I'm drinking Kool-Aid

I’m drinking Kool-Aid. It’s the cherry flavor. It tastes good. I’ve got lots of ice and a big plastic cup and I’m crunching on the little stray bits of ice that are floating to the top of the cup every time I take a sip.

I like Kool-Aid…even the sugar-free kind, which is what I’m slurping at the moment.

slurp, slurp, slurpity, slurp

Have I ever told you I have days when I admit I know nothing about adoption? That all this is like walking an unmarked path through the woods?

GAH.

Guess what? *giggles* I’m having more of those days. Not only am I forging my own way through motherhood, I’m forging my own way through motherhood of someone else’s biological child. Let me tell you something: some days the experience can be intense.

righteous, dude

Sometimes I go through months of dark contemplation of my actions, wondering how to control a situation that’s completely out of my control. Now, you’d think I’d have learned by now that even my own perfectionism cannot extend past my own little world. I cannot create the perfect adoption experience for any of us. Not eBaby, not me, not my husband, and most certainly not Crettie or Arthur. Yet here I am, trying my damnedest.

And now I have to laugh at myself and my own self-righteous ridiculousness. I always want to make this shit about me. Me.

It’s not about me.

smacks self and giggles hysterically

Crettie’s back. She needed some time to process. She hasn’t said much about it other than the one thing that completely unhinged her; the one thing she cherished above all others regarding our visit; the one thing that broke her down completely:

When eBaby gave her a hug and kiss good-bye, and then she crawled into Arthur’s arms and did the same thing…at a time when her stranger anxiety was at full-tilt. She smooched and hugged them like they’d been here every day.

And I want to make this shit about me. Or the house. Or whether I fucking made the tea sweet enough. It’s not about me. It’s about losing your child to another mother. It’s about having to accept that kiss and walk away…to have to hand over the Christmas present, watch your child crawl all over some other woman and call her ‘Mommy’ all afternoon, accept these sweet, little kisses and then somehow get into your car and function well-enough to get yourself from Point A to Point B in one piece.

Could I do it? Probably not. Would I need a few weeks or months to get myself together in order to communicate with Mom 2.0? Oh, yeah I would.

years, I’d need years…

Crettie emailed me and apologized. She apologized. The woman I find stronger than anyone I’ve ever known…someone I grow to love more and more each day — she apologized TO ME.

No, Crettie. It’s me who owes you the apology. It’s not about me. I’m going to stop drinking the damn Kool-aid and start slurping a more grown-up drink. It’s time, don’t you think?

Be Careful What You Wish For

I’m a notoriously foul loser. I may smile sweetly and wish you well for your victories, but inside I despair over them.

So imagine my surprise when I realized just as recently as four months ago — much to my ignorance and dismay — I was still drinking the Kool-Aid.

Yes, me.

The person who swore she knew exactly what that rancid stuff was made of: the sweet, sticky, fruity goodness of it; the syrup that threatens everything I find good and fair.

After all this time I was still drinking the fucking Kool-Aid, believing the swill of the stereotype.

For months upon months, I cried and stressed over our lack of communication with eBaby’s firstparents. Then one day I praised the Lord and everything that was worthy and just for finding them. I worked day after day, nurturing the relationship. It was nothing if not precarious. Every day was hard for me: I was in constant question of whether I had said or done the right thing.

And yet, despite my worries I created something. It wasn’t really a friendship nor was it mere acquaintance. I really believed we were people coming together for the mutual benefit of our daughter. Looking back, I can even see the ridiculous romance-movie forming in my head: the feel-good story where everyone comes out a winner in the end. Hell, it was almost Juno.

Except, when adoption is the subject matter, someone always has to be the loser; sometimes it’s every single person involved.

How did I forget something so crucial? How could I stand and proclaim the atrocities of coercion and firstparent loss day after day and still feel my own circumstance could defy all the rules?

I am so self-righteous it’s not even funny. Look at me: the girl with all the right words who can’t even make the damn machine work for herself. I’m not worthy to spin in your circle…I’m really not. I suppose that’s why, after all this time, I’ve still been hiding my face in shame. Because: No Virginia, there is no fucking Santa Claus — and I was caught holding the reindeer food with stars in my eyes and the red stocking cap on my head.

