For my Project 365, I've been trying to take a few more videos. But I'm too incompetent to sort out the order properly, so they're getting their own post.
Six seconds to show you that the next Tchaikovsky does NOT live at my house
Nine seconds of the view from my seat in the car. He's about to outgrow this car seat, and I can't imagine the next one will give me such a cute cyclops view.
Baby L learning to crawl and squeak. If you've only got time for one, this is the one.
Some people are just insanely good with children. Our friend Abi is one of these people. Watch her tickle the babies! (If you've only got time for two, this is the other one. And incidentally, it was her feet in the previous video).
Sunday, 18 July 2010
Friday, 16 July 2010
Birthday Hypocrisy
Two years ago, I turned 29. And I longed for a baby.
Then last year, I turned 30. And still, I longed for a baby.
Tomorrow, I turn 31. And this year, I'm longing for a babysitter.
Hypocritical? Probably. But just for the day, I think I'm okay with it.
Then last year, I turned 30. And still, I longed for a baby.
Tomorrow, I turn 31. And this year, I'm longing for a babysitter.
Hypocritical? Probably. But just for the day, I think I'm okay with it.
Tuesday, 13 July 2010
Suddenly
Suddenly, it seems that the whole world is pregnant again. This year has been quiet, but it seems that the next one is going to be another festival of babies because last week, I was getting announcements at the rate of two per day. Not even exaggerating. And despite how happy I am mothering my babies (extremely happy) and how happy I am for my friends (happier than this, at long last) I'm surprised to find that the news can still really sting.
It's hard to work out why. Do I want to be pregnant at the moment? I honestly think that the answer is no. My medical stuff aside, even if I was guaranteed a live healthy baby at the end, I honestly think that the answer is no. Right now, adding that kind of chaos to this kind of chaos is not appealing. I think. Although I can't shake the rogue thought that it would be nice to at least have the choice.
Maybe it's to do with the babies growing up. They turn one this month, and I'm simultaneously elated and horrified. I can't believe how far they've come, physically. I can't believe how far we've all come in learning to understand each other. But I wanted a baby for so long, and then I had one (two!) and soon I won't. Stupid relentless unstoppable passage of time! I had hoped this year might be the exception to the laws of time and space, but it seems not, and I don't feel ready to leave their babyhood behind. We may decide to adopt again, and we may not. It's unclear. So we may have had our turn at cuddling squishy milky little babies; maybe that part of our life is over, and I can't help but feel a little sad about it. I know that dealing with that is hardly unique to adoption. Maybe every mother with growing-up children feels a pang when she hears about the next batch on their way. Maybe this is what leads women forty, fifty years on to accost young mothers in the supermarket and regale them with stories about their own days as a baby mother. Usually somewhere around the jam, for reasons unclear to me.
But I'm sure this isn't all of it. Because if I'm honest with myself, it's still particularly hard to hear about pregnancy successes of the formerly infertile. Together with my joy (real joy, finally) that dear friends are going to be mothers, I can't ignore a bit of disappointment that I'm crossing another person off my list as a potential real life adoption friend. There was a time, not so very long ago, that I thought it wouldn't really matter how our baby came to us - that the important thing was that we would belong to each other. And so I didn't think it would make any difference how my friends' children came to them, either. I knew that adoption loss was real, but I don't think I really faced up to the fact that it was lifelong. Because the further we go down the road as an adoptive family, the more and more and more I realise just how much we have all lost.
And yes - not just the children, us as parents too. It's all related, of course, and my losses mainly centre around lost ability to provide what I would like to give my children. It's a strange feeling to love two little people with all that I have, but to know that I can't give them a normal life with a normal family they can take for granted. To know that my life is absolutely unimaginable without them, but that the reverse is not true - that their life without me isn't just imaginable, it was absolutely real. To try to feel my way into giving them a proper family that doesn't try to pretend that their first family wasn't a proper family, too. I read the words of adult adoptees, and they change the way I think, and I am grateful. But sometimes I'm so aware of what I am not, to these children, that I feel unable to be what they need me to be without looking over my shoulder and making sure it is okay with every other triad member as well as our city's social services department.
