induced labor at that hospital before!  And since I was the only mother giving birth at just that time, I had about 14 people in my labor and delivery room; I was completely naked.  And I didn't care!

During this entire time, I never actually screamed, or yelled, or cursed, or blamed my husband for the condition I was in.  The only time I lost my cool was during transition, and I only whined a bit.  Did labor hurt?  Definitely.  But I was able to deal with it, with the proper education, training, and guidance.

This is when the idea that America has been brainwashed truly began to take root.

For my newest blog posting, please see the link below.  Eventually I'll probably post this to my own blog, but I want to showcase Amanda's blog, too.

Amanda is an adult adoptee, who has recently started her reunion with her first Mother.  She is also an activist, being the founder of an Adoptee Rights Advocacy group in her home state, a blogger, and all around great person.

http://adopteerightsreform.blogspot.com/2010/03/forced-gratitude-and-its-consequences.html#comment-form

Return Adult Adoptees the right to their Original Birth Certificates

Until I figure this out some more, this will have to do;

A Strange Marriage of Ideas

I have recently found myself in a bit of a conundrum; how do I pull two seemingly disparate passions of mine into one cohesive, integral whole?

My first passion is midwifery, breastfeeding and co-sleeping/sleep sharing.  After I gave birth to my first child, which ended in an emergency C-section, I determined that I wouldn't go into another pregnancy, labor and delivery as blindly as I did the first.  Because adoption was a serious consideration for my first child, I willfully under-educated myself as to what labor and delivery would be like.  I reasoned that women had been having babies for longer than recorded history, so mine will know what to do when the time came.  While I still believe this, I didn't realize at the time that my handicap was the fact that I didn't have a community of women who could give me the knowledge of what to expect, and how to help my body do what it needed to do.  My ignorance caused me to shoot myself in the foot, as ignorance usually will.

When I became pregnant with my second child, I knew I wanted to nurse, and I knew I wanted to have this baby naturally.  For me, one step naturally lead to another.  I contacted my local Le Leche League leader and found that she had just finished her training as a Husband Coached Childbirth (also known as The Bradley Method for Dr. Bradley, the techniques progenitor) instructor and was seeking clients for her first class.  I attended a LLL meeting when I was about 6 months pregnant with my daughter and had my eyes open for the first time.  I was an immediate convert to the beautiful ways of breastfeeding and gently welcoming a child into the world.

And what a world it is!  I credit The Bradley Method for giving my children the best possible entrance into the world, and Le Leche League for supporting breastfeeding exclusively.  While I see breastfeeding as being the best nutrition for a human child (how many babies do YOU see crawling up to a COW to nurse?), studies have show the importance of  mother's milk, and the necessary touching that accompanies nursing, for the vital growth and development of the infant brain.  While I would never call my daughter developmentally delayed, she is behind the curve as far as her peers go in her academic pursuits.  I shudder and cringe to think what may have happened had I been a lazy mother and just propped a bottle in my daughter's mouth and left her in her car seat to feed.  (A sight which enraged me even before becoming pregnant.)

I learned from Darlene and the Le Leche League that it's ok to sleep with your child; you're more in tune with your child and their needs.  While it takes a little time to coordinate, eventually mother and child can learn to nurse laying down, and eventually sleep through night time nursing.  For the first 6 weeks of my daughter's life, I woke up to her needs to nurse, but we practiced nursing laying down.  Finally it just clicked and we began to happily sleep through night time feedings.  That's not to say she didn't breastfeed at night; she did.  We just became so in tune with each other, that it became second nature to maneuver ourselves into just the right position that falling back asleep was the next logical step.

Call me smug, but I always laugh to myself when I hear new parents complain about the night time feedings.  If they only knew how hard they were making it on themselves, they would become fans of nursing and sleep sharing fairly quickly, I think. 

However, it was during the pregnancy of my youngest child that I finally figured out "what I wanted to do when I grew up" (I was 28, by the way).  I wanted to become a midwife.  I wanted to share with other women, expectant mothers, the joy and wonder of bringing a child into the world under her own power, free of hospitals, law suit phobic doctors, and people who thought labor and delivery were medical diseases to be managed instead of natural processes to be celebrated.

My second passion, as anyone already familiar with my blog will know, is the Adoptee Rights Movement and the Family Preservation Movement.  Just read the post prior to this one and I think my positions are fairly clear, and I don't necessarily need to enumerate them again.

Maybe someone reading this will automatically jump to where I did only today, and if you do, bravo, you're smarter than I am (no, for once, I'm NOT being sarcastic).  However, the marriage of these two passions seemed like an unlikely pairing in my head for a while.  Then, during a musing of "if I knew then what I know now", I came upon the solution to my problem.  One of the biggest reasons I caved to the pressure to give my first son up for adoption was financial.  Neither my adoptive parents, nor my boyfriend's parents were willing to help out financially with raising our son.  Both sets of parents had, independent of each other, the same reply, "We've raised our children and we're not interested in raising anymore".  My boyfriend was the only one working between the two of us at that point, and we didn't have the money for formula, diapers, a crib, changing table, etc, et al.  All the traditional accoutrements found in a nursery were beyond our financial capability.  No one ever said to me before my son was born that I could save a great deal of money with simply breastfeeding him.  No one told me that I could share sleep with my son, negating the need for a crib.  No one told me that cloth diapers could save me expenses over disposable diapers.  Those simple things could have saved us thousands of dollars and put us in a better position to keep our son.  If I had known then what I know now, I wouldn't have inflicted the primal wound on my first son.

NO ONE TOLD ME.

As to how I utilize this knowledge, this new marriage of my passions, I have yet to fully figure out.  I suppose my first step will be posting this blog.  I'll go from there as to how I can bring these strange companions in my head to a useful, helpful way.  Ultimately, I suppose I would like to help young, financially challenged women to see these alternatives that no one else is willing to tell them about.  If I can help just one person keep their child then I'll know that all the pain and sacrifice I've lived through isn't in vain.

Young, Poor and Pregnant; Reasons to Relinquish?

Recently I added my first Dad to my Facebook friends list and he's been privy to some of my not so thought through status updates. However, in discussing this with him and my fiance, I have discovered that many of those status updates are merely topic sentences for blogs that I want to start, even if I'm not quite aware of that yet. I think I also need some of the feedback from my Facebook friends that these updates provide in order to clarify my own thoughts on the things I "say".

However, both my first Dad and fiance urged me to make disclaimer statements at the beginning of my "topic sentence" status updates and post the blog link in order to be able to view the entirety of my thought process. While I can't guarantee I'll remember to do that every time, it will be something I will strive for in the future.