And so here I’ve been, denying all this to the sun and moon. Everything is just fine. Well everything is not just fine. It sucks. My heart is broken, yet once again…and this time I’m pretty sure it’s staying that way. And I have yet to figure out why.

*******

Before Thanksgiving I was just a bit burned out from blogging. I was anticipating a visit with Arthur and Crettie that wasn’t happening… which was hard to write about day after day. So I took a break.

But behind the scenes our relationship with eBaby’s firstparents was better than ever. And then something happened. I’m not really sure what, but it had something to do with offensive, rolling advertising on Facebook and Arthur being under the impression I sent him an invitation for a game containing questionable content. He deleted his account as a result.

When I asked why, I received the surprise of my life. One seemingly innocuous invitation, which I didn’t even remember sending his way, called into question our worthiness as eBaby’s parents and Arthur and Crettie’s decision to place her in a “good Christian home.”

When I went back to the app in question…the advertising I was being accused of sending his way wasn’t there… So I stood accused of offending his sensibilities for an advertisement I never saw. And I told Crettie as much.

They were somewhat pacified, but things weren’t the same. No, everything I’d worked for was gone in a day or less. Because of a silhouette of a scantily-clad female advertising swimwear or something equally ridiculous, I was suddenly a purveyor of internet pornography… and a bad mother to boot.

I cried for days. I was devastated.

I’d stood accused of making bad parenting choices… and was told they possibly made a mistake in choosing us based upon our morals.

I cried some more.

Instead of even bringing up the Christmas visit we planned, I simply forwarded their gifts to their school addresses. After the box arrived, I heard nothing. Then one day a week or so later I received an email asking if it was still okay with us if they stopped by to bring eBaby her Christmas gift while they were passing through town…

I sent them the directions straight away but I was still guarded and afraid of saying the wrong thing. In fact, I truly didn’t believe they’d show.

But they did. On January 3, 2008, Arthur and Crettie met the eBaby for the first time. It was a strange but wonderful four hours. When they left I didn’t want them to go. I cried. Mr. Going cried. eBaby gave them kisses and hugs.

The entire visit, while a bit strained from nervousness, was the most natural thing in the world for me. It didn’t seem forced. I really believed we had made the step to bridge the Facebook divide.

But they drove away… and I haven’t heard from either one of them since.

At first I gave Crettie space. I knew she’d need it to process her feelings. But after two weeks, three weeks, a month…I knew something was wrong. When I sent their Valentine’s Day care package and received no word I started to feel distressed. After sending a quick note of inquiry with no response, and then another a few weeks later with nothing… I knew.

Everything I’d worked so hard to build was over.

Mr. Going confirmed it when he sent his own message and received no response.

The Easter care package went and we’ve heard nothing.

*******

So I’m left to wonder: was it the house? Was it me? Were we not doing the things we should’ve? Was the nursery not good enough? Were there too few toys or books? Did we have too many videos? Should I have worn a dress with an apron and offered freshly-baked cookies? Should we have prayed over the iced tea? Was the bottle of Aquafina not to Arthur’s liking?

What?

What in the hell went wrong?

My daughter received a rocking horse she plays with every single day. Crettie couldn’t have picked a more perfect gift for her if eBaby had been there herself to choose it.

Now everyday as that horse sings and clippity-clops and eBaby tries to feed it her raisins or pieces of cheese, I am saddened. Then I wonder how I failed Arthur and Crettie. Then I ruminate over why I prepared myself for an open adoption only to end up in a closed one.

And I get angry. Very angry. Just like I was when I was infertile. Now it’s hard to be around you all and your open adoptions. It’s hard to admit my failure. So I hide behind closed doors and stick my head in the sand.

Once again, I’m reminded why I chose my moniker: I truly am back to square one.

Coming Back

I took a break. I needed it. I needed to clear my head, reassess my priorities. Determine exactly what my purpose was in my adoption journey.

I've found it.

We've had some break throughs... I have some sadness. It's a long story. I'm not sure how it ends yet, or how I want it to end, frankly. I'm wishy-washy about the whole thing right now.

What I should say is I wanted to come back with a bang. I had a whole, long, ingenious post for you. Snark and wit typed directly from the fingers of Jen, queen of Jenniferland.

And then I saw it.

And I was sickened.

Literally floored.

Stunned.

Left gasping for air.