I know it won't do them any favours if I hold them at arms length, emotionally, because these children do need mothering. I know it's a tragedy that their first mother couldn't be the one to do this, but in the end the job falls to me and I want to do it properly. But sometimes I feel like holding them at arms length, slightly away from me, is what I should be doing. If I show off the photos of my beautiful babies, sometimes I feel like I need to say at the end the author of this post does not wish in any way to minimise the loss and grief and pain of the children in these pictures. I know they look happy but we are already saving for therapy, okay? I feel so selfconscious about my love for them, sometimes. I scan what I've written above for signs of hopeless adoptive-parent entitlement, and yes, I can see that they are all there. I think of these babies as mine, feel personally proud of all their achievements, their lives are basically all about me and yes, being their mother makes me happy. Worst of all, I've talked about the fact that I've still got some of my own demons to face.
I would gladly do without this emotional complexity. I would gladly do without weighing every word. I wish I could give my babies an uncomplicated life. I wish I could give myself an uncomplicated life. I wish we could have an uncomplicated family. Somehow, magically, with exactly the same children, but joined by biology. And then I gasp at what I've wished for - I've just wished away their first parents! I've ignored their real adoption narrative and fantasised a new narrative with ME at the centre! I NEED TO BE PUNCHED IN THE FACE!
And so I think this is why I still reel a little when I hear about others managing to form their families in the normal way. Their families won't be better than ours. There's no way on this earth their children could possibly be cuter than ours. I could never, ever wish for any other babies than ours. But their experience of family sure is going to be different from ours. And sometimes it's hard not to wish that the four of us could have that too.
It's hard to work out why. Do I want to be pregnant at the moment? I honestly think that the answer is no. My medical stuff aside, even if I was guaranteed a live healthy baby at the end, I honestly think that the answer is no. Right now, adding that kind of chaos to this kind of chaos is not appealing. I think. Although I can't shake the rogue thought that it would be nice to at least have the choice.
Maybe it's to do with the babies growing up. They turn one this month, and I'm simultaneously elated and horrified. I can't believe how far they've come, physically. I can't believe how far we've all come in learning to understand each other. But I wanted a baby for so long, and then I had one (two!) and soon I won't. Stupid relentless unstoppable passage of time! I had hoped this year might be the exception to the laws of time and space, but it seems not, and I don't feel ready to leave their babyhood behind. We may decide to adopt again, and we may not. It's unclear. So we may have had our turn at cuddling squishy milky little babies; maybe that part of our life is over, and I can't help but feel a little sad about it. I know that dealing with that is hardly unique to adoption. Maybe every mother with growing-up children feels a pang when she hears about the next batch on their way. Maybe this is what leads women forty, fifty years on to accost young mothers in the supermarket and regale them with stories about their own days as a baby mother. Usually somewhere around the jam, for reasons unclear to me.
But I'm sure this isn't all of it. Because if I'm honest with myself, it's still particularly hard to hear about pregnancy successes of the formerly infertile. Together with my joy (real joy, finally) that dear friends are going to be mothers, I can't ignore a bit of disappointment that I'm crossing another person off my list as a potential real life adoption friend. There was a time, not so very long ago, that I thought it wouldn't really matter how our baby came to us - that the important thing was that we would belong to each other. And so I didn't think it would make any difference how my friends' children came to them, either. I knew that adoption loss was real, but I don't think I really faced up to the fact that it was lifelong. Because the further we go down the road as an adoptive family, the more and more and more I realise just how much we have all lost.
And yes - not just the children, us as parents too. It's all related, of course, and my losses mainly centre around lost ability to provide what I would like to give my children. It's a strange feeling to love two little people with all that I have, but to know that I can't give them a normal life with a normal family they can take for granted. To know that my life is absolutely unimaginable without them, but that the reverse is not true - that their life without me isn't just imaginable, it was absolutely real. To try to feel my way into giving them a proper family that doesn't try to pretend that their first family wasn't a proper family, too. I read the words of adult adoptees, and they change the way I think, and I am grateful. But sometimes I'm so aware of what I am not, to these children, that I feel unable to be what they need me to be without looking over my shoulder and making sure it is okay with every other triad member as well as our city's social services department.
