OmegaMom

One thing about the tale of Artyem, the Russian boy adopted then returned, which I have seen only one post directly address, and which has been bothering the hell out of me:

When was some idiot child going to use that tale to be mean to my dotter?  When was someone going to tell her that we were going to send her back, because that’s what people do to adopted kids?

Oh, there were plenty of posts about the feeling of loss and abandonment that some adopted people feel, long into their adult years.  There were plenty of posts about the whys and wherefores of this woman’s case.  There were plenty of posts about the ethical, moral issues.  But not really any specifically saying:  I have an eight-year-old child who was adopted, and I’m terrified that someone is going to use this story to HURT HER.

There was one night last week where she was snuggled up on the Big Chair in the living room.  I was walking by, and she asked me to sit with her because she had something to say to me.  Now, OmegaDotter has a tendency to do this when you’re not paying attention to her, and it always turns out to be something lame, being used an an excuse to Get Attention.  I was dubious.  Then she said, “I’m sad about adoption.”

Oh, boy.  I immediately sat down.  So we talked—a little bit—about what made her sad.  She’s getting better at being able to say these things, but not any better about the whys.  I asked her why she was sad, and how she was sad, and all she could do was say she was sad.

“I know it’s sad for you sometimes.  It’s happy and sad for your dad and me; we’re happy that we adopted you, but sad that you had to lose your birth family for us to adopt you, and sad that it makes you sad.”

So I had to ask her, “Has anyone been teasing you about being adopted?”  She shook her head no.  We snuggled a bit, she bounced up, and that was that.

Um.  Okay.  Was that all?  Hm.

I kept wondering during the week, what do I do?  Do I ask her directly if she’s heard about the story?  Do I just let it sit?  What if I let it sit and someone pulls it out like a trump card in the midst of a kid fight?  Will she talk to us about it or just keep it hidden tight?  What do I do?!

This evening at bedtime, the dam busted.  I was giving her her goodnight kiss, and looking at her I couldn’t just let her be defenseless against this story.  I knew that at some point, someone would pull it and cut with it and it would hurt like a knife.

“Hey, kiddo.  Anyone at school tell you about the boy who was adopted and sent back?”

Hey, I never said I was subtle about these things…

Her eyes widened, and she shook her head.

“Anyone tease you about being sent back to China?”

“No.  Why?”

“Well, there was this story in the news this week about a 7-year-old boy who was adopted by a woman who ended up sending him back.”  I held her by the side of her head and stared into her eyes.  “And I just want you to know:  We would never, ever ‘send you back to China’.  Never, ever.  You’re stuck with us, girl!”  I kind of choked up on the word “stuck” so it came out funny.

“Styuck?!  Ha!  You’re styuck with me!” she giggled.

“I mean it.  You’re stuck with us.  We would never send you back to China, no matter how horribly you behave.”  I gave her the hairy eyeball (my tone and my mugged expression made sure that the “no matter how horribly you behave” was taken as an exaggeration, not a condemnation).  She smiled.  It wasn’t a “haha, that’s funny!” smile.  It wasn’t a “I’m being cute and know it” smile.  It was a big happy smile. 

“No matter how bad I am?!”

“No matter what, kiddo.”

Then she needed the details of the story, so I gave her an abbreviated version.  She asked me when it happened.  I told her.  She got indignant:  “On your birthday!  That’s sucky!”  I mentally blinked—that hadn’t even occurred to me.  She decided she wanted to go KILL the woman.  Oops, nip that in the bud right quick, OmegaMom!  Then she decided she wanted to write a letter telling the woman she was mean and cruel and—bad word alert!—shhhh!—stupid.  She wanted to see a picture of the woman; was she pretty or ugly?  Which was a good opening to OmegaMom’s standard “pretty people can be mean, too; it’s not what’s on the outside that matters, it’s what’s on the inside” shtick.

Which, of course, led to the dotter pretending to rip off her skin (her own skin) to see what was inside (all very dramatic and done in a silly way), which led to “did you know my bladder is right here”, pointing to the middle of her abdomen, “not down here”, pointing to right above the pubic bone.  Which led to the dotter explaining that her teacher had shown a picture of the insides and the bladder was in the middle and did I know the stomach wasn’t round, but was shaped like a banana?

So.  I feel better just getting it out there in the open.  The story itself, and the underlying fear that some adult adoptees say they always had, that they would be “sent back”.

Some posts on the story:  Yoon’s Blur and Harlow’s Monkey ask why adult adoptees are never interviewed about stories like these?  Random Babble talks blunt talk.  Pundit Mom says Children Don’t Come With Return Policies and also doesn’t like the media slant on these stories.  Lisa Belkin talks about the case in the context of whether international adoptions should be done at all.  Patricia Cogen talks about how the mother in the case should have searched for help.  KJ Dell’Antonia says “I Did Not Love My Adopted Child”—the gist of which is that older child adoption can be hard, and adoptive parents should talk about it more openly—but which has rubbed many people the wrong way (see comments on the story and on Twitter).  And John Raible’s post, Learning from Aryom’s plight, was the one that specifically said that adopted children—right here, right now—might be impacted and APs need to be proactive about it.  Thanks, John; I think that spurred me on to bulling through the subject in my blundering way.

Context is everything, right?

So I just posted a one-liner and decamped yesterday; it was late, I was tired, I had just spent a while snuggling with the dotter, and I wanted input.

So Beth and YouKnowWhereYouAreWith responded, and I thank you both very much!

The thing is:  Ages ago, pre-dotter, while I had drunk the Kool-Aid extensively, I thought Ms. Brown was a bit much.  Her emails tend to be…um…harangue-y.  And in the workshops, she’d take the kids off by themselves and not tell you what they did!  Ack!

But here we are now, almost six years after the first time we held the dotter in our arms.  She’s almost seven (Ack, indeed!).  And every so often, I have to cuddle her at bedtime and listen to her missing her birthmother, and I have to tell her that while OmegaDad and I can certainly sympathize and understand, we can’t know exactly what it’s like.

Jane Brown is coming to Big City this spring, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to try to register us for the playshop/weekend.  I asked the dotter last night if she’d like to go to an activity where there were lots of other boys and girls who were like her, who didn’t look like their parents, who were adopted, who missed their birthmothers, and there was someone who would do plays and skits and artwork and help the kiddos talk about missing their birthfamily and being sort of the odd one out.

She said yes.

Sooo…That’s why I was looking for input.

In the meantime, the dotter produced this artwork this morning.  I thought it was grand:

Anyone have any experience with one of Jane Brown’s adoption workshops?

Who is this young lady?  The one who looks all grown up?  The one who makes me think that in just a few years, we will be beating off the boys with sticks?

Today was supposed to be our annual trek to the Nutcracker.  We were going to take the dotter’s friend K. with us, as well.  But yesterday the weather gods decided it was time to dump a big ol’ load of snow on the area, around 12 inches.

Now, in Small Mountain University Town, where they regularly get 26-plus inch snows, they have clearing the highways and byways down to a science.  Yes, readers from SMUT, they really do, though you may not think so.  Anyway, a 9- to 12-incher wouldn’t phase the county crews from SMUT; they’d have the snowplows parked by each highway exit, engines running, when the snow reached one inch…and then those plows would be cruising the highways over and over and over again, scraping things down, so that the afternoon after the snow began to fall, it would be fairly clear.

Hereabouts…well, it doesn’t seem very intuitive:  Here in Alaska, Land Of Ice And Snow And Bitter Cold, they’re not quite as good about it.  Oh, in a few days, the highways will be clear, but in the meantime, driving on the highways would be an iffy proposition.

So at 11 a.m. this morning, I wimped out.  OmegaDad is still sick, hacking and coughing and not being very happy, so it would have been just me with the two girls.  And I had foolishly gotten tickets for the 5 p.m. show, which would mean driving both ways in the dark.  In the cold dark.  In the snowy cold dark.  In the snowy cold dark on snow-packed and icy roads.

In a word:  Yuck.

The dotter, when informed that we were wimping out, climbed into my lap and let the tears roll.  But a promise of hauling her and K. off to the bouncy haus for a few hours of good clean bouncin’ fun, plus a chance to dress up in her fancy new holiday finery for a few minutes so mom could take a picture, made up for it.

So there she is.  That girl is only six years old.  I swear!  Really!  But doesn’t she look…um…mighty damn fine?  And like she’s on the verge of teen-hood?  Dayum.  It’s scary.  I swear it was only yesterday that she was shorter than the dining room table, and we could keep things safe from her by pushing them towards the middle of that same table.

It breaks my heart.

Something else that breaks my heart:  When doing the Right Thing is all wrong for a child.  The picture at the head of the story says it all to me.  I read about Anna Mae and my heart sinks.  Oh, she’ll adjust in a few years, and she’ll be a fine young lady when all is said and done, but I think of my dotter having to leave our family at the age of 8–only another year–and it just makes me miserable.  The whole story was so horrid, in every way, and I wish that both sets of parents had found some way, very early on, to resolve things.

Damn.  Now I have to find some way to cheer myself up…

I trekked off to the doc-in-the-box to get antibiotics for my sinus infection, which was feeling like someone was jabbing an ice pick up through my cheekbone.  Actually, OmegaDad and I trekked off, and I got to see The Wound.  It turns out that Dr. SledDog did not slash his throat; he merely used a paper punch to punch a hole in.  As the helpmeet, it is my duty the next few days to take a monstrous long Q-tip, drench it in H202, and plunge it into the gaping maw of the hole, then dig around the edges.  Ewww.  The things we do in the name of love.

In the meantime, I’ve come across some discussions on the intertubes that have to do with intent–as in, "Well, hey, if this offends you, it’s not my fault, and I’m going to keep doing it!  So there!"