In the three months or so I've been off gallivanting, concentrating on myself... someone else out here has been suffering. I have missed it. And I am ashamed. Sick I couldn't even keep up on by blog reading. How selfish am I? I skipped out on this part of my life only to find out it went plodding along without me, bumps and bruises and sadnesses be damned.

I'm so sorry Judy.

Err, Gifting

Okay, another hijacked article. Why recreate the wheel when it's already been crafted so beautifully? Ponder this:

Gift cards are not gifts

Holidays have rapidly devolved into what amounts to an exchange of cash. A gift card says nothing about the personality of the recipient -- but it says lots about the giver.

By Liz Pulliam Weston

Gift cards are incredibly popular. They're also an oxymoron.

A gift, ideally, says, "I thought about you. I considered your likes and dislikes, your needs and wants, your dreams and desires, and found you this token of my esteem that I hope will delight you."

A gift card says, "There! Checked you off my list."

It's not just me that says so. Judith Martin, the doyenne of etiquette known to millions as Miss Manners, dismisses gift certificates -- and, by extension, gift cards -- as "a pathetic compromise convenient to people who do not trust their judgment about selecting the right present for those whose tastes they ought to know."

Think about it. Would a lover, in the flush of romance, lean close to the object of his affection and present … a gift card? Would proud grandparents present the latest addition to the family with … a gift card? Would your best and closest friend, the one you've known for years, who's stuck with you through the roller-coaster ride of life, walk into your hospital room and give you … a gift card?

(If the answer to any of those questions is yes, by the way, you need to start hanging with a better class of people.)

Yet gift cards continue their relentless spread:

• Last year, 74.3% of respondents surveyed told a National Retail Federation survey they planned to buy at least one gift card, up from 69.9% the year before.

• Half of respondents (50.1%) said they would like to receive a gift card, up from 41.3% two years earlier.

• The younger you are, the more likely you are to be delighted by a gift card: 82% of Americans under 44 said they appreciated receiving gift cards, according to a national survey by Coinstar, purveyor of coin-counting machines and gift cards.

Many young people are so enamored with gift cards, with being "empowered to make their own choices," as one retailer laughably put it, that they don't even realize what they're missing.

Older people might, but hey, they're busy, cards are convenient, so what's the harm?

The harm is that the art of gift-giving is quickly devolving into an entirely commercial exchange. How much longer until we simply start thrusting wads of dollar bills at each other?

Some people, apparently, would be delighted with that prospect. While researching party themes for my daughter's upcoming celebration, I stumbled across a posting by a woman who proudly included the horrifying words "monetary gifts would be much appreciated" on her 3 year-old child's invitations. She went on to explain that "I wanted money as gifts for my daughter's savings and for us to buy bigger toys, like a big kitchen and a Barbie Jeep that she wanted, instead of guests giving her small toys."

It's official. Shame is dead.

Heaven forbid that givers use their own judgment and spend a little time picking out small items that might give the recipients pleasure. Just give us the cash and get out of the way.

It's not that I've never given a gift card. I have, three times that I can remember. But I viewed these cards what they were: a cop-out, an admission that I had grown so out of touch with the recipients that I didn't know what would please them. In two cases, I used the experience as a prod to spend more time with the giftees and get to know them better. In the third instance, I finally decided that what had been a close friendship no longer was and ended the gift exchange -- to mutual relief.

It's also not that I don't understand the practical aspects of the gift card. I do. I just can't help mourning the passing of a lovely tradition, one that helped us focus on each other and had the potential to bring us closer.

How would I have felt, for example, about the new friend I rushed to the hospital one night had she thanked me with a gift card rather than a basket of chocolate-dipped strawberries, each more luscious than the last? Of course, no gift was expected or required, but her thoughtfulness created a bond.

Or would I have felt nearly as welcomed by my new mother-in-law if, on my first Christmas as a wife, she'd presented me with a gift card rather than the antique soup tureen that had been in her family for years? Her present told me I was part of the family.

And should I give up trying to please my husband who is -- Kenneth Cole as my witness -- one of the hardest human beings in the world to shop for? I think not. With each gift, and each return, I learn a little bit more about his tastes and style. It's a challenge to delight and surprise him, but occasionally I do -- and it's worth the effort.