I know it won't do them any favours if I hold them at arms length, emotionally, because these children do need mothering. I know it's a tragedy that their first mother couldn't be the one to do this, but in the end the job falls to me and I want to do it properly. But sometimes I feel like holding them at arms length, slightly away from me, is what I should be doing. If I show off the photos of my beautiful babies, sometimes I feel like I need to say at the end the author of this post does not wish in any way to minimise the loss and grief and pain of the children in these pictures. I know they look happy but we are already saving for therapy, okay? I feel so selfconscious about my love for them, sometimes. I scan what I've written above for signs of hopeless adoptive-parent entitlement, and yes, I can see that they are all there. I think of these babies as mine, feel personally proud of all their achievements, their lives are basically all about me and yes, being their mother makes me happy. Worst of all, I've talked about the fact that I've still got some of my own demons to face.
I would gladly do without this emotional complexity. I would gladly do without weighing every word. I wish I could give my babies an uncomplicated life. I wish I could give myself an uncomplicated life. I wish we could have an uncomplicated family. Somehow, magically, with exactly the same children, but joined by biology. And then I gasp at what I've wished for - I've just wished away their first parents! I've ignored their real adoption narrative and fantasised a new narrative with ME at the centre! I NEED TO BE PUNCHED IN THE FACE!
And so I think this is why I still reel a little when I hear about others managing to form their families in the normal way. Their families won't be better than ours. There's no way on this earth their children could possibly be cuter than ours. I could never, ever wish for any other babies than ours. But their experience of family sure is going to be different from ours. And sometimes it's hard not to wish that the four of us could have that too.
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By the way - I've installed a new commenting system that should allow replies to comments. It seems the least irritating of the options available, but it's hard to know for sure. If you want to comment, but can't make it work, or just find it too annoying, leave a comment on an old post to let me know. Thanks!
Monday, 12 July 2010
Just testing something
Against my better judgement, I've just installed a widgetty thing on this blog to enable nested comments - so I can reply to the words you all type so thoughtfully. There's no way for me to find out if it has worked without doing a new post. I'm going to delete this post once I've figured it out - but am apologising in advance to those of you who have google reader and will end up seeing it anyway.
Here's a reward for having inadvertently read this testing post. This link made me laugh so hard I nearly passed out.
Here's a reward for having inadvertently read this testing post. This link made me laugh so hard I nearly passed out.
Monday, 5 July 2010
The 'O' Word
There is a word I would like to ban in adoption discourse. I suspect I'm not the only one. That word is 'orphan'.
A lot of these 'orphans' have families, actually. They have families already. Their parents are not dead, or at least both of their parents are not dead.
I think that when we read the word 'orphan', or think about 'orphan care' or 'orphan ministry' we isolate the children - the sweet, lovable, photogenic, mostly brown-skinned children with huge, sad eyes - from their parents. Who, as I said, are often not actually dead. From their older siblings. From the society they are living in. There is no doubt that many of these children are in need. But the needy children are just one symptom of whole societies suffering. And those we classify as 'orphans' do not have a monopoly on that suffering. I don't think that's what James 1:27 means.
In this post-Oliver-Twist world, the word orphan has unavoidable 'save me, kind lady' overtones. There is no doubt that many of the children so classified need compassion, and practical help. But I think that concentrating our compassion on 'orphans' can be a way of sentimentalising a brutal reality. Of packaging up the AIDS crisis into something that we can stomach. To be even more cynical - of marketing it. All those adults are giving each other HIV, oh dear, never mind, here's a photo of a sweet two year old. Don't you just want to take him home?
Because worst of all, the word orphan has a connotation of availability.
A lot of these 'orphans' have families, actually. They have families already. Their parents are not dead, or at least both of their parents are not dead.
I think that when we read the word 'orphan', or think about 'orphan care' or 'orphan ministry' we isolate the children - the sweet, lovable, photogenic, mostly brown-skinned children with huge, sad eyes - from their parents. Who, as I said, are often not actually dead. From their older siblings. From the society they are living in. There is no doubt that many of these children are in need. But the needy children are just one symptom of whole societies suffering. And those we classify as 'orphans' do not have a monopoly on that suffering. I don't think that's what James 1:27 means.