Firstly, we have the tale of the tavern owner in the Atlanta area who has jinned up a T-shirt featuring Curious George eating a banana, and labeled it "Obama ‘08".  The question was, is this "racist"?  In the comments to Pharyngula’s write-up, an interestingly large number of folk did not "catch" it–people from Europe, young people from America, and a few folk who obviously knew it was denigrating yet sneered at the idea (mostly people who crashed Pharyngula from elsewhere, I think).  Given the quotes from the guy who did it, it’s pretty obvious it wasn’t intended nicely, yet an argument arose in the comments section as to whether "paying attention" to it, recognizing the past connotations of "black person = ape", was, in fact, perpetuating the racism.  And whether there really was racism intended.  And whether it’s better to ignore such things or fight them.

A few people in the thread suggested that those who did not think it was racist buy it and wear it around their black friends, and see what the response was.

It’s interesting that there are honest, intelligent people who do not think it was racist; it promises hope that the "black people = apes" trope is receding into the mists of history.  At the same time, it obviously hasn’t, because enough people know the coding to realize it’s offensive and wear things like this for that reason.  So is it better for the trope to fade in general consciousness, but still resonate in two areas–the targets (black people) and the perpetrators (racists)?  In other words, is it better that something be seen–and called out–as racist by the general public, or be glossed over, shunted aside?

Another item of "intent versus effect" is in Karen’s story of her dad’s response to her daughters names.  The first is that he doesn’t like the chosen name for the new baby.  The second is he makes fun of her current daughter’s Chinese middle name.  Her daughter’s middle name is "Chao Xing" (chow shing), and her dad teasingly does the "ching chong" thing with it.  There’s a lot wrapped up in it, specifically a "why remind her she’s Chinese?" attitude, a "you’re making too much of this" (the adoption) attitude.  The problem is, it’s all too easy to slide from that to the "ching chong chinaman" song.  Right now, Karen’s daughter is only a toddler…but as she grows older, this kind of thing can hurt.  (Google "ching chong Rosie O’Donnell", or "ching chong Yao Ming" or "ching chong Margaret Cho" or "ching chong Helene Chung".)

The third item that caught me was posted by YouKnowWhereYouAreWith, pointing to an article in Canadian MacLean’s Magazine, about the abrupt slowdown in adoptions from China, possible reasons behind it, and the question of whether international adoption is A Good Thing or reflective of colonialism.  Once again:  intent versus perception.  Adoptive parents aren’t looking to practice cultural genocide (and, frankly, they aren’t, because the cultures are still there, still going strong–perhaps it’s more a case of "cultural theft"?).  But some folks see it that way.  The question is:  if adoptive parents are providing the dollar motivation for cultures to not clean up their act, aren’t they helping perpetuate the problems that provide the commodity (babies)?

Anyways, all stuff to think about.  I’d write more, but that ice pick in my cheekbone is pushing a bit harder, the dotter is in bed, OmegaDad is soon to be in bed, and I’d like to go there myself.

It’s Mother’s Day.  OmegaDad and OmegaDotter let me sleep in, and then marched in with breakfast in bed.  Whoa!  It was little Nancy’s quiches and strawberries, plus one of my Frappucinos…they then brought in their own and joined me, and presented me with a cardboard box which contained truffles (yum), three "flowers" made of pipecleaners and seed packets (some nice pansy varieties), a large abalone shell from the dotter (which I had given to her ages ago), a scarf from the dotter (which I had given to her ages ago), and another shell.

It was, actually, quite charming and loving, and I loved it. 

So much for being a "non-mom mom".  Har.  I’m cynically amused at how Teleflora and NBC scrambled all over themselves trying to recoup from that blunder.  At the same time, I’m glad that they did.

I’m sure they’d flinch at including birthmothers in any way in their motherhood tribute–too ambiguous for their tastes.  After all, they’d have to figure out how to present birthmothers as saintly martyrs who are gently satisfied with their choice, and avoid all the questions that even thinking about birthmoms brings to many folk.

OmegaDotter wrote a letter to her birthmother this morning.  She was happy to do it; she had asked me a while back if she could write a letter to her.  This entailed, of course, explaining that while she could write a letter, we had no way of delivering it because we didn’t know where her birthmother was or if she was okay.  But, I said, we could make a special box, and put letters to her birthmother in the box.  This morning, when she wrote the letter, she had completely forgotten that we couldn’t actually send it, and was all excited (momentarily) about getting a letter back.

::whimper::

But I explained again, and the dotter took it in good stead.

The letter was pretty short, but the first thing the dotter quickly wrote out was "I forgot your name."

::whimper::

She wrote that she can do cartwheels, and that she is good at learning.  And signed it, "Love, OmegaDotter".  Then she put it in an envelope clearly labeled "CHINA", and put it on the refrigerator, held by our very best, strongest magnet.

Then, that done, she merrily went on her way, demanding to help OmegaDad with building the veggie garden, helping me rake (yes, more raking), dipping into the house to build a picnic basket out of paper, and then dashing off next door to play with the kids there for a while.

I know that I have readers who simply don’t understand why we do things like this.  That it seems like a way to make the dotter feel capital-A-adopted.  That we make too much of it.  That our lives are all adoption angst.

First off, no, our lives are not all adoption angst.  In fact, there’s very little of it.  It’s just part of the tapestry of life for us and for the dotter; there are some things that remind her of being adopted, and we talk about them, and she chews on them a bit, and life goes on.  She goes to school, she has to do homework, we play with friends, we deal with Ballet Recital Madness, she practices her gymnastics, and on and on.

The thing is, she is adopted.  She’s our dotter, through and through, but somewhere out there is a birthmother and a birthfather, and a big question as to "why?"  From our readings of musings by adult adoptees, it seems that even the most happy, well-adjusted (female) adoptees think about birthparents and the circumstances of their adoption throughout their childhood, adolescence, adulthood.  And a lot of the adoptees who have written about it say that they were afraid to talk about it with their parents, that they feared hurting their parents by even thinking about another set of parents, by even wondering about their biological background.  Or that they tried talking about it, and their parents brushed it off, and they learned, very quickly, that it was a subject not to be touched.  And many of those adult adoptees said that they thought about the subject of birthparents a lot and were hurt and worried that they couldn’t talk about it with their parents.

Also, there’s OmegaDad.  OmegaDad’s mother died a week after giving birth to him.  He thought about her a lot.  He, too, learned early on that it was a sore subject; of course, it was because she died young, leaving a bereft husband and sons and parents, all of whom remembered her and were hurt by her early death.  So OmegaDad remembers wanting to know more about his mother, and not being able to talk about her.  So he feels it incumbent upon himself to make sure that OmegaDotter know that it’s okay to talk about her birthmother to both of us.

We’ve told the dotter her adoption story since we brought her home, too small to even understand what we were saying.  "Once upon a time, there was a lady in China who had a beautiful baby girl…" was how it started.  And "on the other side of the world, there was a man and a woman who really wanted to have children…"  And ending, "And they drove up the mountains to Small Mountain University Town in the little white car, and got home just a few days before Christmas, and that was the Very Best Christmas Ever."  As she’s grown older, the story has changed, gotten more detail, specifics have been fleshed out.

It’s all a little bit like sex, actually.  Well, not having sex, but talking about sex.  You want to keep the channels open.  You don’t want One Big Just So Story scene where you talk about sex when the kiddo is 17 and that’s that.  So you start out basic, you get comfy talking about the whole idea (omigod omigod i can’t even think about the dotter having sex omigod omigod), you try to not get tied up in knots when A Question comes up. 

I dunno.  It works for us.  Somewhere on the other side of the world is a woman who gave birth to our dotter.  Goodness knows why she had to abandon her–it could be that the dotter has an older sister, and her birthparents were trying for a son; it could be that her birthmother was a young, single woman who couldn’t keep a baby; it could be that there were in-laws who took her away and told her birthmother she was dead, in hopes of a future son to carry on the name; it could be that her birthmother couldn’t afford to keep her…We don’t know.  On a day like this, though, I think of her missing being able to watch this amazing girl grow up, not knowing her belly giggle, not knowing her artistic creations, not knowing her need to bounce and thump.  The least I can do for this other woman out there is to keep her memory alive and not flinch away when the dotter wants–or needs–to talk about her.

When we adopted OmegaDotter, we had A Plan.  That plan was to–as soon as possible, i.e., a year after signing on the dotted line for the dotter–apply for another adoption from China.

Well, that first year was…difficult.  Having a baby in the house is life-altering, tiring, exhilarating, fun, wearing.  And then I got laid off.  Oops.  So we decided to put it off another year.  But then that next year, OmegaDad had some health issues that required all our attention.  So we decided to put it off another year.  Then we learned that OmegaDad’s health issues put us off the list for China, including the special needs list.  So we sulked and dithered and dilly-dallied.  We thought about other programs.

One of the other countries we thought about–for a very, very short while–was Vietnam.  But it was never a real serious discussion.  For one thing, it was much, much more expensive than China.  And while our first year was chugging along, word was building that corruption was rife in Vietnam adoptions.  In 2003, the U.S. put a total freeze on adoptions from Vietnam until it could be demonstrated that the adoption system had been cleaned up to the point where the U.S. Embassy could feel relatively assured that the corruption had been rooted out.  In 2006, Vietnam and the U.S. signed a memorandum of understanding re-opening international adoptions from Vietnam to the U.S.

Almost immediately, problems began resurfacing.  We’re talking mere months after that MOU was signed.

Things, IMO, went downhill from there.