The search for a gift is a gift itself

Sure, the old way included plenty of opportunities for misfires -- for the tie shaped like a fish, the sweater that's six sizes too big, the dolls from the aunt who could never figure out that her teen-age niece no longer played with Barbies. But those experiences taught us the fine art of tact and diplomacy, of expressing gratitude to people who tried to make us happy, however bizarre the actual result.

It also drove home the point, as few things do nowadays, that special occasions are about people -- not about getting more stuff or increasing our net worth.

If you find yourself purchasing gift cards, maybe the solution is to buy less and think more. Do these folks really need to be on your gift list, or would you all be better off getting together for coffee or drinks and skipping the exchange? If you really need and want to purchase a gift, maybe you can start brainstorming ideas year-round, rather than panicking at the last minute and settling for a piece of plastic.

If you really must buy gift cards, then at least:

Make certain events off limits. Even etiquette expert Peter Post, who believes gift cards have become acceptable in many situations, makes a distinction between cards and "real gifts." There are certain situations, like weddings, where "you should give a real gift rather than a gift card," says Post, great-grandson of manners-icon Emily Post. Valentine's Day and anniversaries are other situations that call for the real deal.

Combine a card with a real gift. If you want, it can even be from the same retailer that's providing the gift card to facilitate returns. Even a small gesture is better than none at all.

Think twice before giving one to someone you love. If you ever shared a home with the recipient, you can -- and should -- do better by them.

Don't add to the recipient's burdens. If your recipient would have any trouble redeeming the card, don't give it. "It probably wouldn't be appropriate to give one to your grandmother in her 80s," particularly if she suffers from limited mobility, said Post, author of "Essential Manners for Couples." "It's not for (a recipient) who finds shopping more of a burden than a pleasure."

Liz Pulliam Weston's column appears every Monday and Thursday, exclusively on MSN Money. She also answers reader questions in the Your Money message board.

Comic Relief

I hijacked this. I admit it. However, it was just too darn funny not to post here. So without further ado:

AN OPEN LETTER TO
MR. JAMES THATCHER,
BRAND MANAGER,
PROCTER & GAMBLE.

February 6, 2007

Dear Mr. Thatcher,

I have been a loyal user of your Always maxi pads for over 20 years, and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core™ or Dri-Weave™ absorbency, I'd probably never go horseback riding or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts. But my favorite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can't tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16 in my pants.

Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered from "the curse"? I'm guessing you haven't. Well, my "time of the month" is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll be transformed into what my husband likes to call "an inbred hillbilly with knife skills." Isn't the human body amazing?

As brand manager in the feminine-hygiene division, you've no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers' monthly visits from Aunt Flo. Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying jags, and out-of-control behavior. You surely realize it's a tough time for most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken chimps. Crazy! The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in capri pants. Which brings me to the reason for my letter.

Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: "Have a Happy Period."

Are you fucking kidding me?

What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness—actual smiling, laughing happiness—is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable? Well, did it, James? FYI, unless you're some kind of sick S&M freak girl, there will never be anything "happy" about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlúa and lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local Walgreens armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory. For the love of God, pull your head out, man. If you just have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say something that's actually pertinent, like "Put Down the Hammer" or "Vehicular Manslaughter Is Wrong"? Or are you just picking on us?

Sir, please inform your accounting department that, effective immediately, there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flexi-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bullshit. And that's a promise I will keep. Always.

Best,

Wendi Aarons
Austin, TX

Coming up for Air

She lives, she lives!

(only marginally.)

Mom is doing great. My many thanks to all of you who've sent me messages and said prayers on her behalf. The whole thing scared the chickens out of her, but she's back on her feet. If all goes well she should be able to go back to work around the middle of next month. There's a possibility she may have to have a pacemaker implanted, but we won't know about that for a few weeks or so. Until then, I choose not to ruminate over it. She's doing plenty of worrying for all the people in the family.

And let me tell you one thing: my mom worrying means I get no peace. Whatsoever. I've told you all about our, um, unique relationship. It's even more unique when she gets spun up about something. So, since she hasn't been driving and all that I've been the one taking up the slack.

I deserve a nomination for sainthood. Really. I'm amazed I haven't driven a dull spoon into my brain just to save myself the ten-million telephone calls a day.