In this post-Oliver-Twist world, the word orphan has unavoidable 'save me, kind lady' overtones. There is no doubt that many of the children so classified need compassion, and practical help. But I think that concentrating our compassion on 'orphans' can be a way of sentimentalising a brutal reality. Of packaging up the AIDS crisis into something that we can stomach. To be even more cynical - of marketing it. All those adults are giving each other HIV, oh dear, never mind, here's a photo of a sweet two year old. Don't you just want to take him home?
Because worst of all, the word orphan has a connotation of availability.
So can we not use it any more, please, unless we are talking about a specific child who really has lost both of his parents to death? If we mean needy children, let's say needy children. If we mean children in poverty, let's say children in poverty. And if what we actually mean is 'child available for adoption' then let's be honest with ourselves and say that, too.
Friday, 2 July 2010
More 365 action
It's taken me the babies' entire nap to download and sort these photos. It feels like it must be impossible that it's been a month since I posted photos - the time is racing by, and I don't seem to be getting anything done. And now I can hear them starting to squeak - happily, so far, but who knows for how long- so no words today, just pictures. Okay, not very many words.
And this time I'm going to be disciplined and choose only ONE photo from every day. And it's going to be in order. I promise. So:
And this time I'm going to be disciplined and choose only ONE photo from every day. And it's going to be in order. I promise. So:
End of may - we went on another family holiday, this time with J's family. Not much time to take photos in the leadup
but it appears that baby L is still plotting world domination in the bath.
Here we are, having arrived after a VERY long drive. I think you're all clear to go back to school, daddy, I can't see a single nit.
Some quality baby-and-grandpa time.
Some quality family time. I feel like someone's missing... naaaah. I'm sure I'm just imagining it.Lots and lots of firsts this month.
First time in swimsuits!and first....
first crawling. Life really hasn't been the same since.
First time being synchronisedly tossed in the air with a cousinFirst time that C has taken a week off project 365 (pretend there are 7 blank spaces here, in honour of that fact)
First trip to a National Trust property
Okay, NOT the first time she's been excited about a pretty dress
First time realising just how HUGE the babies really are compared when with a proper baby (welcome to the world, little Isabelle!!!)
First month it's been warm enough to really start living at the park. He looks so cute until you jam your fingers in his mouth and find out what it is he's been eating.
First group photo
NOT the first time this boy has been covered in kisses. In case you couldn't tell from his face.
First time on a swing!
First time for a boy in a box
First time for a girl in a box
First appliance obsession
First time absolutely refusing to stay still for monthly photo
First time at a Roman orgy, apparently
First time putting daisies in her hair (it won't be the last)
First time in a sink (does anybody know if there is a human version of www.catsinsinks.com?)
First time working out that now he can now be upside down without the need for parental involvement
(nothing first-y about these. But they were good).
First time pulling up to standing
and first time for a boy and a girl in a box together.And suddenly it feels like we got quite a lot done this month, after all.
Wednesday, 23 June 2010
Episode 174: In Which Claudia Has The Temerity To Complain
Here's what's hard at the moment. J's work has just moved so that it's about 15 minutes further away - and it was already pretty far away. So that's an extra half hour out of our lives, every day. And last month, we decided that the babies weren't really coping with staying up waiting for him to get home from work, and that I should put them both to bed on my own from now on, half an hour earlier. One adult, two squirmy tired babies, every day - turns out this is no joke, people. The babies are better for it, but I am not. And because J is also later home now, I don't have anybody to help me with the daily pickup of detritus afterwards. It used to be that he would do this while I cooked dinner, but now I do it and then I cook dinner, and although he's been at work, winning bread all day, I cannot shake the knowledge that during the very worst part of my day, he's sitting on a train reading a novel. And I wish it was me, and then I snap at him when he gets home.
Oh, poor me, with my two perfect babies and my perfect life. I hear myself whining, and I want to slap myself. My complaints are so minor, and I know it. I hear echoes in my own words of all the things that other people said to me in the years before I acquired two tiny humans of my own, and I remember the burning resentment I felt when I heard them. I already felt so excluded and shut out from their lives - which now revolved around their children. To make it worse, I felt like they did nothing but complain to me about how hard it all was, when all I wanted was what they had. I did a lot of gritting my teeth and saying 'uh huh, uh huh, that sounds awful'. But mostly, during these conversations, I was just trying not to cry.