Part of the problem was that the wait for adoptions from China had drastically slowed down.  And some of the thousands of potential adoptive parents who were desperate for a child began to turn to other countries for an "interim" adoption–figuring that any adoption from another country would be finalized long enough before China got around to them that they’d still fit the qualifications (a year–or was it six months?!  it’s never been quite clear–between adding any new child to the family).  Vietnam had a reputation for being quick, if you were willing to spend the money, so families started queuing up.

And then, in October and November 2007, families who were trying to adopt from Vietnam started getting Notices of Intent to Deny from the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service (or whatever its official title is these days).  The NOIDs were based on suspicions or indications that something was amiss with the proposed adoptions; that the children in question were not actually abandoned, not actually the children described by the documentation, maybe the result of baby-selling, maybe the result of kidnapping.  The potential parents, alas, were already in Vietnam expecting to be able to bring their babies home, and the NOIDs stopped them cold.  Many decided to simply stay in Vietnam with the babies until things cleared up.

Rumors began building in the Vietnam adoption community that the U.S. would not renew the MOU when it expired, in September of this year.

A week or two ago, the U.S. Embassy in Hanoi issued a "Summary of Irregularities in Adoptions in Vietnam", along with a "Warning Concerning Adoptions in Vietnam".  The warning specifically states "recent field investigations have revealed incidents of serious adoption irregularities, including forged or altered documentation, mothers paid, coerced or tricked into releasing their children, and children offered for adoption without the knowledge or consent of their birth parents."  The summary states that U.S. officials in Vietnam had investigated more than 300 cases over a six-month period; to give an idea of the percent of potential adoptions investigated, there were 828 adoptions from Vietnam by U.S. parents in 2007.

It seems pretty clear that this is not a witch hunt by U.S. officials.  The stories in the summary make it plain that corruption and bribery are rampant in the process. 

The problem is, of course, that potential adoptive parents are wildly emotionally involved.  It’s practically impossible to expect potential adoptive parents to say–when confronted with an official piece of paper that claims that the baby you have been holding and cuddling and thinking of as your "own" for two weeks and that the Vietnamese courts have declared is your "own"–"Oh.  You’re right.  We can’t adopt this child–the evidence is too overwhelming that her birthmother was scammed out of her baby.  Here.  Take her back."  So the adoptive families pull strings, and heartstrings, trying to get the NOIDs revoked, removed, the immigration visa approved, ogodogodletusgohomewithherplease.

I’d like to think (ahem.  See my halo here?  It’s nice and shiny!  And I got it cheap!) that in that situation, OmegaDad and I would do what we thought was the ethical thing.  It is, of course, easy for me to say; we are safe and sound and working on our dotter’s sixth year home with us, and even the rumblings of corruption in the Chinese adoption system seem to have cranked up after her adoption.  And I have already said, in the midst of another post, that at this point, if someone came forward with evidence that her birthfamily had not abandoned her, I would fight tooth and claw to keep her with us…though I would also like to think (halo, remember?) that we’d do whatever possible to make sure we could take her to China on a regular basis to visit her birthfamily.

So when a good internet bud of mine forwards a plea to call, email, write, fax senators, congresscritters, and the INS/USCIS on behalf of one of the families who has been stuck in Vietnam since last fall, facing a second NOID, I am left unsettled and disturbed.  My heart breaks for the adoptive parents.  My heart also breaks, though, for the birthfamily.  I feel I cannot, in good conscience, do any such thing without full knowledge of the particulars of the case (and I tend to suspect, given that the word is the INS/USCIS is going to issue a second NOID, that the particulars are pretty egregious).  What if it’s the case where the birthmother’s baby was withheld from her by a hospital so that she would pay the hospital bill for a premature birth?  Or the one where the birthfamily, fallen on hard times, was told by an orphanage official, "Hey–leave the baby with us for a while until you get back on your feet…We’ll take care of him, and you can take him back home when you’re better off and more able to deal with it…"?  Or the one where the birthmother was a young single woman who was being housed in a maternity home, and told, after the birth, "Oh, by the way, unless you can pay us back the year’s income that it cost us to house you, we’re going to have to take your baby away…"?

In the end, I am sorry to say, it still seems to come down to money.

(For a very worthwhile read, go to Voices For Vietnam Adoption Integrity.)

Every once in a while, I haul the dotter off to Veronica’s, the local manicure-in-a-mall, for an hour of frou-frou girly-girl stuff.  The last time we were there, Veronica carefully painted an itty-bitty snowman on one fingernail, and an itty-bitty Christmas tree on one of the fingernails on the other hand.  The dotter gets pink or purple, usually with glitter, while I get clear nail polish.

It’s a pleasant little interlude.  Veronica does a much better job with fingernails than I do, the dotter gets her glittery pink or purple, I get my jagged edges filed smooth, and then the dotter begs a quarter off me so she can ride the horsie in the mall lobby.

All pretty laid-back.

I am obviously far behind the times, though.

I should be getting her a bikini wax.  Or her eyebrows plucked.  Or, if I were really thinking ahead, a botox job.

What’s that you say?  She’s only six?

No, no, no!  You don’t understand!  These days, it’s the "in" thing to do!  Mommy-daughter bonding time at the spa and salon!  Mommy goes in one door to get a bikini wax and daughter goes into the other to get her eyebrows shaped.

Now normally I’d pooh-pooh such a story, putting it down to a reporter who sees something twice and then turns it into a "trend".  But in this case, the author asked a whole slew of salon owners, and got a quote from a pediatrician; besides that, there was a remarkably similar story in the New York Times just a few days ago.

I recall a slightly bewildering Christmas visit to the in-laws, when our niece L., who the previous year had been quite happy hiking and scrambling over rocks with us, a lovely, natural beauty at 15, spent an hour and a half in the bathroom before emerging as a sleek, made-up model-type to go to the mall with her boyfriend.

I also recall a time when I had to chase three girls out of my great-aunt’s bathroom as they had monopolized it for far too long in preparation for a family gathering at the local buffet restaurant.  They emerged with Big Hair (this was, after all, the mid- to late-’80s), a cloud of perfume puffing out of the bathroom door, with big blue racoon eyes.

Somewhere between my own total lack of primping and grooming, and these ladies hauling their children off for buffing and plucking and botoxing, there’s a happy medium.

What happened to that happy medium?

On the one hand, I seriously consider taking the dotter, at age 13 or 14, to the local Clinique counter a few times to have instruction on how to do make-up without looking "made up".  I think of doing a nail-painting party for a bunch of ten-year-olds (thank heavens that’s a few years off!).  I personally indulge in massages now and then.  But all of these are "treats" in my mind, not something that gets done on a regular basis.

I dunno.  Mainly, I’m an old fart with a semi-hippy outlook and a worry that the dotter will be sucked into a pop-culture outlook that places emphasis on the outer wrappings, rather than the inner character.

Here in Alaska, as many people know, we have an overload of daylight hours in the summer.  We’re talking 19.14 hours of daylight at the peak where the Omega Family lives, and more up north.

That’s a lot of daylight.

Our kids don’t need to work on the crops quickly after school to get them in before the sun goes down.

So why do we have Daylight Savings Time here?

I mean, really…why bother?  In the summer, our "noon" ends up being at 2 p.m. or thereabouts, an artifact of when Alaska managed to get itself all in one time zone (except for the further reaches of the Aleutian Islands) so that the state managers in Juneau could talk to various state folk in Anchorage and other places without having to worry about time zones.  Previously, we were in four time zones. 

So why didn’t they just get rid of DST at the same time?  I don’t know, but apparently there’s a move afoot to get it on a ballot this year, though some folks grumble that Alaska will then be up to five hours off the eastern part of the U.S. during the summer.

This morning, upon waking, I stumbled through the house re-setting clocks.  OmegaDad and I are going to hang drapes today; it’s necessary because now the dotter will be going to bed while it’s still somewhat light outside.  Soon the same will be happening for OmegaDad and me–we’re gaining almost six minutes of light per day.  I can sleep in any environment, but OmegaDad can’t get to sleep if it’s light in the bedroom…

Mainly, DST is a big bother for us and the other 670,000 people who live here.

So I got three votes for the economy and foreclosures, and three votes for homeschooling.  And one that said "I’ll read anything you write!" (BadMutha, you sure know how to make me blush!  And, honest, 75-100 is not too shabby as regular readers.  Nothing like The Big Guys, but still not too shabby.  I say so as someone with an average visit of just around 100.)

Since Mrs. Fibgy voted for the economy but said she’d be interested in the homeschooling critique critiquing, I used that as a tie-breaker.

Whilst wandering around ScienceBlogs last week, I came across a snippet of a "critique of homeschooling" on Greg Laden’s blog.  I followed the link to this article.  I read it.  Really!  I actually forced myself to read it, even though my former editor’s brain kept shrieking, "ACK!  ACK ACK!  ACK ACK ACK!" and my analytic brain kept grumbling "cherry-picking, dammit!" and my marketing brain kept snickering, "Ooooh, yeah, let’s get some more stereotypes in there, why don’t we?!"

Of you go.  Read.  Go on, go go go.  I’ll just wait right here.

Done?

First, let me reveal a snobby bias:  A poorly written article automatically prejudices me against the author’s viewpoint.  I hang my head in shame.  Lots of people who Think Good Thoughts can’t write their way out of a paper bag.  But clunky construction, poor verb-subject agreement, awkward (or nonexistent) segues, and downright errors in articles make my eyes cross and my brain stutter.

But, hey.  We all know that this particular post of mine will be inevitably riddled with errors, this being the Way of the Kozmik All.  "Whom the gods destroy they first make proud" and all that.  So let’s take that as a given, and I don’t want to hear any grumbling from the roaring mob about how not only am I a snob but an utter hypocrite to boot.

Let’s get to the substance.

The author ranks the reasons for homeschooling as:  Violence in the school system/safety and desire to provide better education.  She mentions in passing that many homeschoolers are religious, but doesn’t list that as a reason.  She waves her hand at "my research" but doesn’t say where she researched or what information she got.