Below is the status update that began this discussion.

"As I continue to read The Primal Wound one thing becomes blatantly, brutally obvious to me; it should be a crime to force, coerce, manipulate, cajole, or in anyway separate a child from their mother unless that parent is proven unfit. And it should be severely punishable should a person or persons be found guilty of this act. Adoption has got to be the most unnatural thing one human being can do to another in the name of a child's best interest."

In defense of my first Dad, he isn't a part of the Adoptees Rights Movements, or the Family Preservation Movements and is only just now beginning to be aware of it at all because of his avid interest in me, his daughter. Some things that perhaps might have been obvious to those of my Facebook friends who are intimately involved and aware of my positions wouldn't need any sort of disclaimer, but one of the things that my first Dad brought to my attention is that there may be people who, like him, have no point of reference and could find my statements very confusing.

Some of the salient points I should have clarified sooner are these:

• Who exactly "a person or persons" are.
• The legal status of adoption.
• What constitutes an unfit parent.

I want to address these points now.

When I refer to "a person or persons" I was in fact referring to attorneys or agencies whose sole purpose is the making of money from adoption. I never said adoption should be illegal, but that force and coercion and manipulation in order to obtain a baby for an adopting couple should be illegal. Informed consent is required for every single medical procedure we have; a doctor is obligated by law to give all the information about said procedure and the alternatives to the patient, yet there is nothing in place to keep an attorney or an agency from outright lying to a woman who is considering adoption and to me, that is plain wrong. While placing a child for adoption isn't technically a medical procedure, it is a life altering event for the surrendering mother, the child and the adopting parents. To be less than fully informed is, in my opinion, a criminal act. In the system we have today, adoption is a money making industry, motivated by greed, not good will, on the part of the vast majority of agencies and attorneys. It's not in the agencies or attorneys best interest to give a woman who is considering adoption all the information that is available on the repercussions of adoption on all members of the triad. Those people understand that should a woman be given this information, she will likely chose another option for her child, and they can kiss the money goodbye.

As for teen parents, their youth should not make them automatically unfit. I believe we need a movement in this country to keep the children of these teens at least within the biological family, should a teen mother and/or teen father prove unable to care for the child. Placing a baby with strangers doesn't help the child, no matter how loving, caring and attentive those strangers may be.

Some simple definitions of an unfit parent would include neglect, abuse (physical, emotional, mental), drug abuse. There are other definitions of "unfit", of course, but, that would be up to a judge to determine, using the law as precedent.

Financial abuse is a trickier situation, generally speaking. There are millions of children in this country alone who don't have health insurance. I'm ambivalent about this being an abusive situation; one, because we do have access to emergency rooms that by law must treat patients who seek treatment (and should the child need to be admitted to the hospital, there are financial alternatives that most hospitals offer for payment, either through medicare or payment plans), and two, because for things like immunizations there are free clinics in just about every community that a parent can take their child to. It was stated in a conference on adoption at the White House in the early 1900's that poverty is NOT an adequate reason to remove children from their families. Another thing to consider for financial "abuse" are that there are a great many community, private outreach programs designed to assist poorer families.

As for who is a better parent, according to The Primal Wound (and frankly, common sense) there are natural processes that a woman goes through during a pregnancy that does enable her to be the best parent to her child. Societal pressures are the factors from keeping that woman from fulfilling the imperative nature has provided. An adoptive mother hasn't gone through the 9 months of pregnancy that will make her uniquely able to care for that child. Can prospective adoptive parents provide a more financially stable environment? Perhaps, but as I stated earlier, I don't believe that poverty is a sufficient reason to take a child from it's mother. And that mother and child do not necessarily have to rely on tax payer money in order to survive.

Additionally, our society has a tendency to view a young pregnant woman in a static position. They see her as forever being young, immature and unable to provide for her offspring. This is an incredibly narrow view point, very limiting, imposing a certain set of criteria upon that person that common sense must dictate as purely illogical. One of the primary reasons why many prospective adoptive parents want an infant is because we know that babies grow incredibly fast, and are soon out of infancy. Humans grow. They grow up, get older, wiser, more mature. Of course not everyone does, however, telling a young, financially challenged woman that she cannot care for her child because of these very transitory situations in life is to risk creating in that person a mind set that, as soon as she signs the papers, becomes reality instead of only a possibility. Youth and poverty are not permanent. But when a woman is coerced into handing her child over to an eager, infertile couple, society has stated that woman will forever be a child, incapable of taking care of her child, establishing a destructive pattern of behavior in her that will keep a part of her forever that age when she relinquished, and even sadder, can cause so much damage as to compel the young woman to sabotage any efforts or attempts at creating a better life for herself.

Additionally, as the child grows, he or she can inevitably experience these exact same situations. Where the birth mother was unworthy to parent, the child was unworthy to be parented by their biological family. When one feels unworthy, there is no desire to better oneself. It can turn into a self perpetuating cycle to the point where the child turns into a birth parent themselves.

We regularly prosecute people for coercion, manipulation and force when these methods deprive another of health, happiness and well being; however, when done in the name of "the best interest of the child" we excuse the behavior, even if studies have shown time and again that adoption isn't always in the best interest of the child. Its criminal to leave a child in the hands of a parent who is patently unfit. Why then is it encouraged to take a child from a fit parent simply because of transitory situations in life?

My First Encounter With an Angry Adoptive Parent

On January 1, 2010 I posted in my status update on Facebook this statement:

"Warning: this status update could be construed as offensive. To all those infertile couples out there who think adoption is a good solution, did you maybe consider that God made you infertile ON PURPOSE?!? Maybe you're not MEANT to parent?!?"

A month later, February 1, 2010, I received in my inbox on Facebook the following private message. My reply is below. I have yet to receive an answering message in return. Please note that the names of the letter writer and his wife are deleted out by my choice to protect their privacy, since they privately messaged me. While I understand that simply posting this to my blog may seem contrary to the spirit of privacy the letter writer intended, I feel that the points she makes and I rebut should be made public in order to help all in the Adoption Triad understand the difficulties in communication on all three sides of the triangle.

"you don't know me but I am Xxxxx' wife. I feel since you are putting your feelings out in a public forum that I can do the same, but a little more tastefully than you.
We respect anyone for having passion about what they believe in but we are very offended about your comment regarding people who can't have children naturally not being meant to have a child, through adoption either. I am unable to have children but i don't believe God would want me to let that get in the way of sharing our good values, morals and unending amount of love to a child who needs it. Anyone can give birth to a child but it doesn't earn then the right to be called a parent....you earn that title.
Xxxxx is the greatest father to our adopted son and I can't imagine our son missing out on that just to stay with his abusive, gang member, drug using birth mother who us tax paying citizens are paying for because she is in jail.
We feel very sad for you. you sound like a very bitter person with lots of issues and maybe you need to take some of your own advise, when you made the idiotic statement about God not giving some people the ability to have children because you are not meant to have have children.....well did you ever stop to think that maybe God doesn't want your birth parents to know you or that maybe you don't deserve to know them!
just putting our feelings out there also."

