this woman’s work

You are browsing the archives from 2003 November.

A couple of the comments to a recent entry made me think that some people were missing what I thought was the point of the article about the stupid things people say to adoptive parents.

I personally wouldn’t respond with any of the author’s tongue-in-cheek responses but I liked reading them. Take this real life comment for example: “How do you know the birthmom hasn’t lied about her drug history?” Frankly I’m tired of answering it. I wouldn’t mind it in the context of an adoption discussion by someone truly curious but I resent it when it’s said in response to a happy announcement. That’s what makes it a stupid thing to say: context.

Same goes for the tried and true (and inevitable) “if you adopt you will get pregnant” comment in all of its many forms. Saying that to someone outside of a conversation about family planning is, in my opinion, inappropriate. I have no problem answering it when close friends say, “How would you handle an unexpected pregnancy now?” or even “Do you still want to get pregnant?” But when people respond to an update on our adoption journey with a beaming, “Just you wait! Now you’ll get pregnant!” I want to slap them. So sue me for not always feeling patient and informative.

I’ll tell you something, I’m the not-so-proud owner of a 7-miscarriage personal history and I still don’t know what to say to someone who has had a miscarriage. I still dread saying the wrong thing but to say nothing at all, well, that’s just as bad. So I say, “I’m sorry.” And when people tell me that they’re going to be a mother — by adoption or by birth, I say, “Congratulations!”

No need for anxiety, you can’t go wrong with those two comments.

Every night since we got our birthmom match, I lie down to go to sleep and my right eyebrow starts twitching. Twitch twitch twitch. Thanks to my wayward eyebrow, I’m not sleeping well. And due to some schedule shifting of Brett’s, I’m also not getting my morning work-outs. The combination is a vile one.

We will be meeting with T. (birthmom) next Wednesday, which is more quickly than I anticipated. The part of my brain that’s been so happy these past couple of days is now very, very tired. It’s a little like the way your stomach starts to hurt from laughing so hard.

Brett’s extended family (his two brothers and their partners) are coming into town for Christmas, which is great but I’m already wishing it was maybe next year that they were showing up. Either we will have a baby and will be physically exhausted, or we will be waiting for a baby and will be emotionally exhausted, or will have discovered that this is not our baby, in which case we will be depressed.

It reminds me a little of when we went to Oregon for Brett’s little brother’s wedding. I was pregnant at the start of the trip and began to miscarry the day after the wedding. It was extremely hard to live up to what I felt was my family duty then and I felt very selfish because I really was wishing that maybe these events didn’t have to coincide. Even now when the family sits around to reminisce about the wedding, it can be hard to keep my mouth shut because I’m always thinking, “Oh yes, I was pregnant in this picture.”

I don’t think Christmas will be so bad though. For one I won’t be concerned about snatching the spotlight from someone, which is the reason we didn’t say anything during the wedding. Also, everyone knows what’s going on and they’re likely to be very understanding if I need to go sit alone in a dark corner at any time during the festivities.

No wonder my eyebrow is twitching.

Here’s a nice column about the stupid things people say to adoptive parents. Some of these we’ve already heard, most commonly the one about how now we’ll get pregnant. Here’s one of the author’s suggested responses to “It is so nice of you to adopt children.”

Logical response: “And it is even nicer of YOU to raise those kids of YOURS. I don’t know how you do it! Or why you do it. You’re just a saint.”

Gotta love that!

Find it here!

I’m just so damn happy today! It was getting the confirmation from the social worker about which precall this was. Everyone has been asking me if getting matched is like finding out that we’re pregnant. The answer is no, it originally wasn’t. But today I feel pregnant, i.e., expectant. Worried about her keeping the baby, of course, but I must say that it isn’t nearly as horribly painful as being worried about miscarriage. All in all, I’d say this was easier than when we found out I was pregnant with Noah. I was so worried with Noah and with this adoption, I just know it will have a happy ending whether it’s around Christmas with this baby or sometime next year with another. But I hope it’s with this particular baby, with whom I am already kinda crazy in love.

Some random interesting info from our social worker:

–They have had potential adoptive parents try to custom order babies. “We want one with dark eyes and dark hair, preferably a boy.” They have also had adoptive parents turn down potential matches for reasons unrelated to potential health issues. For example, one man always asked whether or not the birthmom was attractive. “The funny thing,” she told me. ” Was that he wasn’t attractive at all.” Besides, we both agreed, babies are cute period, no matter how ugly their parents might be. And people, when you get to know them, are all pretty nice looking, too. The social worker said that when adoptive parents get this picky, they sit down with them and talk about whether or not they’re ready to adopt. “I figure if you’re that picky,” she said, “You don’t want a baby after all. Or you don’t understand what it means to have one.”

–Since we will potentially have two boys, we would be allowed to enter the pool next time and ask specifically for a girl. We might do that. Then again, we might not. It’s certainly a nice option to have. I know this is a little ironic coming right after the previous paragraph.

–Many of the birthmoms have other children. This surprised me but one of the social workers explained at our training that women with children are aware of how much work a baby really is. They don’t have romantic delusions about what parenting is like and they already know whether or not they will get help from their friends and family. Of the five or six birthmoms we’ve been told about, I think that only one of them wasn’t parenting other children. I hope that whatever relationship we build with a birthmom would somehow include her other children.

Brett is trying to get next Wednesday off so we can meet T. for lunch. I need to make a little photo album to bring, (which she can keep if she wants to take it back to show anyone else in her family).