So I had a go at looking for reasons for homeschooling.  The U.S. Department of Education performed surveys of homeschooling parents in 1999 and 2003.  The "most important" reasons for homeschooling given in the 2003 responses were:

Concern about environment of other schools	31.2%
To provide religious or moral instruction	29.8%
Dissatisfaction with academic instruction at other schools	16.5%
Child has other special needs	7.2%
Child has a physical or mental health problem	6.5%

That "concern" about the environment included drugs and peer pressure, not just "safety".  And having an "analysis" so poorly written that reason #2–religious or moral instruction–was conflated with other reasons and not discussed separately bugs me.

Then the author goes on to sniff at any concerns about the school environment, asks homeschooling parents what the crime rate is in their neighborhoods (?), and immediately takes off after…

…all those psychotic moms and dads who homeschool their kids and abuse or kill them.  Like Andrea Yates.  Or a lady named Deanna Landrey, who beat her kids with rocks to Save Them From Satan.

Because the Big Problem with homeschooling, dontchaknow, is that the kids are socially and physically isolated, and that’s a good way to hide child abuse.  Aside from the everyday horrors of not being socialized.

I stop here to say, yes, I know that there are, indeed, plenty of homeschooled kids who are socially isolated.  And social isolation is an excellent method of hiding abuse.

But then I look at all the homeschooling families I know of.  I worked in ITS with two.  I’ve made friends with a bunch via the web.  The parents of one of the dotter’s friends (another child adopted from Guangxi, whose birthday is one day later than hers) are homeschooling their child.  And the parents of one of her fellow ballet dancers are more homeschoolers.  Every single one of these parents has been using what’s known as a "home schooling co-op".  Some have been religiously oriented.  Some have been definitely non-religious.  All the kids that I’ve met are happy, healthy, dreadfully social children.  They go on homeschooling co-op field trips.  They play sports with other homeschooling kids and in the soccer leagues and the softball leagues and dancing and gymnastics.

The author goes on to say that those who are concerned about their kids’ educations should be more concerned about homeschooling than public schooling, because there are no requirements for teaching in a homeschool and the parents won’t be able to teach all the various subjects.  Amazingly enough, most of the homeschooling parents I know recognize quite well when they’ve reached the limit of their knowledge, and turn to the homeschooling co-ops for help.  Their children get taught science or math by parents in the co-op who are (gasp!) scientists or mathematicians.  They get taught English by parents in the co-op who are literature or English majors.  They learn online.  Or their parents study the subjects before their kids reach that point, so they can guide them.

Ah, but public (or private) school teachers are certified!  They’ve studied pedagogy!  They’ve done student teaching!  They have all the latest teaching theories under their belts!  They know how to handle 16 to 30 kids at once!  In some states, they need masters’ degrees!  A person without all that preparation simply can’t teach children!  Because they don’t Know How To Teach!

To which I say–pish tosh.  Again, the homeschoolers that I have encountered are wildly motivated to get their kids to learn.  Some have specifically taken their children out of school systems because…because…their kids weren’t learning.  All that teacher training, the masters’ degrees, the certification, the theories…and their kids weren’t learning.

To top it all off, she says that homeschoolers will share their biases (not "there bias’s") with their children.

Um.  Yeah…?  Do you know of any parents who do not share their biases with their children?  The only way I can think of for parents to not share their biases with their offspring is to…well…just keep their mouths shut.  All.  The.  Time.  In addition, the implication that teachers in school systems don’t share their biases with the children they teach is mind-boggling.  In every way, in every word, in every path of teaching, those teachers do share their biases.  The kids learn a whole slew of biases from the school system.  And from their parents.  And from their aunts, uncles, friends’ parents, and everyone they encounter.

Of course, being exposed to one, and only one, set of biases isn’t the best of all worlds in my mind.  Many parents do homeschool precisely because they don’t want their precious loinfruit to have their ears sullied by the word (or concept) of evolution, or sex education, or Harry Potter books.

I am not an apologist for homeschooling, trust me.  I do think that some people are quite capable of fucking up their children via homeschooling.  But to use an "analysis" such as this one to trash homeschooling is insanity.  This article is so full of stereotypes, misconceptions, scare mongering, lack of citation, and just bad writing, logic, and grammar, that it is, in my opinion, totally worthless.  If you’re going to disapprove of homeschooling and attempt to persuade someone that it’s a bad idea, this is not the article to use.

I first heard about it on Figlet’s blog.

Then I read about it on Bastardette.

And reading some comments here and there, I found this at Heart, Mind, and Seoul.

The gist, for those who don’t want to follow the links, is that someone put up a website purporting to be an adoption agency where lucky adopters who need organ donations can get two, two, two! for the price of one:  An adorable child (or baby or teen) specifically type-matched to be an organ donor.  Or you could even use the kids for sexual purposes (never said right out loud, but implied).

As Bastardette says, it’s satire.  I recognized this almost as soon as I started reading the intro.

And it’s thorough, complete:  it includes a child listing, it includes adoption prices, it includes "testimonials" from satisfied parents.

And it’s appeared on Snopes and been debunked pretty quickly as a hoax (what a surprise).

But, of course, some people take it seriously, so it was the brunt of horrified "OMG!  Have you seen this horrible, horrible website!" comments on a variety of adoption lists and sites.  I will admit that the horror came from those who thought it was real and those who didn’t but thought it was Not Funny At All.

Two viewpoints.  Both having their points.  Two viewpoints, what is more, that are held by bloggers and posters who I actually find interesting, intelligent, respectful.  So, what to do, what to do?  Do I stand by my original POV, that of chortling in dismay at the black humor and poking at various shibboleths, the send-up of both the entire adoption industry and those who treat children as commodities, those who would put different prices on children based on their color?  I thought it was hilarious.  Dark, oh yes.  Blasting, oh yes.  Searing?  Oh yes.  Creepy?  Oh yes.  But hilarious.  This is the view of people like Figlet and Bastardette.  But horrible?  Bad?  Evil?  Not humorous at all?  People like HMS and Chicagomama (I think) stood on that side.  So I find myself torn, a bit.

The one objection that I truly agree with–once I thought it over–is that it uses real children’s pictures.  It didn’t occur to me at first; I figured they were stock pictures, but even so, perhaps that’s a step over the line.  The website could be done with children’s pictures from the back, or in the distance, or blurred by soft focus, and the "profiles" handled by not having pictures at all, with the complete justification that various countries don’t allow pictures.

But some objections?  They make me roll my eyes.  "Giving people ideas" about adopting children for sexual purposes?  "Giving people ideas"?!?!  Please.  Let me just say "Masha Allen".  (For those who don’t know, Masha Allen was adopted as a child from Russia by a single man who managed to spend years abusing her, videotaping the abuse, selling the videotapes, and more.)  There are plenty of sick, twisted people who already use adoption as a covert method of obtaining children for sexual purposes.

Then there was "oh, noes, people will come up to us in (insert country of choice) and ask us if we’re adopting for organs!".  Dudes.  Read about the rumors of the destination of internationally adopted children that run rampant in some countries–Russia, Guatemala, even China.  While I don’t know if anyone has ever actually done that (it would be most difficult to arrange, I would think!), the rumors swirl around, fly up, get denied, die down, and then pop up again all over again.  There’s not much to do about it except educating, over and over and over again–which people who have adopted have to do anyway.

It’s been sneered at as the work of someone with an ax to grind–either against organ donation or against adoption.  No…ya think so?

It "portrays children as commodities"–well, guess what?  They are, in many cases, around the world and here in the good ol’ U.S.A.

And the thing is:  There are adoption agencies that push the hard sell almost as much as this fake website does.  I have seen ads for children to be adopted from Russia where the child is described as "sweet, obedient, willing to help around the house"–profiles that make it pretty obvious the child is being pushed as a family helper, or a maid, rather than a beloved child.  There are agencies that are pushing for adoption from Vietnam whose Vietnamese facilitators went right back to the old, corrupt methods of obtaining children as soon as Vietnam re-opened for adoption after the prior corruption hiatus imposed by the U.S. immigration service.  There are agencies that still tell potential adoptive parents who are looking at China that it will take 12 months to get a referral–not telling the truth about the three to four-year wait until after the PAPs are signed up and well into the process (some obfuscating the wait until after the PAPs have their dossier completed and logged in with China’s central adoption authority).

There are agencies and facilitators that regularly pressure potential birthmothers into adoption.  There are crisis pregnancy centers that funnel girls into maternity homes and "counsel" them into adoption.  There are agencies that whisk pregnant women over state lines into states where the adoption laws favor the adoptive parents much more, and birth fathers have hardly any rights at all.  There are still, in this day and age, pregnant girls who are hidden away from "the neighbors" by their families, sent off to other cities to have their babies in secret, alone and unsupported, just to hand them over to adopters who have lied up and down and left and right about keeping the adoption open–until they get their hands on that baby.

All this website does is to distill and concentrate a whole slew of ethical issues with adoption and paste them into one fictitious bundle, guaranteed to raise hackles, make people swoon with horror, and maybe…just maybe…make some people think about some of the issues that surround adoption.

So, I guess, in the end, while I understand the objections some people have, I side squarely with those who find it a brilliant satire.  I won’t link to it, but if you’re interested, do a search on "medical adoptions".

Today, the 34th anniversary of the Roe v. Wade decision, is "Blogging for Choice" day.

Since it’s the 34th anniversary, we also were treated to a local newspaper’s OpEd from a community member who is against "forced abortions".

Well, whoop-de-do.  Guess what?  So am I!

This OpEd writer, in her discussion, decided to write up five murders where guys killed their pregnant girlfriends because they wouldn’t get an abortion.