My Response:

"Dear Mrs. Xxxxxxxx,

I appreciate that my comment was offensive, generally speaking. I was venting some of my feelings in as safe a public forum for me as possible. My comment was not directly aimed AT you. The anger you sense in me is from the community at large believing that simply because a woman is poor and/or young that she will make a bad mother. Being poor and being young are not crimes, nor are they permanent situations in life. This country has a love affair with adoption that sickens me because of the sense of entitlement many prospective adoptive parents feel concerning young and poor pregnant women. There is a broad paint brush sweeping type attitude that if you are either of these things, then automatically you should not, cannot mother your child; and to me, that is plain wrong.

When Xxxxx added me as a friend, I looked through his pictures, and saw the photos that were taken of the official adoption of your son, and I was happy for him, and for you and your son. It looked like a very happy day for your family. I will admit that I was under the impression that your son was biologically yours, Mrs. Xxxxxxxx, but for some reason his biological father wasn't in the picture and Xxxxx stepped in. I was unaware that you were unable to have children biologically.

I understand that not every single person who has a child, biologically speaking, is capable or fit to raise that child. I feel very badly that your son has a birth mother who is a burden on our society, but I am pleased to know that he has adoptive parents who love him, care for him, and are providing a warm and secure home. That's what ever child deserves.

That being said, not every child who grows up in an adoptive home has the benefits that you are providing for your son. I am a survivor of incest from a very early age for many years by my adoptive brother. Does incest happen in biological families? Of course, so I understand that simply because I'm adopted that doesn't make my situation unique to adoption. It is what it is.

As far as "tasteful" goes, if you read my status update saying that, you may have read the replies to it and there are many of my Facebook friends that feel the same way I do, and in fact feel even stronger about it than I. That same week I posted in my status a question about what my FB friend's general opinion was of step parents adopting their spouse's children, and got very much the same response as the original post. However, I would love to see my fiance adopt my children from another marriage because he is more of a father to my kids than the man who provided the sperm for them.

I cannot, however, agree with your belief that "you earn that title" as far as being a parent goes. My next statement will more than likely be viewed as offensive, though it is not intended as such; however, I have found that the majority of people who make that statement are adoptive parents who are insecure due to their lack of inability to biologically procreate. When I say that, these are my experiences, nothing more, nothing less. That being said, not only am I an adopted person, but I am also a birth mother. I was a mother the moment I found out I was pregnant with my first son. You wouldn't tell a woman who had a miscarriage that she was never a mother. You would sympathize with her loss, grieve with her, and offer your condolence, but you would never be so rude as to say that she was never a mother. So why is it any different than a woman who lost a child to adoption? I carried my son for over nine months in my body; I loved him, cherished him, nurtured him with my own body. I cared for him when we were in the hospital while I recovered from my c-section. I agonized over what would be the best choice for him; raising him or to place him for adoption. How are my feelings any less than yours as a mother of an adopted child? Does the fact that I was manipulated into giving my ONLY flesh and blood up for adoption mean that I wasn't a mother?

Perhaps to you it does. But to me and to literally millions of other women, it doesn't. We ARE mothers. We are mothers who LOST our children to adoption. Do we grieve any less than the mother who had a miscarriage? NO. But by societies standards and expectations, we are not allowed to grieve our loss. We are told that you should just get on with your life, you did the noble deed, you gave the gift of life. Collectively, that's a slap in the face of each one of us because you can't carry a life inside of you for that long and just walk away with no repercussions. Children are not gifts to give away.

Does this make me bitter? To some extent, it does, because giving my child to another couple to raise was the worst decision of my life. It was the best decision for my son, but on a purely selfish note, that doesn't help me one bit. I am overjoyed that my son was raised in a household that could afford two houses, vacations all over the country every year, a private school. These were things that I couldn't give my son at that time in my life. He is one of the lucky adoptees because he had these material things as well as a wealth of love. That doesn't mean that I didn't love him with all my heart, and that doesn't mean that I would have been a bad mother. I was simply a young, poor mother.

Beyond that, I'm not a bitter person, regardless of what you interpret from what you read in just my status updates. I am a very happy, passionate person who is full of love and joy and wonderment at the world around her, especially with my children that I've been blessed enough to raise.

All that aside, I have a few last things I would like to say. I would strongly urge you to research "the other side of adoption"; educate yourselves with books like "The Primal Wound", "The Girls Who Went Away", and "Not Remembered, Never Forgotten". Please take the time to find out about specific issues concerning adopted children and the trauma adoption can cause. I urge you to do this for your son's sake. He may have questions, concerns that you simply cannot be aware of unless you have educated yourself in these matters. It will strengthen the bond you and your son have. Not every child experiences adoption trauma in the same way, some may never even experience the trauma. But it would be better to aware of the possibility that it may arise, rather than be caught unawares.

I realize, for the most part, that you are simply regurgitating my words back at me due to the pain you allowed them to cause yourself, but my reply to you is that every child, every person deserves to know where they come from. They deserve to know their genetic heritage, their cultural heritage, their medical background, and the people they come from (extending beyond abusive parents to generations preceding them). So, yes, I deserve to know my birth parents. And if God didn't want me to know my birth parents, then I wouldn't have found them. But find them I did, and they love me and accept me and welcome me with open arms.

The last thing is, I never wrote that comment/status update to offend you specifically. However, you took it personally, and directly attacked me instead of explaining your position and asking me for a clarification of mine. If you wish to continue a conversation in a civilized manner, I welcome the chance. But I will not allow myself to be directly attacked in this manner again, especially over a comment that was a very sweeping generalization in a forum that is my "safe place". I do apologize if my comment invaded your "safe place" because that was not my intention, but I do not apologize for my comment. If Xxxxx wishes to block me from his friends list, that is his prerogative, and I won't argue with it. I have fond memories of Xxxxx from high school. He was one of the few people I knew during high school that was always nice to everyone, never had a harsh word, and was fun to be around. Nothing can change my memory of him that way. But I'm a grown woman that doesn't need to hang on to old high school memories in order to fulfill my life now.

I wish your family all the happiness, blessings and joys that life can bring.

Warm Regards, "

And I signed my full name.