I have also penciled in time for a complete clothes crisis that morning. It is absolutely urgent that I figure out what in my wardrobe conveys, “I am so sympathetic to this incredibly difficult decision ahead of you but also would be a great mom to your child should you choose to place him with us because I am patient, kind and funny.” Does a lilac skirt say, “Warm maternal?” Or does it say, “I foolishly wear pastel-colored clothing because I haven’t lived with a sticky-fingered toddler in a long time and am ill-prepared to parent your baby”?

I think this is enormously fun. If she does place with us, what a great story we will have for our baby!! If she doesn’t, we will be better prepared for next time and I can add this to my list of fascinating experiences. How many people get to do this? You know, meet up with the mother of their potential child? Confront issues of what it is to be a parent head on? See, this is when I start feeling bad for fertile-folk. Really. I think adoption is such a lovely, many textured, challenging life path and I’m a little smug about getting to do it.

You know what the secret to happiness is? Deciding that whatever course you’re on is better than any other course there is. I do still look kind of longingly to people with the predictable family that I wanted but I also think they should be looking with longing at me.

I woke up with a great idea for a query but put off writing it until I’d brushed my teeth and had a quick breakfast. It disappeared somewhere between spitting out my toothpaste and pouring milk on my raisin bran. Rats.

Noah and Brett (and my mother) have out-voted me on Simon as the #1 boy’s name. If I tell you the boy’s name they’ve picked (and I like it, too, just not quite as much as I’ve been liking Simon), you have to promise me that you will refrain from making negative commentary. Is that a deal? Ok, our boy’s name appears to be…
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I just got off the phone with the agency and the birthmom who chose us is having a …
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For some reason I almost passed out when I was working out today. I got out of one of the leg machines (the manager has named it the “J Lo”) because I realized I was getting dizzy. I paced around and then went in back to lie down and try not to throw up. The last time I felt like that, I had just donated blood and then ran up three flights of stairs because I was late for class. (

It’s high time I introduced this month’s featured author. Unfortunately, there’s not much in English about her on the web so I have no links for you other than the reading group guide linked below.

I discovered Marianne Fredricksson by accident at Half-Price Books in the clearance section. Finding unexpected treasures like this is hands down the best thing about having a self-imposed limit of not more than $2 for any book not research related (for homeschooling). Anyway, the cover of Simon’s Family is unbelievably cheesy (check out the link) but I got it because the subtitle was “a novel of mother’s and sons” and also because Simon is the #1 name on my boy’s list. (Brett has a different #1 but I’m working on him.) For a buck, I figured it was worth the risk. I never would have bought it had I seen it full-price because sometimes with a cover this godawful, it’s hard to remember the old adage about not judging a book by it.

Well, clearly this book was meant to drop into my hands because not only is it about mothers and sons, it’s also about adoption and Judaism and it was thought-provoking, moving, and an absolutely great read. I’ve since read one of her other novels and am on a hunt for the third one translated into English (interlibrary loan won’t do it; I must own it). Her style reminds me of an impressive art house chick flicks such as Antonia’s Line only in book form and less silly. And she also reminds me a little of Milan Kundera.

I think that BabyBaby will have an annoucement to post soon!!!

I have a lot to do today and am hoping that at some point I actually get the urge to do them. What I would like to do is sit in a chair and nurse this headache I’ve got and listen to nice music and sip decaf (I’m drinking caffeine only once on weekends these days). Since I’m fantasizing, I will also fantasize a day off for Brett to take Noah out and romp him hard because Noah seems to have some excess energy today. Right now he’s supposed to be folding his clean laundry but what he’s done is dump it all out on the bed and now he’s wrestling it. He loves to do this and as long as he ends up getting his things put away, it’s all fine by me. I can hear him singing as he rolls around on the bed, tangled up in clean shirts and underwear.

He’s been channeling Veruca Salt lately and trying, “If you don’t do XYZ, I’m going to SCREAM!!!” He also got hold of the Sunday paper circulars and is letting his greed run rampant for his Christmas list. I feel bad for him because this will be the year that the magic of opening presents likely won’t be enough to make him forget all the ways that Santa didn’t come through.

He’ll be 7 at the end of January and he’s lost two teeth. It seems more and more as if he’s stepping into the real world and leaving behind a little bit of his magic. He’s starting to worry about real things like robbers breaking in and then he and his best friend have begun to play war. He drew a picture yesterday at his theater workshop of a war between the King of the Bats and the King of the Dogs. The King of the Dogs is standing in front of one of his bloody, fallen men and screaming, “NO!” as he brings his sword down on the grinning King of Bats. It neatly encapsulates the horror, that’s for sure.

His best friend is a Waldorf/Enki homeschooler the very same age whose parents have done a better job than I have of shielding their son from pop culture horrors. For a long time Noah and his friend were content to be lions and eagles and other proud animals. Now they want weapons and they draw bloody illustrations. I’m glad he has a friend who is just as gentle, thoughtful and kind to play these kinds of ugly games with him. They have a very respectful, loving relationship with each other and I know that neither of them is going to show up with a gameboy or some other awful nonsense. This is all out of their own heads and they must need to explore it or they wouldn’t be doing it. Still, watching them run around battling each other is a bit unnerving. At least his friend’s 3-year old sister is always close by to be the battlefield doctor and stitch them back up.