I felt a certain amount of cognitive dissonance in that litany of brutality.

Because, y’see, murder isn’t choice.  And "pro-choice" means–of all outre notions–that the woman who is pregnant gets to choose whether she stays pregnant or not.  Legally.  The last I heard, murdering someone so that you get out of child-support payments for an unborn baby isn’t an abortion, nor was it legal.  The last I heard, murdering someone for any reason was pretty much illegal.  In other words, I found this lady’s arguments to be…somewhat irrelevant to the question of the legality or lack thereof of abortions.

I’ve never had an abortion; I certainly don’t expect to need one in the future.  But I have a dotter, and that dotter might find herself unexpectedly pregnant at a time when she’s not ready to be.  I don’t want her to have to drive five hundred miles to be able to get an abortion–legally.  I don’t want her to have to go to a backstreet doc to do it–illegally.  I don’t want to make her have an abortion, nor do I want to make her carry a child to term.  Because it won’t be my body, it won’t be my life–it’ll be hers.

I want her to be able to do it without some prurient conservatives saying that the only way she can get one is if she is a pure virgin set upon and raped.

I want her to be able to sit down, think it through, talk it over with boyfriend, friends, and–maybe–family, and decide–on her own–what she wants to do with her life, her future, her possible child.

And that’s why I’ll keep supporting choice.

Check out other bloggers who have "blogged for choice".

I’m trying to write a post–or multiple posts–about a variety of topics/issues that are on my mind this week, but every time I try to compose a paragraph, or start a mental outline of how to approach the post, my brain short-circuits.  Like a hamster on a wheel, or a car stuck on the ice, the ol’ brain just seems to keep spinning in circles.  So, rather than do anything substantive, I’ll just do some meandering.

First: my computer access has to be shared with my mom, as I have returned the work laptop to work.  ACK!  Then there’s the fact that we’ve been going hither and yon, visiting with folk and checking up on Great Grandma.  This means that my time on blogs and what-not has been severely curtailed.  Every time I pop into my Bloglines feed list (thereby having to log OmegaGranny out, which means she has to keep re-remembering her own log-in and password), there seem to be fifty kazillion new posts.  The end result is I’m tempted to hit the "mark all blogs read" button right now, and just glaze over.

We went off to the mall this a.m.; read OmegaGranny’s post on the subject.  I will merely say that the Hannah Montana wig was lusted after by the dotter.  The dotter has never seen Hannah Montana; her desire is fueled solely by her classmates’ and after-school cohorts’ discussion about how cool HM is.  That and the fact that HM has long straight blonde hair.

We met Singing Bird and the Bee for lunch out and playground playing and home socializing.  It was a lovely afternoon, and I am in love with the Bee.  The dotter is also in love with the Bee, so I expect to hear more about having a sister in the future.  I foolishly have told the dotter that I miss my little baby oh-so-much, and mentioned it once again today in the throes of Emme-Lu-lust; the end result is that the dotter decided that she should act like a baby, "Because you want a baby so much, Mommy!"  This is problematic:  I don’t want OmegaDotter to act like a baby–I want her to be herself.  And she’s just plain pestiferous when she uses baby-talk.  It is all, of course, in desire to make mommy happy, but ack!  This kid is so much fun right now, at this age, and I don’t want her to be a baby again, I want another little baby.

OmegaGranny has given me another new sun to grace the Alaska house.

Great Grandma was much better yesterday.  It made my spirits soar to have her crabbing about people whose children don’t mind, and sniffing at people who let their hair grow shaggy; it was like having her back to normal.  This evening, she wasn’t as peppy.  The dotter told OmegaGranny and me, in the car, "Great Grandma was okay tonight…not as good as last night, but much better than she was."  Fleeting glimpses of her future emotional maturity…

Yesterday, I took advantage of lovely sunny weather, and hauled the poor dotter all the way up Thumb Butte trail and back down again.  And she did it.  And there was hardly any complaining.  And when we got to the overlook at the top of the trail (not at the top of the butte–that requires rock climbing skills and a mom who won’t have her heart stop if the dotter’s hand slips), she looked out at the town and the never-ending view and sighed and said, "Oh, it’s so beautiful!"  Which made the coaxing required for the fourth fifth of the climb all worth while.

I’m trying to come up with a discussion of RAD (reactive attachment disorder), how it is different than any other horrible chronic illness, adoption disruptions, how biological parents are not all paragons of perfection who never relinquish their children (as if anything like an adoption disruption is something that never, ever happens with biological children), and how having a family member turn your life into such misery that simply turning down your street to go the last block or two home makes you feel like you might as well just cut your throat might be similar to how it feels to be dealing with a child with RAD, but, like I said, my brain isn’t working well and it may have to wait for days.  Maybe weeks.  We’ll see.

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I found it first on Twice the Rice.  Then PAGent posted about it.  Then Figlet.

The gist:  a diplomat and his wife, while living in Korea, adopt a 4-month-old little girl (and choose, of all stereotypical names, "Jade" for her name).  When the girl is 3, they move to Hong Kong.  At that point, they have two biological children.  At age 7, they decide to abandon their child to the social welfare system in Hong Kong, apparently citing "culture shock" or "inability to integrate into our lifestyle" or "problem with our foods" or "inability to integrate into our family", depending on which story you read.  Oh, yes, and then there’s the fact that she hasn’t been made a citizen of the diplomat’s country, or of Hong Kong, so she’s still a Korean citizen–but she doesn’t speak Korean–but she’ll probably have to go back to Korea in order to be legally adopted out again.

Dudes, OmegaDotter is almost six.

I simply cannot imagine taking her by the hand, taking her to Catholic Social Services or the county borough welfare system, and saying, "Eh…she’s too much for us.  She doesn’t like to eat the same things we do.  And, geez, she still won’t sleep in her own bedroom, and does the Foot Thing, and bashes against us as a sign of love, and we can’t take it any more.  Find her another home."

I find myself desperately hoping that there’s more to this story, that this couple aren’t as clueless and obnoxious as it seems.  That the child was threatening their smaller children.  That she had RAD and this is the end of a years-long struggle.  Or something.  That the "she doesn’t fit into their lifestyle" commentary was made by a grumpy social worker without a clue, rather than coming from the mouths of the adoptive parents.

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There.  Is it so damned hard to say?!

No.

It’s not.

Jen, over at MimiBoo, mentions, towards the end of her post on anxious attachment, a discussion on a list she’s on about “what do you call your child’s birthmother?”  Much to my dismay (and Jen’s), the “tummy lady” term is still being used, as in “you grew in her tummy, so she’s your tummy lady”.

Oy!

(Aside from the objectification of the birthmother that the phrase embodies, I can’t stand the concept of teaching that pregnancy means “coming from someone’s tummy”.  It’s my own hang-up, and poor OmegaDotter will probably complain to her therapist when she’s 30 that her mother kept telling her how babies grow in uteruses whenever she tried the “I grew in her tummy” statement.)

In this house, we call our child’s birthmother ”your mommy in China”.  Or “your Chinese mommy”.  Or, “your birthmother”.  And it’s “your daddy in China”, and “your other grandparents, who you have never met”.

I made damned sure those words would come easy to me by the time the dotter really needed to talk about such concepts.  I practiced telling her them from the day we brought her home.  Maybe the first time or two it was difficult.  But as a result, these days we have a dotter who feels quite safe in asking questions about her birthmother while we’re eating dinner, and let me tell you, that’s mighty damned important to me.

A helluva lot more important than reserving the Sacred Word “mommy” or “mother” for my use alone.

The “Tummy lady” term has repulsed me since the day I heard that Rosie O’Donnell was using that as her term for birthmother to her adopted children.  It wasn’t because it was being used by Rosie (har!), it was because it seemed to be–and still does seem to be–a way of deliberately distancing yourself and your child from her family of birth, a way of giving lipservice to the idea of discussing birthfamily without having to actually deal with the emotional reality.  OmegaDad, when I discussed it with him in bed last night, wrinkled his nose at the phrase and called it “incredibly impersonal”.

Of course, I have to hold my scorn towards people who use that term in check right now–because I have no idea what I’ll be like if OmegaDotter actually finds her birthmother.  Here and now, the main reaction I have to terms like “tummy lady” is:  Being comfortable with the term, the idea, of “birthmother” is not about me.  It’s about my dotter.  It’s not my life that was yanked about without my consent–it’s hers.  And if feeling comfortable enough to talk about her birth family while her mouth is full of cheesy pasta helps her, then that’s what counts.

Today’s saddest Google hit on my blog:

How can I refinance when my house has lost so much value?

That one simple question has so much backstory, and that story is being repeated over and over and over again across the country.

Anyway, son, my answer is:  Don’t ask me.  Don’t ask blogs.  Don’t ask Google.  Ask a mortgage company.  Ask a consumer credit repair organization (and make sure it’s an organization, not a scam).

The housing market has well and truly tanked.  Housing sales are off by 50% year-over-year in parts of California, a drop that hasn’t been seen since they started keeping track of such things.  Foreclosures are skyrocketing.  In areas where people are stubbornly keeping to their original house price, sales are totally stagnant.  The Fed is rumored to be looking at dropping the interest rate.  A consortium of (scared witless) banks has gotten together to create a fund to save “structured inventment vehicles”, which are being hammered by the sub-prime mortgage mess.

And the DJIA, after dipping a toe into record territory, has slid backwards this week.

So, no, son, don’t ask me how to refinance now that housing prices are beginning to drop.  I’m sorry.  I have sympathy, I really do, but at the same time, I really don’t–if you’re in a mortgage mess, you need to take a lesson from this:  read your damned mortgage terms before you sign the paper.  And think looooong and hard before you agree to borrow hundreds of thousands of dollars at some un-predetermined interest rate, gambling on your house’s value to keep rising.