_____________________________

On the Elizabeth front: she got better. Now she's sick again. Growl. We have two referrals, one to an ENT and the other to an Allergist/Immunologist. Our pediatrician suspects one or two things, or possibly both combined: her ears are going to need tubes and/or lowered immunity from her scary bout with RSV/pneumonia last January is still causing her problems now. So we wait to find out. It's going to be several weeks before we go to the specialists as it took forever to get in, especially with our nutty allergy season here, but I'm praying for an answer. I just want my baby to be well.

_____________________________

My most recent good news? I'm a SAHM now. As of last week. But, since Mom has been commandeering all my time and Elizabeth now thinks it's fun to run circles around the kitchen island until she's dizzy, I haven't noticed being any less busy. Actually, I've been MORE busy. I wonder why that is? Anyone?

_____________________________

I'm still writing like a mad-woman. I'm also editing three other stories for other people. To be honest, though, once I finish these editing jobs I'm going to cut it down to just one beta-job at a time. Three is too much. I find myself procrastinating and resentful that I'm not spending time on my own projects.

Either way, I'm this much closer *holds fingers a tiny bit apart* to actually starting to think about my own novel. Now that I'm home full-time I'm going to do some praying about it and see what the Big-Man says.

_____________________________

And last but not least:

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 2007

The Indianapolis Children's Museum

Indiana Get-Together

Meet outside the front doors when the museum opens at 10:00 am?

Adult admission is $12.50, children (2-7) are $7.50

Email me or post a comment and let me know if this works.

Pumpkin Spice Lattes

I went to the dentist this morning and the hygienist used grape gritty-stuff to clean my teeth. I can honestly say that was the most unpleasant cleaning experience I've had since I was twelve. When I was twelve I may have enjoyed the grape-flavored cement muck, but today that flavor was just over-the-top.

So after leaving the dentist's office with a nasty taste in my mouth and a slight headache from being poked in the teeth with sharp implements, I decided I wasn't ready to spend the rest of the day waiting for mom's heart procedure just yet.

Oh yeah.

My mom dropped my god-son off at my house on Monday afternoon, hung out with the Ebaby for awhile and then left to drive home...a whopping two miles from my house. In the time she left my house and made it home, she developed a heart condition called Supraventricular Tachycardia, which basically sends your heart rate sky-high, like over 200 beats-per-minute. After a night in the ICU, the doctor gave a diagnosis of a genetic heart disorder I can't spell. So now we're hanging out in the Indiana Heart Hospital, waiting for mom to have a Radiofrequency Ablation to fix her ticker.

As if I haven't had enough drama in my life lately. And yes, this is the mother.

So, like the good daughter I am, I decided to procrastinate with good coffee. And where does one go to get good coffee? Certainly not the Starbucks in the lobby of the Indiana Heart Hospital. That would make too much sense, be too globally responsible and play into my guilty conscience for procrastinating.

So I took a drive to the west side for my Pumpkin Spice Latte.

And Lauren wasn't there.

Shit.

So now I'm at the hospital. Waiting.

Pneumonia Chronicles

I keep hearing little hints about where I've been. *sigh*

To be quite honest, I've been in my happy place ~ when I haven't been trying to entertain an incredibly sick child. Ebaby has been sick for count 'em...six weeks. The first two we went round and round with an endless bout of croup which landed both Jeff and I in bed with the virus from hell. Just when we thought that was better, Ebaby popped up with a secondary ear infection.

Never one to take the easy road to wellness, Elizabeth decided she didn't want to respond to her first course of antibiotic treatment. Or, her second. So, with my hair still stuck precariously between my fingers from a behind-the-bathroom-door scream-fest, I hauled her butt back to the pediatrician once again, demanding answers. She still had the ear infection ~ in both ears.

Oh, and pneumonia.

Out comes the nebulizer and twenty-seven thousand different little plastic ampules of misty-stuff Elizabeth won't still still to take. Back we go to the store for the seventeenth time to fill our store of distilled water for the cool-mist humidifier that's been going every night in the nursery. Remember to stop at the pharmacy to pick up some of those little plastic protector things for the ear-thermometer, since the pediatrician has asked us to start charting her temperatures three times a day.

Elizabeth has had a fever for six weeks ~ and now I'm charting it.

I feel like I'm in some bad BBT Twilight Zone horror-flick from the infertility days. I got rid of that thermometer in a ritual burning. I may do the same thing when this disease...whatever it is...is over. The whole process of taking her temperature and writing it down all the time is giving me bad vibes. *shudders* Only this thermometer is the high-tech pricey kind, not the cheapy, digital BBT basal thing from CVS. I'm not sure if it's worth burning fifty bucks...