Due to the nature of the people who are on my list of friends on Facebook, the comments to my original status update were overwhelmingly supportive of my statement. However, I will only post my replies to my friends comments in an effort to maintain my friend's privacy. The reason I am re-posting these are to illustrate the seeming fact that the original letter writer chose not to further read, and thus making the mistake of achieving full understanding of my true position regarding the place of infertile couples in the role of adoption. On four separate occasions during the time that status update was there, not only did I state I was venting, but also that there ARE terrific adoptive parents in the world; and I posted at least twice that I was NOT specifically speaking to any one single person or couple.

comment 1)
"Even if my group of friends is a closed group, I had to say this at least once, publicly, "out loud" if you will. I really don't want to offend anyone, and I know this could be considered really, really rude, but it is honestly how I feel. I won't apologize for how I feel, but I will apologize if this hurt "your" (anyone who thought it was rude) feelings. That's not my intentions. I just felt I had to get it out."

comment 2)
"I know there are terrific adoptive parents "out there", and I completely understand their desire to have children any way they can. I just can't help but feel there's a reason why they're infertile."

comment 3)
"SVA:
I've always said: "you have to have a license to drive a car... you should have to have one to raise a child."

Me:
I won't argue that some people wouldn't benefit from that! And that there are some people who have children that just shouldn't have ever become parents. That's not my decision to make, tho. I'm just venting a bit right now."

comment 4)
"I hope you read my subsequent posts (and it looks like you and I posted at the same time, but I'll restate it here; I am mostly just venting). I KNOW it is offensive, and I DO feel sorry for people that struggle with infertility. And I DO know that there are terrific, wonderful adoptive parents out there and horrible, awful natural parents out there.

And ultimately, it isn't MY decision one way or the other. Plus, I cannot dictate to people how to live their lives. I KNOW that.

MY anger comes in where couples that want to adopt begin to take on this attitude that they're ENTITLED to someone elses child simply because that person is poor and single. And as they go along in this suffering through infertility, all they begin to see is all these horrible unwed mother's who abuse their children...and they see NOTHING ELSE.

Mostly, what I needed to do was to "vomit" this out; get it out of my system. While this wasn't a "knee jerk" reaction to those types of people, it IS the other extreme to those couples who see young, poor pregnant women as incubators.

I'm not aiming that comment to any one specific person, so I hope you can step back from this and see it in how I explained. As I said previously, I won't apologize for how I feel, but I am sorry if I hurt someone else's feelings. My intent wasn't to offend, merely to vent."

I've Come A Long Way, Baby

Below is something I wrote just two short years ago. I still have some of the same feelings about my son's adoptive mother. I think it is obvious that I was moving through the adoption fog, but I was still deeply ensconced closer to the other side of things than I am now.

Enjoy, and please don't laugh too hard. ;)

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

January 22, 2008

I recently contacted my son that I gave up for adoption 19 years ago and have yet to receive a reply. I'm good with this. The entire situation is overwhelming, to say the least. I can wait.

But that's not what this blog is for; it's only the catalyst that has spurred my musings. I've read and seen and heard a lot about "birth mothers" and all the other terms that are given to women who have signed papers to relinquish their parental rights.

I recently came across this quote that I can't get out of my head. It's not that I embrace this view point, but there are some very specific points it makes that have made me think.

"Exiled mother: A natural mother who has lost her child to adoption solely because of her age and/or lack of support, information or resources. An unrecognized mother, she has been thrown away, banished and discarded by her parents, the adoption industry and society, who deemed her unworthy to raise her own child. "

First, I don't consider the woman who adopted my son to be "unnatural". I met her. She was as human as I am. What makes ME natural and HER unnatural? I'm perhaps the FIRST mother, but that doesn't make me MORE natural. If it did, would that mean that I'm SUPERNATURAL?

Second, "lost her child"...hmmmm...I knew where my son was after we were released from the hospital, prior to signing the papers. Up until then, I had every right (by law, until I signed papers saying I was no longer legally a parent) to see my son. I didn't misplace him. And while I may not have known exactly where he was his entire life, I didn't LOSE him.

Third, yeah, I was placed into a position by my family, my son's father's family and what seemed to be society in general to put my son up for adoption. I felt maneuvered. Not by this supposedly all powerful "Adoption Industry", but by those around me whom I needed support from the most, and who abandoned me in my biggest time of need.
Fourth, “An unrecognized mother”: Ok, this is right on the money. I spent years without my son, and if I ever talked about him (and when I made friends, or even just chatting it up with someone, I talked A LOT about him), it was difficult to explain what happened. It’s different than it was when I was adopted. In 1969 people still had some of the “unwed mother” prejudice in place. It is suspected that my birth mother more than likely was made to move to the Sacramento area to have me. So, there must have been a lot of shame in her family concerning me. But in 1989, “things were different”, I had other options. Heh, see the third explanation. Some options. Back to the point; I WAS unrecognized! One thing I will agree with is that adoption has made me a first class liar. When asked how many children I have, my knee jerk reaction is 2. But I don’t have just 2 children. I have 3 children.

Fifth; ...and society, who deemed her unworthy to raise her own child.” Yeah, got a lot of issues here, too. I was unworthy on so many levels. Unworthy to be a wife to my son’s father (after the adoption we were married; however, his family strongly disapproved of me for getting Mark “into trouble”. That marriage was doomed.) I was unworthy of being my son’s mother by so many people. In short, it left me feeling like a totally unworthy human being. Within the three months of relinquishing Andrew/Timothy for adoption I sunk into an abject misery. Looking back at it now, I was clinically depressed. I eventually yanked myself up by my boot straps and got myself out of it, but I did just about everything known to man to self destruct. I wasn’t worthy to be a human, so why should I remain in this life? I’ve always felt that suicide was wrong (that’s a different blog), but I sure did one hell of a job to get there anyway. Just not consciously, that’s all.

While I don’t agree with the extreme group that claims the “Adoption Industry” is just waiting on baited breath to snatch single, pregnant women off the streets just to give privileged white infertile couples babies, there is an interesting, prevailing attitude in this society that I think very few people are aware of; and that pregnancy is a disease that we need to cure women of. This attitude is so prevalent on so many levels its sickening! There’s a strong push to separate mothers and children, even when the pregnancy is planned! (I have a whole other soap box dedicated to that particular subject). This attitude is subtle, but everywhere and most people don’t even realize they embrace it whole heartedly.

I guess we can thank our Puritan beginnings. I think they’d be proud of the influence they still wield even after 400 years.