But I also remember consciously wondering - how will I feel when it is me on the other end of this conversation? When it is me who hasn't slept / showered / left the house in twelve days? Then, I had a perspective coloured by loss, and grief, and waiting, and envy, and anxiety, and fear, and hope. I knew it wasn't a normal perspective. It was certainly a painful perspective. So I asked myself: am I really just completely wrong? How will I feel when I have a different perspective? And now, I realise that I have some kind of answer, and it's not entirely the answer I expected. You know it physically pains me to type this, but I've got to be honest - there are some things where I'm going to have to eat humble pie and say: folks, I was wrong. In fact, there are many - so I'll keep it to my top four. My current top four, that is, for this week.
I was wrong about how easy and quick it would be to leave the house with the babies.
This continues to amaze me. Honestly, they are very small. How hard can it be? I used to have a mantra that I would say before I left the house: 'purse, phone, keys, yes, yes, yes, out the door'. Now, it's : 'purse, phone, keys, milk, muslins, babies, socks, jumpers, books, pram toys, oh forget it, I'm staying home'.
I was wrong to expect that naptimes wouldn't matter.
They do - they really do. My babies are totally different creatures depending on whether or not they have had their daytime sleeps, and they get by far, far, their best sleep at home in their darkened room. This absolutely destroys any possibility of me being spontaneous during the day, which is an absolute bummer. Sometimes, I take them out during naptime anyway, even when they should be asleep - to go to hospital appointments, for example, or travelling to see grandparents. Without exception, there is a price to pay later, so I try to avoid doing it unless there is a really good reason. This is hard, because I'm not a particularly 'routiney' person.
I was wrong to think that going to church with babies wouldn't be particularly hard.
What can I say - ouch. Our church doesn't have a creche, so we need to look after the babies in the service (which is pretty traditional, ie quiet!) J and I are both committed Christians, and, barring serious illness, being at church on Sunday is a top priority. But suddenly, it's become really, really hard. I wasn't expecting this, and I feel like an idiot. Last week I was pretty much in tears, thinking 'what is the point of me even BEING here? I haven't taken in a single thing'. This week was better. But it's going to be a loooooong time before I can sit in my chair, pay attention to the sermon and not need to be managing tiny people on a Sunday.
I was wrong about how much stupid, small things would matter to me
Today I made a new batch of baby food for them. It took ages, and made my already-hot kitchen pretty unbearable. And then they would not touch it. Not even a taste. And I had plenty of other food to give them, and they were probably just tired, but I came pretty close to crying because a baby wouldn't eat some mashed root vegetables. I know it doesn't matter at all, really, but in that moment it was all that mattered and I suddenly felt like my whole life was unbearable, a wasteland, a desert.
So yes - some of it really much harder than I thought it would be. And sometimes I do sit here, feeling sorry for myself, and thinking 'why does it have to be so HARD?' Yesterday, baby boy was cranky pretty much all day. There was a lot of shouting. He's got teeth coming through (you'd think he'd have more teeth than a shark by now, with the amount of time he's spent teething lately) and he's feeling pretty rotten. She's doing better, but she's not at her sparkling best either. And there are good days - great days - but sometimes it all feels like more than I bargained for.
But while this is true, while there were things I was wrong about, I still feel like the same person I was then. I haven't become someone different with children. And while I do have a new perspective, now that I have children, it owes an awful lot to the old perspective. I think once you've stood in that place, you can't - or at least you shouldn't - ever forget the view.
And yet. It is hard, but all of what has gone before means that I don't really know how to talk about the fact that it is hard. If I'd acquired these babies by drinking one glass too many of red wine after dinner and tumbling cheerfully into bed, I would probably go to facebook and post something like "Claudia.... should not have gone for the buy-one-baby-get-one-free-deal. Srsly. ROFL." * And wait for people to 'like' it, and go away feeling better.