On a lighter note, my story Witch Weekly did manage to pull out a win for Best Comedy. I'm still floating on air over that one.

And yes, Lee, I did pay that dude to write that song about me. I also had him put in that bit about Erin and Hagrid. LOL!

*smacks thigh laughing*

This is too freakin' funny...

Hey There Delilah Spoof ( Hey Harry Potter )

The scary part is how much all the stuff in this song is true.

Shameless Begging

My little story is up for an award, eh? Can you believe that? I was nominated in the categories Best Comedy and Best One-Shot at SIYE, the only Harry/Ginny fanfic archive worth reading.

Witch Weekly: Ten Sure-Fire Ways to Cure the Common Cold

http://www.siye.co.uk/siye/viewstory.php?sid=127223

Here's the deal: Witch Weekly was trouncing this other story in the One-Shot category until last night. The story it's neck-in-neck with is a good story in its own right, however it's just deep and emotional ~ something that leaves you feeling a little oozy when you've finished reading it. My story, on the other hand, (or so I've been told by numerous people) is a crack-you-up kind of story. Who wants heavy emotional when they can have hilarious frivolity? Really?

So the voting is open until Midnight, October 7, 2007. I'm going to post the link to my story. If you like it, by all means, register and leave me a review! And if you think it's a story worth winning a little meaningless award, then pop over to the home page and vote for it, please??

While I'm at it, I may as well put another shameless plug in for an October DSTA nomination... My other story, Continuum, which is almost finished at thirteen posted chapters can be found under my author link. It goes without saying that I accept reviews and nominations for this one, too! LOL!

You know, I wouldn't ask, but I'm getting beat by three ~ count 'em, three ~ votes right now. The night before I was up by almost 20. That means there's some shameless begging going on somewhere else in the world right now, so I don't feel so bad about this...or should I?

WWJD?

Beg shamelessly. Yeah. Whatever I want to tell myself, right? Ha!

I'm Pissed ~ Another Whacko Amom Makes Us All Look Bad ~ NEWS AT 11:00

You are now hearing random beep-beeps...
That's the rant warning.

Curse words exist below. Lots and lots of them. I own every damn one of them, too.

You've been warned.
Really.

*******

Okay, I'm going to open this baby up by saying I'm pissed. Not mad, not angry, but steam-blowing-out-my-ears-royally-pissed-off. I'm even more pissed off because being pissed about this bullshit is affecting the writing of Chapter Thirteen of my very lovely little Harry Potter story. So, until I get this off my chest, I'm just going to be typing the same Harry/Ginny line for the next two hours until I figure a way out of my writer's block. So, I decided to say "Screw that," and hop my buns over here and deal with the situation.

Let me start this rant by saying I have a friend. A very sweet, caring friend who's getting the shaft, right as we commune together over the LED-light of my blog. She's a first-mom. And she's trying. Good Lord, is this poor woman trying. Every day I pray for her, think of her, ask Karma to send light and love her way: whatever religion or philosophy works, ya know? This awesome person right is around nine-months post-relinquishment. Lemme see, folks, if I can explain this: she's hurting. She's grieving. She relinquished a son...a baby born from her own body ~ a baby she had to push out all by herself.

You know what she heard yesterday?

This. Makes. Me. Want. To. Fucking. Vomit:

Baby-boy's Amommy is having a difficult time adjusting. My dear, sweet friend's occasional requests for photos and phone conversations are a hindrance to her ability to bond with her son.

Let me stop now and make a brief comment:

Dear Sweet Friend,

I have a sneaky suspicion you're going to read this before I email you. If that happens, I wholeheartedly apologize with every molecule in my body. But I read your email yesterday, and your subsequent email today, and I just lost it. I didn't want to send you a message that was about how I was feeling ~ especially when this is about you and how you're feeling. I love you, and you know that. I support you in every effort you make with your son's adoptive family. However, I just can't accept the email you sent today...the one where you turned your head in shame, letting this...this...travesty happen.

I'm sorry I'm ranting about it here. It's kind of a crappy place to rant, especially considering the amount of traffic I get from a certain forum...as well as the fact that people will recognize this and know exactly what I'm talking about.