It just doesn’t work that way.

Sorry.

Right now, the “No, I wouldn’t”s are in the lead.  The tally is OmegaDad, EzFez, Margaret and Theresa, all of whom essentially say “Why?  It’s just another thing I would worry about!”

I do like Theresa’s idea of “just feed me ice cream and gummi bears!”

The “Yes, I would want to know”s either have a family history of Alzheimer’s or a deep-seated need for control.  ;)  Del says while he might use it to prepare, he might just blow his retirement savings on fast women and booze.  Sister Carrie doesn’t quite put it like that, but says she wants to enjoy while she can, as does Kat.

I’m squarely in the middle on this one.  On the one hand, Medical Science Is Doing Amazing Things These Days.  (Hear that plummy announcer’s voice?  I swear I have Marlin Perkins’ voice forever engraved on my mind–pseudo Alzheimer’s aside.  “As the sun sets on the Serengeti, my intrepid assistant Jim is dangling from a rope in front of a hungry lion…”)

Anyway, Amazing Things.  The point being that, perhaps, sometime soon, they’ll come up with drugs or therapies or a brain-artery Roto-rooter that scrubs the plaque away, and Alzheimer’s will no longer be the soul-sucking personality destroyer that it is now.

In which case, hell, yeah, I’d like to know ahead of time, so that I can trot myself down to the local medico and say, “Gimme drugs!”  (Or “Gimme that Roto-rooter; I’ll do it myself!”)

On the other hand, I have the experience of OmegaBro’s maternal family to scare me silly.  Aunt J. (OmegaBro’s mom, dad’s first wife) had an ongoing edgy relationship with her own mother, with a hefty thread of resentment coloring everything.  And then her mother started the downward spiral that is Alzheimer’s.  She got tossed out of the assisted living home–either because she had become so nasty and bitchy that no-one wanted anything to do with her or because she kept forgetting that she had put a pot of water on to boil for tea.  Then she lived with Aunt J., who had to cope with a slew of emotions based on obligation, resentment, tainted love…

Of course, to me, L. was a lovely lady, but I still remember the first year she lived with Aunt J., when, at Christmastime, over the course of five hours she asked the same set of questions five or six times.  It was my first experience with Alzheimer’s, and made me incredibly sad, because L. was a vivid, vivacious, witty, proud and self-sufficient lady, or had been.  And that was at the early stages; by the time she died she had been bedridden for a year, no longer recognized her daughter, her grandsons, or her great-grandsons, couldn’t clothe herself or take care of herself in any manner.

So, on the third hand, knowing ahead of time, coupled with my memories of L., would give me incredible incentive to investigate any and all possible treatments and rage, rage against the dying of the light.

But, on the fourth hand, I am prone to stewing, and, like all the “Hell, no!” folks above, it would be just yet another thing to stew about.

Okay, so far I’ve got four hands going here.  I am not an octopus.  But obviously I am not decisive on this issue.  Finding out early if I had cancer?  Hokie doke.  No problemo.  Let’s find out, let’s kick that cancer’s ass, and if it doesn’t work, well, we’ve fought the good fight.

Ditto with diabetes, heart disease…

But these are all physical.  It’s the mental and emotional capacities that get clobbered by Alzheimer’s.  It’s so easy to be strong (at least in theory) with physical problems, but not so easy with a shrinking fear of the Essential Me just…fading away.

Anyway, it’s an interesting mental exercise.  Part of my issue is that I have all these incredibly long-lived women in my mother’s side of the family…so I keep thinking it’s not possible that can last more than three generations, that the strong pioneer stock must be diluted by now, so there must be some catastrophe awaiting me as a legacy from my dad’s side, to put the kibosh on the long-lived Mills women.

In the meantime, given that the first of the Baby Boomers has just begun picking up her social security check, and there are millions more just like her following along, the field of gerontology and elder health is just going to be busy and booming for quite a while.  Since I am towards the end of the Baby Boomer cohort, it’s quite possible that all the research that is going to go on in the next twenty years will pay off with exceptional dividends for me…and those like me.

Onto less morbid topics tomorrow!

Right around the same time that my female hormones really went around the bend (aka “perimenopause”), I began to have a whole slew of side effects.  Hot flashes, a hell-on-wheels hair-trigger temper, a sex drive that tanked, and memory issues.

Each of these taken separately was a total pain in the ass.  Taken as a whole, it’s a personality disaster.  But, even so, most of it is stuff you can grit your teeth and grin and bear, or take various nostrums to deal with.

One aspect, however, really, really bothers me, and that’s the memory problems.

The thing that bothers me is not the fact that I have them–everyone has memory lapses, and walking into a room and suddenly realizing you can’t remember what you went in there for was nothing new and exciting to me, just something to take in stride.

What was disturbing, however, was the form the memory problems took.

I pride myself on my vocabulary.  My ability to flit from word to word.  My personal OED sitting at my neuron-tips, just waiting for the right shading of meaning to pull the proper word out of the mental dictionary.

The form my perimenopausal memory problems took–and still take–is one where very simple words elude me.  I’ll be talking, and suddenly, instead of, say, “oven”, my mind and mouth will say, “refrigerator”.  It’s always a somewhat related word, just slightly skewed.  And worse than that are the times where I simply cannot recall the word I want to use.  At all.  I find myself saying, “the place where all the food is kept cold” and waving my hand about as if to pull the proper word out of the ether.

The thing that scares me most in terms of getting old is Alzheimer’s disease. 

No-one in my family has had it, that I know of; we’ve been remarkably lucky in that as we age, we suffer from all sorts of icky age-related diseases but still retain full mental faculties.  Diabetes?  Yup.  Cancer?  Yup.  Heart disease?  Yup.  Alzheimer’s?  Nope.

Coming from a family that is so rich in folks with excellent mental abilities and a lively love of mental games and learning and puzzles…all of those things are prized possessions to me.  The thought of losing those abilities…the thought of having to depend on someone else because I was losing my own ability to think…these thoughts scare the snot out of me.  It’s my very deepest fear.

Researchers have recently come up with 16 protein markers in the bloodstream that serve as markers for Alzheimer’s, with a 90% success rate.

Would you want to know?

I read that story and my first thought was, “Hah!  Now I can get a test and find out if my specific type of memory lapse is a symptom of Something Worse!”

Then I thought again.  Firstly, of course, is the 90% success rate, which implies a 10% failure rate.  The articles I’ve read didn’t say whether that 10% was 10% false positives (”Why, Jane!  I am so sorry that seven years ago we diagnosed you with Alzheimer’s; it turns out you’re one of the lucky folk who actually won’t get it!”) or false negatives (”George, we’re sorry, but it turns out that we were wrong; you are developing Alzheimer’s very quickly.”). 

Secondly…well, secondly.  What would you live like if you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you were developing Alzheimer’s.  That even though nothing showed up currently in your personality, all the signposts were there indicating that every day, bit by bit, your brain was decaying, and after a certain point you would no longer exist as a person.  That in a few years, your loved ones would be dealing with you-as-a-burden, someone who no longer recognizes them and no longer loves them.

I don’t know.  I really don’t know.  I’d like to think that I’m the type to find out and face reality.  But at the same time, it’s so much easier to live with a “maybe” than with a “for sure”.

What would you do?  Would you want to know?

Long-time readers will remember when I spent some time painting stenciled horses onto the dotter’s bedroom wall.

In a small boost to OmegaMom’s motherly ego, the dotter, when informed we were moving and finally comprehending the concept, mourned leaving the horsie mural behind.  This, let me tell you, amazed me no end, since the horsie mural had been buried behind a pile of junque on top of her dresser for lo these many months.

So, in a fit of motherly insanity, I told her I would paint new horsies on the walls of her bedroom in the new house.

Now, a year-and-a-half ago, the dotter was mainly interested in the horsies.  Currently, however, she has requested an addition:

Princesses.

Oy!

Watch OmegaMom rummaging through the googlehood for coloring pages of princesses.

Watch OmegaMom find lots and lots of coloring pages of Cinderella, Belle, Sleeping Beauty, Jasmine, Snow White.  Just put the word “D1sney” in there, and you’ve got it.

Now.  When she demanded princesses, my immediate response was to say to myself, “Self, we are not going to be limited to D1sney princesses for the dotter’s bedroom wall.  Nosirree, we are going to find non-D1sney princesses.  Nary a D1sney princess will touch our sacred walls!”

Har.

The dotter scotched that idea by specifically requesting a D1sney princess or two.  So I will put one each, scattering in and amongst the horsies.

However, I also told myself, “Self, we are going to look for specifically ethnic princesses to supplement the ew-ick D1sney plague.  I am tired of rosy-cheeked Caucasian princesses with very little variation.  I also want to find some warrior-type princesses.”  Just call me Mama-PC.

So I began looking on the intertubes for ethnic maidens of one type or another dressed in flowing gear.

I found a native American maiden (yah, right, like that’s hard to do) that actually had Indian facial features.

I’ve got D1sney’s Mulan if I really want to use her, but would prefer a different Asian princess.  But when I searched on Asian princess, I found more than one.  If I looked beyond the first two or three pages.  And there’s always (gag) anime as a resource, though it strikes me as an Asian riff on big-eyed black velvet paintings from the 60s.

Hey.  Here’s another:  Try googling “African-American princess coloring page”.  Give it a whirl.

I’ll sit here and twiddle my thumbs while you do.

You back?  Did you find anything?

Okay, okay, anything aside from “Maddy”, D1sney’s token black princess?  Anything that looked like a real, live, black woman, not like a Caucasian cartoon character whose skin has been darkened?

I didn’t.

I looked really hard.