But I can't do it. Because I'm too grateful for these children to turn the difficult bits into a joke, cheesy as that sounds. And I can't seem to do the other option either, the heart-to-hearts about how tough it all is. This year, on balance, my life is the happiest it's been for as long as I can remember, but I've had more people than I can count be incredibly sympathetic about how hard I must be finding it. And it's nice that they're kind, but I think 'where were you LAST year? That was when I really needed some sympathy'.
Parenthood brings a whole new bundle of challenges to my life, but I guess it will never, ever be to me what it was to some of my friends. It will never be my first truly adult experience. It will not be the first thing that shows me 'oh, so you mean life is really difficult from now on?' and it will not be the first thing to keep me up at night, questioning everything that I do and am. I'm not saying it doesn't do those things. I'm not saying it's not a profound experience. But I didn't become a real, proper adult when I gave birth to a baby - I think I became a real, proper adult when I had to deal with the fact that I wouldn't. Childlessness, to me, was a much more profound and character-shaping experience than motherhood, so far. Complaining about what I've got now feels too much like denying all that I learned, then.
But some days.... some days are really hard. Sometimes, I find myself thinking - yes, this is what I wanted, but I didn't want it to be like this. And I really, really want a kind word or a hug, but I find myself utterly unable to ask for it. The memory of listening to others' complaints, for all those years when I wanted nothing more than some children to complain about, is still too fresh and too raw for me to suddenly become that person. I am still too marked by what went before. I still feel prickly and I still feel brittle. Here I stand, in this post-adoption life of mine, knowing too much about what else my life could be like to really put my heart into complaining about the one I've got.
Also, I feel like admitting things are difficult means buying into the whole urban mythology about motherhood being the most difficult (yet profound) experience in the cosmos, and I am unwilling to do that. If we want to talk difficult experiences, I think, how about caring for elderly parents? There's some poop and wee stories that aren't so cute. How about dealing with bereavement? Surely, I think, we are kidding ourselves if we let ourselves believe that this early, intense motherhood is the hardest thing we will ever be called upon to do.
See what I mean? Prickly.
But the thing is, I still can't bear to hear variations on the theme of : Until you've been a mother, you just can't understand how hard it is! Because I hear that, and it makes me want to scream. Even though I am a mother now, It just still feels like such a deeply excluding thing to say. My life is harder than yours, and you can't say I'm wrong, because you may have done any number of other things, but you haven't done this. It puts motherhood up onto an untouchable, unquestionable pedestal, and on behalf of my former self and childless women everywhere, I do not want to hear it. On one level it's true, of course, but then the same could be said about everything else in the world, surely? Until you've directed a multi-million dollar feature film you you just can't understand how hard it is. Until you've put together furniture from IKEA you you just can't understand how hard it is. Until you've styled the Olsen twins for the Oscars, you just can't understand how hard it is. Until you've bred rottweilers you you just can't understand how hard it is. And I'm sure all those things are true, too. But nobody has ever pulled me into a corner and sat me down and said that the problem is, really, that the lady rottweilers are so ugly that it's just terribly difficult to get the boy rottweilers to go near them** and nobody understands because until you've bred rottweilers you you just can't understand how hard it is. And I don't know for sure - maybe somewhere, somebody is having that conversation, but not with me - with me, it's just the one about being a mother. And I hear it, all the time, and even if it was said in sympathy to something that I brought up find myself thinking - hey, it's not THAT hard! Because okay, it is hard, but did any of you people have a job before you had a kid? With deadlines and politics and demands and budget cuts and layoffs and late nights and managers and deadlines and okay, a paycheque, but did I mention the deadlines? Mothering is very hard work, but having a job was pretty hard work too, and being childless felt so impossibly hard that sometimes I was pretty sure I was just going to crumple. But maybe until you've been childless, you just can't understand how hard it is. Heh.
I am also so aware, every time I open my mouth, that I don't know what is going on behind the sympathetic smile of the person I'm talking to. I don't know whether a complaint from me will feel like a knife in their chest. Or maybe that spasm wasn't pain, but boredom - one lesson I need to remember from my years on the outside is that listening to stories about someone else's children is about as interesting as watching that person eat a sandwich.