However, this is my place to let go. I hope someone reads this and is as angry as I am. I hope a first mom reads this who may be about to go into one of these...fucked up meetings and remember her rights and to hold her head high.

Someone we both love and hold dear told me once: "The closer you live to the Grand Rapids office the worse-off you are." I think that statement just kicked you in the ass, sweet friend. And I'm angry for you. So, so angry.

When I figure out how to make this about you and not about me; well, that's when you'll be getting a lovely email from me telling you how much I care about you, love you and genuinely support your grief.

Right now, you're getting the I love you and care about you. But I'm not supportive. And that's not the voice you need to hear from me right now, okay? Just know that I do care and give me a few days to blow some much-needed steam. Here are my hugs...I'm with you sweetie.

Okay, now that my codicil is out-of-the-way, I'll finish my rant.

Let's get back to Amommy. She's having a tough time. (Boo-hoo.) Her new son looks too much like his first-mom. You know, the woman who gave birth to him? Contributed half his genetic material? That person? First-mom's post-relinquishment needs (which aparents agreed to, BTW...) are too much for them to handle. Amommy just can't bond with her son the way she needs to. She needs first-mom to take a step back.

Amom can't handle hearing the firstmom call her child her own. My dear, sweet friend just made a commitment to not call her own son her son anymore. Because Amom is having a tough time.

Bul-fucking-loney.

That's the biggest bucket of turds I've heard since getting a look inside our septic tank. Hmm...lemme see. I'll use Ebaby for an example. Is she my daughter? Yep. Crettie, Arthur, Mr. Going and I made a little agreement for Mr. Going and I to be her parents. Do I want to pretend I gave birth to her? Hell-fucking-no. Ebaby looks just like her first-mommy. I'm proud of that. I tell anyone who'll listen. When someone drops that "Oh, she looks just like you!" I give them a level stare like bats are flying out of his/her ears and then say, "No she doesn't, she looks like her mother ~ her other mother."

Pretending I gave birth to the Ebaby would be ridiculous. It doesn't honor her parents or the little person she is or is going to be. It completely writes off anything she could be because she's the daughter of her first-parents. It would be wrong. Not to mention send off alarm-bells in anyone's head who's done the proper amount of grieving after infertility.

I don't have to qualify my motherhood. It's not a competition. It's not a game. Adoption is a nasty, nasty business where two sides of the triad always come out with a shitty end of the stick: let me give you one clue...the adoptive parents are not one of those sides.

Do we struggle? Sure we do. But we're the ones tucking the little ones in at night. We're the ones making the bottles and kissing their sweet, little heads whenever we want.

So when I hear a story like this, it makes me want to vomit. It makes me ashamed to admit I adopted my daughter. These women, these insecure pseudo-mothers, are what feed the beast of adoption. They pay the bills, support the lobbyists, turn their heads and pretend there's not another family hurting for the sake of their joy.

And. It. Just. Makes. Me. Sick.

It reminds me of all the relinquishment stories and all the agreements between first- and adoptive-parents that get broken every single day because adoptive parents aren't honest with themselves before they make a life-long commitment to the mother of their child. It makes me sick because the need/want/desire/obsession for a child outweighs human compassion.

My heart just breaks.

And that's all.

What is it about this that people can't understand? Is it so wrong for one child to be loved by many people? Why can't there be room for all the parents? Why?

I Almost Peed My Pants

Have you ever seen a one-year-old rock out to Avril Levigne's "Girlfriend?" If you have, then you completely understand why I chose this title.

Bumper-Sticker Philosophy

I could sit here and write something profound.

I don't feel like it ~ I'm too tired, still sick with this won't-go-away-disease and my football picks this week are an effing disaster. Once again the NFL has ruined another otherwise perfect Sunday afternoon. The Colts pushed against the Texans. I won't elaborate how wrong this is. It's not worth the effort it takes to expend the calories it will take to type it here. *gags self with own forefinger*

What I can tell you; however, is Jenna has once again posted a brilliant piece of ideology. In my next life I want to be Jenna. She's my writer-hero. She's the chick who's actually getting paid to put her ideas on paper (or online) as a bonafide career. She probably won't accept this compliment with any graciousness, but I put her right up on my list next to Anna Quindlen. She just hasn't been discovered yet. Some day she will ~ Karma owes her that much.