Tim's First Visit (And Now For The Rest of the Story)

I had worked all night Friday and arrived home about 7:30 in the morning. I was still too wired up to go to bed. I took something to help me sleep, checked e-mail, and puttered around for a bit; my usual routine. I really did want to try to get some sleep before Tim called to tell us he was on his way, but I’d had a bit of a brainstorm the day before while giving Tim the directions to our house. We live in a fairly isolated spot, and everyone misses the turn to our house. So, on my lunch break, I went to Wal-Mart to buy a foam poster board and some new markers. I originally left a message for my two children to start/make the “This way” sign, but I wanted to help a little with it, too. Besides, the last thing I needed was to hear them bicker over what to write, who was going to write it, what the entire thing should look like overall. So the best course of action, in my opinion, was to just cut that particular argument off at the pass. I started the poster myself.

By the time I gathered all my supplies and set up my work station in front of one of the full length windows in our entry way, it was after 9:00 and Beth had just gotten up. I had already drawn the words and outlined them different colors. Beth, naturally, asked what I was doing. I explained it to her and told her that I wanted her and her brother to help decorate it with me. We decorated the words all different colors, with eye catching doodles and drew figures and bursts of colors almost all over the poster board.

I was trying to keep track of the time. I still planned on getting a little bit of sleep, at least, perhaps an hour or so; something.

An hour later, Zach got up and asked what we were doing. This time, Beth did the explaining. After some waking up, Zach added his own flare to the poster.

Overall, it looked wonderful; cheerful, and made with a lot of love.

Shortly after Zach got up, Ron joined us. We all made the mistake of “pulling” him “in a thousand different directions” before he was fully awake (we really DO know better, but today was so special, that we sorta forgot to take into consideration). The kids were asking Ron all sorts of questions, and I requested Ron put up the poster when I suggested going to bed soon. Well, that earned a glare full of venom; he later explained that he wasn’t awake yet, and didn’t mean to shoot me such a dirty look. Not being a “morning” person myself, I easily forgave his silent anger. It wasn’t real, just Mr. Grumpy Pants in the morning. So, instead of going to bed, I loaded the kids in the van and toddled down the lane to put our poster up for Tim. After a trip back to the house to get more nails, we finally had it about as perfect as we were going to get on a slightly windy day.

Back at the house, I made note that it was just about 11:00 AM. Tim was supposed to leave home soon and call us to tell us he was on his way. Knowing it’s only about a 2 hour drive, I started to fret. Shortly after 11:00, Tim called; he was leaving Target, which was just on the outskirts of town. All he had to do was shake off the friends that had jumped on his truck. I had to laugh at that. It is gratifying to know that my first born has good friends, and can mess around just when he’s out and about town. With a, “I’ll see you soon,” to one another, we rang off and I waffled between trying to get maybe an hour’s nap or just take a shower and try to shake off the effects of the Benedryl. So, shower it was.

First, though, was some tidying up, and directing Beth and Zach around to get the house in order, or at least a bit more presentable. After grabbing a quick bite to eat, I hopped into the shower and killed about another 20 minutes. All the while, my head was spinning with the thoughts of Tim’s arrival. Throughout the morning, I kept having these compulsive thoughts of, “what if he can’t make it? What if he’s changed his mind? What’ll I do then?”

I worked hard to try to contain those thoughts, but until he called, they kept creeping into my head, unwanted, unwarranted, but insidious and pervasive nonetheless.

Time was slipping away so fast. I wanted to have everything about as perfect as it could be. I knew my house wasn’t spotless; I’m not a great housekeeper. But it was presentable and I wanted to be presentable, too. I don’t usually wear make-up. For the most part, I’m either too busy or too unconcerned about such things. But today was different. While I knew that Tim would see me during the weekend without make-up, I just couldn’t see not putting my best foot, or face so to speak, forward. So I killed some more time putting on my best face and playing around a bit with my hair.

I’d killed so much time that I was shocked and amazed when Beth brought me the phone (I had actually brought the other cordless phone in the bathroom with me, hoping to hear it over the sound of the hair dryer and radio. HA! Yeah, right!); Tim had left the directions to the hotel at home and could I give him directions? I did so happily and told him to call when he was on his way since the directions from the hotel to our house would likely land him in a traffic jam.

Just prior to this, I’d asked Ron to do all the picture taking. I’d seen enough reunion photos to know that I would treasure the first hug pictures along with all the other firsts. Ron agreed, but then said that he was going to Wal-Mart to pick up some cat food. I tried not to worry too much about him getting back in time, but since he has a habit of taking a lot longer than anticipated, I knew my concerns weren’t unfounded. So, as I was finishing up drying my hair, Tim called yet again to let us know he was at the hotel, settled in, for the most part, and ready to get the new directions. I gave them, noticed what time it was, and also noticed that Ron wasn’t back yet. Fear and worry didn’t exactly have me by the throat, but the first stages of panic were beginning to set in. What if Ron didn’t get back in time? Would the kids be able to take the pictures? Would the pictures turn out alright? OH GOD!

Calm down! I ordered myself, and figured that if push came to shove, both Beth and Zach were equipped enough to handle the picture taking. They were familiar enough with my camera that I forcibly shoved the worry away. And just as I was able to do that, Ron arrived home. RELIEF! I gave Ron the update; Tim was on his way here. So, Ron grabbed the camera while I fussed with my hair for the last time and forced myself to NOT have that one last cigarette. It wouldn’t do to smell too much like cigarette smoke when meeting my first son for the first time. But, boy! Did I want one!



(looking toward the road from our lane; it’s just over the rise)


And then Ron did something totally unexpected. He jumped BACK into the van and drove out of the drive way. He was backing up along our lane as I’m scurrying out of the house trying to figure out what the hell he’s doing. The view of our lane is obscured by some trees fronting a pond, and I didn’t see the van (which is a very bright blue and very obvious, even to a blind person) back out beyond those. Ron had stopped! Ok? I was incredibly puzzled, and so were Beth and Zach, who were hovering around me like two little busy bees. Finally, I allowed Zach to run down the driveway and look down our lane to see where Ron was. The lane being a bit “over the river and through the woods”, Zach couldn’t see the van. So, he skirted through the nursery property beyond the pond and spotted the van; just about the same time Tim drove up. Zachary charged back to the house, but neither Tim nor Ron was in sight. Well, not really; I could only just make out their movement around the vehicles. Have you ever gnashed your teeth? Like in the story, “Where the Wild Things Are”? Well, I WAS! Cause there was Ron, my devoted, loving and all too clever husband MEETING MY SON FIRST!!! Now I had to order myself to calm down again. Being my devoted and loving husband, I knew Ron’s sneaky little plan was something for me, and that in the end I would probably appreciate it, however, I couldn’t keep the thought that HE WAS MEETING MY SON FIRST out of my head. Gnash! GNASH!