I can find lots of coloring pages for Martin Luther King, when searching with that phrase (web sites with coloring pages of him that also happen to have “princess” somewhere on the page).

Now, I know some of you are rolling your eyes at me, saying, “Sheesh, making a mountain out of a molehill!  What’s the big deal–you’re trying too hard to be PC!”  And an entirely separate group of you is rolling your eyes at me, saying, “And this is supposed to be news?!  What, are you blind, deaf, and dumb to realize how color-stratified popular culture is?!”

But, lordy, it’s just so depressing to me.  I know that my mom had a hard time finding strong women role models for me as a child; you’d think that along with all those strong women (yes, there are lots of strong women in pop culture), with all the emphasis on diversity and colorblindness and racial equality and blah blah blah over the past thirty, forty years, something as simple as “black princess coloring pages” would be easy to find on the intertubes.  Call me naive.

OmegaDad suggested I get a “Teach Yourself Cartooning” book and teach myself to draw (such touching confidence in my abilities!) and start doing my own to put on the web.

Anyway, anyone have any suggestions?  I’m cheap, so preferably free.

Those of us who have been involved in infertility treatments realize that it’s not a perfect science, but rather an imperfect ART (pun intended).

The docs can eyeball embryos and think they look good, transfer them, and the end result is a big fat negative on the pregnancy test.  They can toss in an “ugly” embryo or two, and voila, a plus sign.  They can transfer two embryos and the end result can be a triplet or quadruplet pregnancy.  They can transfer six embryos to an older potential mom who has tried multiple times, and end up with a singleton, or a negative.

The clients are presented with a multitude of forms to fill out.  What do you want to do with leftover sperm?  Leftover embryos?  How many embryos do you want to transfer?  Hold harmless agreements.  Pre-implantation genetic diagnosis?  And more.

Lots of those forms you fill out are to ensure that the procedure goes the way you want it.  Typically, you’re not supposed to change your mind at the last minute; while it seems simple, there are many people involved, and it’s a good idea to have the details spelled out first.

Which is why I’m not at all sympathetic to the lesbian couple in Australia who had IVF done, had signed a document saying they wanted one to two embryos transferred, and at the last minute, just prior to going under anesthetic for the transfer, said, “Hey!  We want only one embryo!” who are now suing because the end result was…gasp!…twins.

They want $400,000 to cover the expenses of raising the second child, including tuition for private school.  The lady who got preggers suffered from (gasp!) nausea…she needed to use a walking stick to walk in the later months of her pregnancy…she was perturbed because they had to buy a two-kid stroller…their love life was ruined because she has focused so much attention on two kids…

Oy.

I am rolling my eyes here.

Would this couple be suing if one embryo had been transferred and implanted, then split into identical twins?  Would the pregnant lady have been so utterly devasted by that result?

If the couple had wanted only one embryo transferred, they should have specified so from the get-go, in the forms.  A form was signed that said one to two embryos.  They had every opportunity to–at that time–specify the one-embryo transfer.  Why didn’t they?

Bah.

As someone on a board I frequent said, thank heavens the girls who resulted from this IVF aren’t identified, nor are the plaintiffs.  Imagine finding out at 16, googling your own name, that your parents sued for wrongful birth.

This whole thing seems like an attempt to milk some rich reproductive endocrinologist for some extra dollars, frankly.

Jack and Diane bought an acre of land and a house in Alaska in 1987.  They paid about $67,000.  Time went on, their kids grew up, the US went into a housing tizzy, and Jack and Diane looked at their house and realized they could now refinance and get at the equity…maybe fix things up, pay off some debt, buy a nice plasma TV, send the kids to college.

So in 2005 they refinanced using Lending Vine.  They paid off the first mortgage and had money to spend–they had borrowed $135,000, a fairly conservative amount, merely twice what they had bought for, and probably quite a bit less than what their house was worth (on paper) at the time.

Home values were skyrocketing.  People were getting 20% equity increase per year.  All was good.

They got themselves an interest-only adjustable rate mortgage.  Maybe they really looked at the details and decided that the way the housing market was, it was a sure thing that they could sell the house for way more than the mortgage or refinance for way more than the current mortgage when things got problematic.  Maybe they didn’t see the small print until they were signing, and figured it was going to be okay.

They fixed up the house.  They did some other things.

The interest rate on their mortgage changed in 2006 and their payments went up.  The interest rates went up again in 2007, and were probably going to go up again in 2008.

They sat down early in 2007 and looked at the bottom line.

The bottom line was that their mortgage, which was for $135,000 in 2005, was now for $145,000. 

Houses which were selling like hotcakes only a year ago were now sitting stagnant on the market.  Newly built homes in fancy subdivisions were sitting empty, and developers were slashing prices to reduce inventory.

Jack wanted to leave Alaska; he was tired of the winters and wanted to move to the Southwest.  And, no doubt, the increasing mortgage and the increasing mortgage payments weren’t helping.

So Jack and Diane decided to move.  After talking to some friends in the real estate business, and looking at the way the housing market was framing up to be for the year, they sadly decided to put their house of 20 years for sale for less than the going rate, and much less than it could have sold for two years ago.

Go while the going is good, eh?  Pay off that scary mortgage with the numbers increasing every time you turn around…

Names have been changed, some details are made up (such as motivation and when the interest rates went up–but the document indicated that the interest rate could go up the month after the mortgage was signed).  The IO/ARM and the increase in the mortgage balance are not made up–we saw them in the closing documents.

Folks, don’t do it.  Just Do.  Not.  Do.  It.  Jack and Diane lost $10,000, and they were some of the lucky ones–they didn’t lose their house, they ended up with some equity after all, they got out in time.  The Feds are busy changing their tune every week, it seems; first the housing downturn was no big deal, then it was going to be over with in a few months, one week it’s not going to impact the economy, the next week it’s going to cause a recession…

There are states where 60% of the mortgages written up in the last two years are zero-down IO/ARMs.  There are states where the foreclosure rate is doubling.  It’s a scary scenario. 

Our house in Small Mountain University Town has lost 24% of its value in the past year and a half, according to Zillow, and SMUT is an area where housing is still going fairly strongly.  What if we had refinanced then for what our house was (supposedly) valued at?

Things to think about.

Dear OmegaMom:  I have a blog and want to increase traffic to my site.  What should I do?  Signed, Sorta Lonely

Dear Sorta Lonely:  The best possible thing you could do is write a post about a very contentious issue related to two bloggers with lots of traffic.  If you’re very lucky, you’ll see your hits turbo-charged, rocketing from 60 per day to more than 200!  You may even gain new readers!  Signed, OmegaMom

Har.

Ahem.  My previous post seems to have lured a bunch of folks over, and gotten a certain amount of approval from some people.  (OmegaMom waves “Hi!” to all the visitors.)

There were a lot of things left out from the prior post.

For instance, I have firmly come down on the side of “homestudies are really, really good, and if I were Queen Of The World, every single person who had a chance to get pregnant or impregnate someone would have to go through a homestudy.”  (Let’s just set aside the fact that I’m not Queen of The World–what a shame!, and the incredible violation of civil liberties that I am contemplating there.)

For another:  I firmly believe that when someone gives you custody of a child–whether directly by a birthmother, or via an agency or orphanage–you’ve been given a precious trust.  Anyone who is in charge of deciding these things needs to examine the people who come along wanting to adopt, to be sure that they’re not really seeing it as a substitute for a “real” baby.  I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again:  If I were forced to relinquish my darlin’ dotter, you can be damned sure I’d want whoever was in line to adopt her had been examined with a bloody microscope.

The adoption process is not meant as a torture chamber.  It’s not aimed at making people feel unworthy from the very start.  It’s a simple attempt to try to ensure that the people who do adopt are, in general, Nice People.  It’s not about the potential adoptive parents, see–it’s about ensuring a relatively good home life for any child who is going to be adopted.

Thirdly:  There are people who adopt who just plain shouldn’t.  The process isn’t perfect.  There are overworked or just incompetent social workers.  There are harried, desperate birthmothers.  There are really sickening people who deliberately hide the facts and make up a nice looking facade so they can adopt a child to do…things…to him or her (read up on the case of Masha Allen).

In a perfect world, everyone who wanted a child could have one biologically, and everyone who had a child would be in a position to raise him/her and want to raise him/her.  But it’s not a perfect world, and there are children who need homes. 

Singing Bird posted an interesting comment to my last post; she suggested we turn the process on its head, think of someone who couldn’t adopt “having to settle” for IVF.  How odd many people would think that!  I think she means it as an intellectual exercise for people who consider adoption “settling”…

At one time, I did consider adoption “settling”.  But I moved on, and learned, and became committed to the idea, and met my lovely dotter who is our pride and joy.  Having never had a biological child, I can’t objectively rebut the “you can’t love an adopted child as much as a biological child” idea.  But I love her with all my heart, would run in front of a speeding car to knock her out of the way, and have lovingly dealt with puke and poop and pee and snot and other ew-icky bodily fluids without batting an eyelash.  Subjectively, the idea of loving a child any more than this is kind of scary, because my heart is already full to bursting as it is.

So.  Anyway.  Go congratulate Singing Bird on getting her Travel Approval, and welcome Johnny and family back home.

Technorati: Adoption, adoption issues, infertility

There’s been this kerfuffle in the adoption blog world, related to Julie’s post and the responses to it.  We had ChicagoMama blowing up…Figlet chiming in with “it’s not about you“…AmFam talking about the difference between loving and raising biological and adopted children…Lorrie chiming in with some pretty laidback commentary…then Julie posted some clarifications…and ChicagoMama posted some more thoughts, to which I posted a rather long comment…to which ChicagoMama responded.

A lot of drama.