Anyway, Jenna has written a miraculous post. Go read it.

http://thechroniclesofmunchkinland.com/2007/09/19/your-mom-was-pro-life-or-not/

No, Baby, the kitchen is NOT a sandbox...

Once upon a time in Jenniferland,
there lived a very tired mommy who desperately had to potty.
Imagine her surprise when she came upon this sweet scene in her kitchen.


Baby girls move very, very fast.
Especially after they've been to the doctor for a prescription to help them feel better.



Look, Mommy! While you were in the potty I found this pretty white sand!
It tastes good and Jasmine likes it, too!



I'm a very smart baby, so you shouldn't ever leave the pantry open, even if it's only a crack.
I also used the little scoop to bury my hair barrette!
Seriously though, I think I like my bangs in my eyes much, much better.
Don't you?



I think I'll just take this lid and scoop and play somewhere else while you run that sucking thing.
I don't much care for the noise...or the fact that you're taking away a perfectly viable plaything.
I'll walk my sticky self all over the house and hope that grainy white stuff falls out of my diaper all over the house, mmkay?



Did you say bathtime? YAY!

The End

I've Got Passion!

I see you all snort-laughing and cough-coughing all over my blog comments.

You all think you're quite funny, don't you?

Lemme tell ya somethin': I've got passion!

I'm proud of my Harry Potter obsession!

Do you want to know why?

I bet you haven't considered why I'm so glad I'm passionate about Harry, have you? I know it seems silly for a thirtyish...well, okay ~ mid-thirties woman to be so ga-ga over a fictional teenager.

Harry conquered, and he did it with class.

Something I wasn't able to do...at least not at first. For several years I lolly gagged around like Moaning Myrtle. Boo-hiss, my life sucked. I told everyone how much, too. If it wasn't one thing it was another: first was the terrible pain, then there was the inability to work, on came the infertility, then the hysterectomy plowed through, and finally my marriage started tanking.

Looking back, it's no wonder most of my friends jumped ship. I jumped ship on myself. I didn't care one way or the other because I was so busy feeling sorry for myself I had one foot in the grave, anyway. My whole life was centered on my losses:

Loss of a mother.
Loss of innocence.
Loss of sanity.
Loss of a dream.
Loss of control over my marriage.
Loss of confidence in my abilities.
Loss of my trust that God knew best.
Loss of my job.
Loss of my fertility.
Loss of my home.
Loss of my uterus.
Loss of nerve.
Loss of the will to live.

Everything was one devastating loss after another. It all sounds so damn melodramatic: but that's the way it was for me.

Then a young woman named Crettie did something that changed my life as I knew it. I won't demean her by saying she did something courageous or selfless...I love her too much for that. She showed me what it looks like to love yourself ~ even if you don't feel that way at the time.

You see, I think you have to love yourself a lot to trust in your own judgment enough to follow through with an adoption plan. Something like that takes balls. Being able to trust yourself to do anything important takes nerve.

I didn't have that.

Not at all.

If you can envision the food chain, I would have placed myself down along the likes of plankton.

And then Crettie came along and loved me enough to trust me with her daughter. Then somewhere along the way I've learned to love myself. I've learned to love myself enough to have passion ~ about something, anything.

Until a year or so ago, living through the day was just that: putting one foot in front of the other until it was time to go to bed and start over.

I don't feel that way anymore.

I'm writing. I'm reading. I'm drawing. I'm living. I'm dreaming. I'm loving.

I'm planning.

I've let go of a lot of the anger that consumed me.

So what? Right now it's coming out in the form of a novella of fanfic. But people like it...which tickles me to no end. Why? Because I've always wanted to write. I've always lived in fiction-land, so this little jaunt into Harry-ville has been a catharsis for me. I've proved to myself I can do it.

So what if my blog is one long grammatical error after another...this is my thinking place; my stream-of-consciousness journal. I don't want to make journaling feel like it has to be perfect. Otherwise, I might not follow through with it.

But for right now I'm glad I feel passionate about Harry and Ginny. And if I buy a t-shirt that says I write fanfic; well, I'm going to wear that puppy with pride.

And then I'm going to go and re-trash all the things Elizabeth dumpster-dived for while I took the time to write this.

Choosing My Battles *sigh*

I don't think this one needs a whole lot of descriptives. It speaks for itself. *sighs again*