(that little dark smudge on the far left portion of the road is Tim’s truck)



(He’s getting closer)


(…and closer)




(Ron must have been standing on the bumper for this one)



(Ron got to meet my son first! GNASH! But he’s a cutie, huh?)

After many agonizing moments, which in reality were probably only a few minutes, I see Ron driving back up the drive, but, to my dismay, NO TIM. GNASH!

Ron pops out of the van as I’m walking over. I must have looked like a thundercloud about to rain on someone’s parade. Ron just smiled at me and laughed, telling me, “You said you wanted me in charge of taking pictures. So, I’m taking care of pictures.” Not very mollified, Ron went about taking some pictures of the kids and I waiting.



(waiting)




(Still waiting…in front of the ugly pink house. Love the house, hate the pink! And LOOK, Zach even brushed his hair! It’s a miracle!)

I have to say that I’m incredibly grateful (yeah, he knew I would be! *LOL*) for the pictures. Everything that I’m feeling, all I’m thinking is really plastered on my face in these pictures, and I can’t remember a thing of it! Well, that’s not entirely true. Obviously, I was incredibly anxious, excited, mildly irritated at Ron for his over cleverness, mildly irritated at the kids for…well, just doing kid stuff. Beth and Zach’s excitement was rubbing off on me, obviously, but they were asking those typical kid questions. Beth, my little mirror, was giving voice to my frustration, asking over and over again, before Ron got back to take these pictures, “Where is he? What is he doing?” There’s only so much of that I can take on a GOOD day. Eventually, I had to ask her to stop talking (I think the implied threat of a good throttling was obvious in my tense voice). I know we were all excited, but it was pouring out of the kids in waves.

And then HE was there!





My eyes were glued onto his truck (which is really a Suburban, but who’s counting?) and the figure inside driving. Tim pulled up and got out as I started to walk across the driveway. Here was the child that I’d nurtured in my womb for over nine months, had given birth to 19 years and 2 months ago, relinquished for adoption three weeks later. Here he was in my driveway, a grown man, a young boy, looking to me so much like his father, sounding so much like him from our phone conversations. Hell! I’d even said that he sounded exactly like Mark in the first few minutes of our first phone call. I was so blown away! Blown away by the first phone call, and his voice, now seeing this PERSON that was a part of me and a boy I once loved. The reality of SEEING TIM shook me, and shifted something inside of me that I’d forgotten was lodged there, had been lodged there from the first moment I suspected I was pregnant. (Which, dear reader, was the very day he was conceived. I had a VERY regular period, and Mark’s 21st birthday was on my day 15! Oh BOY! What a birthday present, huh?)

I think what shifted was the dam that I’d built up to keep all the love I’d had for that child blocked up, locked away so that I could continue my life without the crushing grief I experienced that first year of his life, that oh so important first year of a baby’s life that I could never be a part of. Occasionally, usually on Tim’s birthday, a small crack would appear in that dam and I would cry torrents, needing to allow that grief and love come out of me for just a little bit. Like all dams, the gates need to be let down every once in a while so that the structure isn’t overwhelmed by the titanic pressure behind them.

And then I was hugging my child for the first time, again, in over 19 years.



(With a kitty, Smokey, in the background, as my kids later pointed out. And something that Tim told me later; that black ‘wrist band’ he’s wearing was something that his football team wore in honor in memory of his mother. So, we were both there hugging our son!)

My son’s strong arms around me, holding me close for the first time is something I will never forget and love my darling husband Ron for so much for capturing. I’m tearing up right now, relating it. And realize that I haven’t allowed myself those tears yet. Perhaps later.

What followed after, the words, don’t come to mind. Perhaps my children or Ron or even Tim, will remember, but I don’t. I was too lost in looking at HIM; too lost in seeing myself and Mark in this wonderful, spectacular, miraculous person standing before me.



(disbelief)


(My eldest meet)


Tim had asked me a few days prior what things Beth was interested in. He’d already gotten a bead on Zach (heck, he was once a 10 year old boy too!), so had an idea of what to get Zachary, but 13 year old girls are a mystery to him. Since Beth isn’t a mystery (well, not too much) to her mother, I was able to give Tim some solid ideas for a small gift.



(God only knows how Ron managed to get a picture of Beth with all her hair up like in a cartoon, but I think it’s an awesome and funny picture. Somehow, very appropriate. The beanie baby frog’s name is Smooches. Tim managed to get two of Beth’s loves in one gift; frogs and stuffed animals.)




(Mr. Smooches)

At one point, Ron came over to me and I hugged him and as we watched Tim and Beth and Zach talking, I told him that I felt like I was in a dream. I pinched myself and then I pinched him. Yep, we were awake! It was real. A part of me still has to pinch myself; I’m afraid that I’ll wake up in June and this is just some chocolate induced coma.

We moved into the house, talking, chatting, nothing really in depth, but breaking the ice. After only a few minutes into the house, though, I finally broke down and said, “I’m going out for a smoke! I’ve been good enough and I need a bit of a stress reliever”. Fortunately, no condemnation, but concern about the smoking. Tim said something about how he’s not going to start, but for some reason, his brother smokes. I told him I’m glad he’s not going to start. I KNOW (I AM a nurse) it’s a bad habit, but I enjoy smoking. We talked more outside. We talked all weekend, really. I think I’ll never stop talking to him. I have 19 years to catch up on. And while I understand, I know that I can’t “catch up”, that doesn’t mean that I’m going to stop trying.

Soon, my rchildren were bugging about being hungry. And even though I know eating was important, I could have gone for a very long time without it at that point. However, we packed up into the van and drove to one of our favorite, local Mexican restaurants. We spent a couple of hours there, though with Zach getting more and more edgy. He was supposed to go to a birthday party at 5:00. We didn’t get home until about 5:30. Zach then quickly packed up and Ron dropped my youngest son off at sleepover birthday party. The one thing I asked Ron was to take Beth with him. I knew they wouldn’t be gone long, but I wanted a chance to be alone with Tim, for a little while at least. Earlier, Beth had pointed out to Tim the photo album that I’ve kept of him from when he was born. Actually, there’s my ultrasound picture of him in there, too, so I guess you could say from before he was born! So, not one to lollygag or beat around the bush, Tim reaches for the photo album and we sit down on the couch to go through our pictures. I had to prepare Tim a little before opening the cover. I let him know that a document with his “first name” was in there. He nodded and proceeded with opening the picture book.