In a nutshell:  Julie is thinking about adopting.  She’s still recuperating from a boatload of IVFs and IF treatment.  She’s still thinking about donor egg or surrogacy.  She’s got a lot of stuff to think about.  She felt that there was something wrong with her that she wasn’t feeling “joyful” or “joyous” about the prospect of adopting.  Somewhere in there, she tossed in the word “settling”, which upset a bunch of adopters.  Then the comments came along, and there were people telling stories of Adoptions Gone Bad, some folks saying they wondered if you could love an adopted child as much as a biological child, some folks saying they adopted joyously right from the start, some folks saying they, too, were ambivalent at first but that the ambivalence passed.

Of course, the “can you love an adopted child as much as you’d love a biological child” trope really got under the skin of many adopters, too.

I sort of sat on the sidelines, reading and commenting here and there.  I didn’t get upset at Julie’s post, because…well, that was me six years ago.  I didn’t get too upset at some of the comments because…well, I’ve been living, breathing, thinking adoption to death since we started the process.  I have, as it were, a Ph.D. in adoption issues, as do many of my more favorite reads in Blogistan (ChicagoMama, Figlet, AmFam, Mrs. Figby, MortimersMom).  We’re all drenched in research into the ins and outs of adoption, transracial families, attachment issues, it’s-for-the-children-not-for-you, blah-de-blah-de-blah.  But if you had asked me six years ago, while I was still in the throes of IF “treatment”…I really wouldn’t have understood those things.  Adoption wasn’t joyous to me.  I was actively resisting it, and feeling very whiny, tantrummy, and miserable in general about my reproductive facilities (or lack thereof), my femininity, my role as a woman in human society.

It hurt.  Damn, but it hurt.  And I had been in that hurt for so many years that it had become a way of life.

Bitter, angry, jealous, hostile–that was me.

Of course it’s not a good outlook on the world.  But even as you know you’re being self-absorbed to the max, you can’t break out of it.

Until somehow, somewhere, somewhen there’s an emotional straw that breaks the camel’s back.  Something that makes you say:  Stop.  I’ve had it.  I can’t take this any more.

Some people never reach that point–they stay mired in the misery, year after year after year, trying each new variation on infertility “treatments”, throwing good money after bad, trapped.

Some people reach that point early on–they do a round of Clomid or two, say “To hell with it!” and either decide to just live life without children or move on to adoption.

Some people move on to adoption even while they’re still trapped in the misery.

And when you start thinking about adoption, you realize that now, in addition to all the poking and prodding you’ve had medically, you’re going to be poked and prodded psychologically.  Measured.  Judged.  But out there in the world there are shitloads of people who pop out babies left and right, and who don’t realize what a gift they’ve been given.  So many of them beat them.  So many of them neglect them.  And then there are the ones who sell them for a hit of whatever the latest drug is.  None of them are being measured, or judged, until it’s too late.

So, yeah, you get angry and bitter about that, too.

Look.  It’s not pretty, but it’s human. 

And during the process…somewhere along the line, where you started thinking about adoption as a “maybe”…suddenly, it becomes a hopeful “maybe”.  A little-itty-bitty-sliver-of-joy type ”maybe”.

And if you’re like me, you’ll start researching the hell out of stuff, and discover that there are real people on the other side of the equation, and a real little person whose life is being shifted around without its control.

Some people never do that.  They just decide to adopt, and wham bam thankyew ma’am end up with a child, get on with life, and get flummoxed when the child has issues that they have to deal with.  Or they ignore the issues.  Or don’t even realize there are issues.

Some people don’t experience the joy.  They keep mourning that biological tie.  These people are the ones who should be kept out of adopting–but it doesn’t always happen.  In general, though, folks who feel like that never make the step into adoption, which is good:  if you feel like you can’t love an adopted child like a biological child, then you damn well shouldn’t be adopting.

Some people have a moment of clarity when suddenly that little-itty-bitty-sliver-of-joy turns into a deluge, an omigod-they’re-giving-me-a-baby! joy.  I remember that time so well…it was such a blessed relief to be healing.

One of my earliest posts on this blog–my second, in fact–was about this transition from fear, misery, pain, into joy; it was prompted by one of Karen’s (Naked Ovary) posts at that time.  At the time, she had not yet moved into the joy–she was still unsure, still pained by other people’s babies, still in the grips of that IF misery.  But her viewpoint totally changed as she got closer and closer to meeting her baby…and afterwards, she was as thrilled and absorbed as any new mother could possibly be. 

The point is that there are people who start the adoption process with fear, trepidation, irritation with the process itself.  Some of those people will pass through that stage, and move on, learn a great deal about adoption, and look back wondering what the big deal was about.  Anyone who is thinking out loud about it the way that Julie is, as seriously and deeply as Julie is, is one of those people who, if they proceed onto adoption, will be that type of person.  And if Julie decides, after thinking about it seriously and deeply, that adoption isn’t for them, that’s a Good Thing, too.

It’s the thinking that’s good.  It’s certainly much better than just gaily deciding one day, “Oh, well, I guess we’ll ‘just adopt’!”, glossing over the personal emotional issues related to the transition from self-absorbed IF “treatment” to adopting parent, and ignoring all the possible ramifications.

Technorati: adoption, adoption issues, thinking about adoption

If OmegaDad and I had actually been able to start a second adoption from China, we would probably have been DTC in, oh, February 2006 or March 2006. That was shortly after the referral train slammed on the brakes, and the wait to referral was suddenly stretching from a breezy 7 months to, at that time, 12 months.

No one could ever have imagined a time when it looked like it was going to take three years from LID (log-in date) to referral. But right now, with the latest batch of referrals covering a grand total of two days, people who were LID in February or March of 2006 are now looking at a referral in February or March of 2008, and people logged in since then are looking at waits stretching out even longer.

Of course, the nature of international adoption being what it is, that could change in an instant.

I am not here to tell those folks who were hoping to get a referral this time, only to be told “Nope, sorry,” anything about how the wait vanishes once you have your referral in hand.

I’m not going to talk about “In His own sweet time,” or “This was meant to be,” or “This just means your destined child isn’t ready for you yet,” or “Maybe this is God’s way of telling you to do x, y, or z instead.”

Because I know just how horribly infuriating all of those are.

I especially know how frustrating and infuriating it is to be venting about it and have well-meaning friends say this kind of thing in response. They mean well, but it’s dismissive and condescending.

The right response is: “I’m sorry. The wait sucks. I’m sorry it’s taking so long. You must be feeling so upset and frustrated and worried right now. I’m here to listen.”

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On to other adoption stuff…You may think that sentiments like “you never know what you’re going to get when you adopt,” or “Often, these kids are physically ill or weak, or mentally unwell,” or “Even if a kid is perfectly normal, somehow adopted kids tend to just not turn out ‘right.’” are all things of the past.

Aren’t we beyond that? Doesn’t everyone have experience with at least a few adopted kids who grow up to be happy, successful adults who just happen to have been adopted? And doesn’t everyone have at least the sense to realize that making sweeping generalizations about any group of people is pretty silly, because it doesn’t take long to find just one exception…at which point, the sweeping generalization is rendered moot?

Ah, well. I am here to tell all of my readers that there are people who will string all three of those sentences together, plus a few more, and then defend it when called. And add on the ever-lovely, “You can’t love an adopted child like a biological child”! (For those who think I’m pretty blase about whatsername, Alice Walker’s daughter, saying just about the same thing, I have to say that she was careful to make it “I couldn’t love an adopted child like a biological child.” The one is an admission of a deficiency within oneself. The other is, as I said, a sweeping generalization about the entire human race.)

Be prepared!

(And, no, I’m not going to link to it. I’ve already said my say there, and I just want to vent here.)

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Okay, a quick clarification: I am not talking about Julie’s post. I am talking about a post at ParentDish, and actually, it’s not the post I’m talking about, but the very first comment responding to the post.About Julie’s post. Hmm. While I don’t like the “settling” comment (really!), I have to ask: Am I alone in having started off very ambivalent about adoption? I’m so very glad that the local adoption agency made us wait until we had been married three years, because (a) it moved us in the direction of adopting from China (because the Chinese didn’t care how long we had been married), and (b) that extra year between that sentence from the local agency and the official start of our adoption process was needed by *ME*, so I could take the time to grieve my dream-baby, take a year off from testing and tryouts and shooting up meds, and shift my dreams in another direction, towards my darling dotter.

I do think Julie needs to wait, to process some of those feelings. Finish off the IVFs, close off that process, say, “That’s done. Time to heal. Time to do other stuff for a while.” Other stuff being…just live life. Enjoy her son. Then, at the end of that time, then is the time to examine adoption again.

Something for people to remember: “Second choice” doesn’t mean “second best”. Our dotter was our “second choice”. She is in no way “second best”.

Technorati: Adoption, The Wait, prejudice

“While we love Baby Jessica as our own, we are reminded of this terrible mistake each and every time we look at her.”

A couple is suing a fertility clinic for using the wrong sperm in their successful IVF treatment.

The “terrible mistake” is obvious because the child is…well…”darker” than her parents.

I can understand being upset at getting the “wrong sperm”.  Usually, when you’re deep in the throes of IF treatment, you’re stuck on that unique-and-beautiful-mix of you and your spouse.

But…dayum…”terrible mistake”?

They look at their daughter and think “terrible mistake”?

Or, more likely, they let their lawyer put those words down on paper to make it a better case, rather than actually thinking it each time they look at her.  I hope.

Let’s hope they win enough money to pay for Jessica’s therapy when she’s an angst-filled teen who knows that everyone in the world knows that her parents thought she was the result of a “terrible mistake”.

Maybe fertility clinics should just start putting a “you git what you git and you don’t throw a fit” clause into their service contracts…

Technorati: IVF