I took him on a tour, so to speak, of the photo album; explained the individual items and pictures. He liked his “first name” Andrew Morgan (for clarification/privacy I’m leaving out Mark’s last name; however, I DID give my son his father’s last name. We might not have been married, but I know who the father of my child was and I did love him. The least I could do is honor Mark with giving our son his name. And I did tell Tim that he was conceived in love. Tim was very pleased with that). I told him that a friend of mine once said to me that if I’d named my son Andrew, he would forever be known as “Andy”. As I don’t like the name Andy much, I told my friend that he would have been known as Drew. Tim was blown away by most of the pictures. Obviously the ones that I have, he’d never seen before. And some of the ones that Carol and John sent to me he’d never seen before, either. He gave me a bit of a tour himself, thought his life with the pictures. He told me about this and that, and filled me in on some of his childhood. It was a joy to hear, my heart was so full of abundance just having him sit next to me, relaying these experiences, connecting them to images I’d looked at thousands of times.

Eventually, sooner than I wanted, Beth and Ron arrived back at home. So much of that evening is a blur. Again, there was lots of talking, lots of goofing around.



(And now Tim gets the benefits of being the big brother!)

Beth was the first to mention that she was getting hungry again. I looked at the clock and noticed that it was nearly 9:00 Beth suggested ice cream and I suggested the Leatherby's Ice Cream Parlor and so, we were off to Leatherby’s. All through the day, Tim and I went back and forth about our likes and dislikes, comparing, contrasting. And through out the day, I was continually amazed at how much he is LIKE me. I didn’t think such things could be genetic! How could a preference for a certain dessert be genetic? But it seems to be. We were all looking through the menu, and then ordered. With a small twist, Tim and I ordered the exact same thing, without even being aware of what the other was going to order!



And that’s not all that we have in common; modes of thought, lines of thinking, senses of humor! Being adopted, I’d never had anyone around me growing up who thought like me. And after I had my rchildren, I just figured they thought like me because I AM raising them. And then I met Tim! Now I look at my rchildren and realize that perhaps the smart mouth my daughter spouts off with occasionally IS genetic, or the way my youngest son’s words tumble over each other as his mouth tries to keep up with his brain IS genetic! I know that Beth is a normal 13 year old girl, so the smart mouth is normal. I know that Zach is a smart young man, so his words coming out one on top of the other is normal. I know that I am comparing and contrasting Tim and Beth and Zach. Perhaps that’s not fair to any of them, and perhaps when I’m around Tim more, I’ll stop doing it so much, but I in awe and amazed at these individual people that came from my body. And I know that most humans have this ability, to give life, and that perhaps there’s nothing quite that special about it, but I can’t believe that these children belong to ME. And, as Ron likes to say, not even God can change the fact that I am their mother. These three people amaze me, fill my heart, and make my life a joy worth living in a way that I can’t describe adequately. I can die happy now. I have so much more living to do, I understand that, but if I were to die tomorrow, I would be happy.

We arrived back at home sometime after 10:30. Beth got her pajamas on and we let her stay up til 11:00. This isn’t unusual in our household, the late nights, but considering all the excitement and nerves, I wanted her to get a bit more sleep than usual. She was seriously bent out of shape at having to go to bed “so soon”, but is wise enough not to argue too much.

I’m sure I must have been beaming when Beth gave Tim her first good night kiss. I went in and said prayers with my daughter, and gave her my good night kisses.

The rest of the night was spent in a bit more adult conversation, but nothing deep. Before Tim left for the night, I told him that I wanted to take some time either tomorrow or Monday and just spend time alone with him. He whole heartedly agreed, almost as eager as I was for that time to connect.



(This one’s titled, “Go away Mom, I’m trying to sleep!” taken at 2:00 AM. Notice Mr. Smooches? )


Ron and I spent another hour unwinding from the momentous day. I’d been up for 32 ½ hours by the time I went to bed! I was supposed to work that night, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, let alone concentrate on work, so I called in with a little fib. (For some reason, the nursing profession frowns on “personal” days. *shrugs*). As it was, I didn’t get a lot of sleep either. I think I was awake by 9:00 though had been woken up off and on by spring crazed cats! I lounged around in bed til nearly 11:00, sending Ron off to pick up Zachary from the sleep over. The night before we’d told Tim that he could walk right in, that he was welcome to our home anytime, and didn’t need to knock. He was feeling a big sheepish about this, and I can understand, but that’s how we were feeling and we wanted him to know that. I was in lying in bed with Beth sitting next to me and we were just having a nice mother/daughter talk when suddenly I saw Tim standing in the doorway to my bedroom, looking distinctly embarrassed. He said he’d run into Ron on the way in; Ron apparently gave him the idea that we were up and about. So, Tim HAD knocked, but when no one answered, he let himself in.

I let him know that we’d be out, sent Beth on her way, grabbed a robe and joined him in the living room, chuckling to myself the whole way. After waking up a bit more, though trying to plan on some more sleep before work that night, Ron and Zach got home. The day was spent playing around, me taking pictures, the kids playing football, just a lot of goofing around. There were huge protests of hunger around noon by my daughter. Tim agreed that he was hungry too. So mom got to go into the kitchen and get creative.




(Hangin’ out in the front yard)





(No really! This is how the ball’s punted!)



A couple hours later, and some interesting mistakes in the kitchen, I had a rather late brunch served. Scrambled eggs, homemade waffles and bacon for most of the family, a BLT for me and we were all seated around the dinning room table for the first meal I’d made for my entire family. I was in heaven, bliss, nirvana. I saw a birth mother write recently that she felt the need and joy of cooking for her child she was in reunion with; I was thinking of that the entire time I was making brunch and really understanding what she meant. I’m not the “home maker” I used to be; I don’t do the working mom routine well, but I do enjoy getting in the kitchen still and cooking for my family. When I was able to do that for my first son for the first time…well, there aren’t enough words to describe that sort of uniquely female joy.

After much coercion, and a bit of encouragement from their brother, my rchildren finally assented to doing a little bit of kitchen clean up. After, I jumped on the computer for a few minutes and left my sons to play Yu-Gi-Oh. Really, Tim was great with Zach. He didn’t have to play a game that he’d put away some years ago as a childhood pastime, but he sat down with Zach, exchanging your typical male banter (“I’m gonna wipe the floor with your butt”, that sorta thing) while Bethany looked on. There was talk about going to the mall; Tim was unable to get a gift for Zach, and wanted to take him out so that Zach could help him choose. I so wanted to go with them, but it was past 3:00 by this time and I desperately needed to get some sleep if I was going to function for work.

Soon, the game was finished (Zach won, with a promise of a rematch and a butt whoopin’ from Tim) and the 4 loves of my life were heading towards the door to do their shopping and I was tucking myself in bed for a few more hours of sleep.

I awoke to a rather quiet house. Strange since it was getting late and usually there’s a bit more noise and sound greeting me when I wake up. I stumbled into the kitchen to find Ron cooking dinner, with Tim and Beth exchanging jokes with Ron; all very quiet, even the laughter was muffled, all in respect for my sleep. My heart melted a little bit more. Zach, I found out, was happily enjoying his new Gameboy game that his big brother got him in his room. I started my routine of getting ready for work, scrambling around for something clean to wear and the necessary items needed for a quick night working.

All too soon I was at work, but with a big smile on my face that I couldn’t hide or would want to even if I could. That night passed quickly. I was happy with the thoughts that my first son could fit so comfortably in my home with my rchildren and husband. They had spent a great deal of time together without me there (which, I’ll admit, wounded me a tad. Not begrudging my family spending time alone without me, but just that I had to miss time with them. Necessary, I know, but a bit of a sting nonetheless).

And then the day I was waiting for finally arrived! Tim and I were going to spend a day together without anyone else to worry about. Telling my rchildren wasn’t exactly the easiest since they obviously wanted to spend time with us as well, but in the end they understood the need both Tim and I felt to be alone together. Again, it was a day that I didn’t get any sleep, and so needed vast amounts of caffeine to keep me sustained. Pepsi to the rescue! We went out to lunch (again, ordering nearly the identical items from the menu without consulting about it). After, I took Tim to a park that I frequently take the kids to. It’s one of my favorites; an older park with huge shade trees, keeping the play areas nice and cool in the summer. It’s been refurbished since I’d grown up, and the play equipment was dotted with all sorts of children of all ages. The basketball courts and tennis courts were filled with players and Tim and I walked, strolled, sat, and talked for hours. We talked of mundane things, we talked of intimate things, we talked of his birth and my pregnancy with him, and we talked of religion and politics. He gave me his first spontaneous hug and I love you there during a walk.

Something I’d realized during the days preceding his arrival is that reunion is something akin to a love affair. Take away the hormones and you find the anticipation, anxiety, the excitement, the joy and fear are all the same. I shared this with Tim, and while he was baffled by the idea at first, he gave it some serious thought and quickly agreed with me. Another thing that Tim gave me, not even realizing it, was being able to fall in love with again my children. To revel in the love affair that parents have with their children. He was able to help me look into myself and renew that wonderful sense of awe and amazement we have for our children when they’re first born. I felt as if I could see my younger children through new eyes again, perhaps sharing in the newness Tim saw them in.

It was nearly 6:30 when we arrived back at home. Ron was beginning to fix dinner and Beth and Zach pounced us for the love and attention that we so heartlessly withheld from them earlier. ;)





(Watching Clue)



We settled into the evening routine, eventually scooting the kids off to bed with hugs and kisses all around and prayers once tucked into bed. And again, Tim stayed until about 1:00 in the morning. I drug myself off to bed, having spent another nearly 30 hour day busy with my family. My body and brain were beginning to feel the effects of lack of sleep, buy my heart was soaring! Tim had suggested the day before going ice skating; taking the kids and making a day of it before he headed back home. And yet again, I was floored by another similarity between my first son and myself. I’ve loved to ice skate ever since I was a child. I’d even had the Dorothy Hamil hair cut as a child. Didn’t exactly look good on my since my hair is naturally curly, and Dorothy’s isn’t! But Tim had learned to ice skate in winter camp and since his home town didn’t have an ice rink, he was eager to get some blades on and have some fun.

So, keeping it a surprise for the kids, I looked up the info on line, and printed up the information we needed. Ron had a break between work and we all went out to lunch one last time together that long weekend. This time it was Moroccan food. Very similar to Greek and Greek is one of my favorite types of food. By this time, Tim had realized that we have a very similar taste in food, and deliberately ordered the same thing I did.

Soon, Ron had to get back to work, and Tim wanted to get to the skating rink so he could leave at a descent time. Very quickly we were booted up and skating. I teased Tim that one of the young ladies that came over to help us with our skates was flirting with him. I forgot how much fun it is to make a 19 year old boy blush! Of course, there was more talking, goofing around, playing, picking Beth and Zach up off of the ice, just having a plain ole good time. I’m not a huge fan of Country music, but I am familiar with the music that crosses over or is popular enough to catch the top 40 eye. When Lone Star’s Amazed came on, I just got shivers! I know it’s a love song, but there are enough lyrics that can apply to my children that I had to keep the tears from pouring down my face. I really AM amazed by my first son. I can’t say that he can do no wrong, I don’t have blinders on, but I am fully enjoying the honeymoon phase right now. I figure after 19 years, I’m entitled to a bit of glowing.




And all too soon, we were back home, Tim dropping us off and saying our good-byes so he could hit the road and head home himself. There were no tears, no sadness in our farewells. We’d already made plans for Tim to come back up in two weeks for Zachary’s birthday. And from the success of the long weekend, I knew that Tim would be in our lives to stay. So much was said, so much was done; and there’s still so much left. As I said, I know there is no “making up for lost time”, it’s not possible, but that doesn’t mean that we can’t pack in as much love and laughter in as possible. That’s what life’s all about, isn’t it? Life isn’t misery, life is love. I told Tim that he was a testament to his parents and his upbringing. I told him that I wanted him to have a life that at that time in my life I couldn’t give him and it seems as if that’s what’s happened. He’s a wonderful, funny, intelligent, handsome young man who has a life ahead of him that is full of possibility. I don’t know if I would have been able to give him that; I wanted to, but no matter how much I wanted to keep him, and I told him that I wanted to keep him very badly; it wouldn’t have been fair to him. I can’t begrudge the good life he’s had. To me, while my own adoption was the success story birth mothers were lied to about, I think his was. No, his wasn’t a perfect life. There’s no such thing. But it has been a good life, a blessed life, a life I wouldn’t have been able to give him unless circumstances were radically different for me. And now I’m blessed to have him back in my life.

One last side note; I entitled this document, “And now for the rest of the story” in homage to Paul Harvey and his daily radio article. Something I realized is that the rest of our lives IS the rest of the story and it’s still being written. So much more has happened since this magical weekend and it’s all been wonderful. Tim spontaneously asked to join us for Easter. I was able to make him an Easter basket and he did Easter egg hunting with his brother and sister. He didn’t have to do it. He’s obviously beyond an age to even want to do it, but he did anyway. I know that some of the reasons he did it were for his younger brother and sister, but I’m sure there were personal reasons too. I didn’t ask. I just took pictures and enjoyed watching something I never imagined I’d ever see. We’re constantly living the rest of our story and I while I can’t wait for the future, I’m reveling in the present and living for today!