And so I find that all too often, now, I just don't quite know how to Be with all of this. Sometimes I wish I could embrace the naivete of the friends who dive into this whole thing, headfirst, and forget that there was a before and that there will be an after, and that there are people who are on the outside. But I can't. I can't. There's too much tension between what was, and what is. Between what I've always known, and what I'm finding out. I guess I just want to say that I do find things hard, without sounding like I believe it is the only hard thing. But I can't seem to find the words.
*Is this still how the young people talk? I kind of quit facebook after reading too many status updates like that.
**This is purely a guess. Lady rottweilers may, in fact, be very attractive. No rottweilers were harmed in the making of this blog post.
Oh, poor me, with my two perfect babies and my perfect life. I hear myself whining, and I want to slap myself. My complaints are so minor, and I know it. I hear echoes in my own words of all the things that other people said to me in the years before I acquired two tiny humans of my own, and I remember the burning resentment I felt when I heard them. I already felt so excluded and shut out from their lives - which now revolved around their children. To make it worse, I felt like they did nothing but complain to me about how hard it all was, when all I wanted was what they had. I did a lot of gritting my teeth and saying 'uh huh, uh huh, that sounds awful'. But mostly, during these conversations, I was just trying not to cry.
But I also remember consciously wondering - how will I feel when it is me on the other end of this conversation? When it is me who hasn't slept / showered / left the house in twelve days? Then, I had a perspective coloured by loss, and grief, and waiting, and envy, and anxiety, and fear, and hope. I knew it wasn't a normal perspective. It was certainly a painful perspective. So I asked myself: am I really just completely wrong? How will I feel when I have a different perspective? And now, I realise that I have some kind of answer, and it's not entirely the answer I expected. You know it physically pains me to type this, but I've got to be honest - there are some things where I'm going to have to eat humble pie and say: folks, I was wrong. In fact, there are many - so I'll keep it to my top four. My current top four, that is, for this week.
I was wrong about how easy and quick it would be to leave the house with the babies.
This continues to amaze me. Honestly, they are very small. How hard can it be? I used to have a mantra that I would say before I left the house: 'purse, phone, keys, yes, yes, yes, out the door'. Now, it's : 'purse, phone, keys, milk, muslins, babies, socks, jumpers, books, pram toys, oh forget it, I'm staying home'.
I was wrong to expect that naptimes wouldn't matter.
They do - they really do. My babies are totally different creatures depending on whether or not they have had their daytime sleeps, and they get by far, far, their best sleep at home in their darkened room. This absolutely destroys any possibility of me being spontaneous during the day, which is an absolute bummer. Sometimes, I take them out during naptime anyway, even when they should be asleep - to go to hospital appointments, for example, or travelling to see grandparents. Without exception, there is a price to pay later, so I try to avoid doing it unless there is a really good reason. This is hard, because I'm not a particularly 'routiney' person.
I was wrong to think that going to church with babies wouldn't be particularly hard.
What can I say - ouch. Our church doesn't have a creche, so we need to look after the babies in the service (which is pretty traditional, ie quiet!) J and I are both committed Christians, and, barring serious illness, being at church on Sunday is a top priority. But suddenly, it's become really, really hard. I wasn't expecting this, and I feel like an idiot. Last week I was pretty much in tears, thinking 'what is the point of me even BEING here? I haven't taken in a single thing'. This week was better. But it's going to be a loooooong time before I can sit in my chair, pay attention to the sermon and not need to be managing tiny people on a Sunday.
I was wrong about how much stupid, small things would matter to me
Today I made a new batch of baby food for them. It took ages, and made my already-hot kitchen pretty unbearable. And then they would not touch it. Not even a taste. And I had plenty of other food to give them, and they were probably just tired, but I came pretty close to crying because a baby wouldn't eat some mashed root vegetables. I know it doesn't matter at all, really, but in that moment it was all that mattered and I suddenly felt like my whole life was unbearable, a wasteland, a desert.
So yes - some of it really much harder than I thought it would be. And sometimes I do sit here, feeling sorry for myself, and thinking 'why does it have to be so HARD?' Yesterday, baby boy was cranky pretty much all day. There was a lot of shouting. He's got teeth coming through (you'd think he'd have more teeth than a shark by now, with the amount of time he's spent teething lately) and he's feeling pretty rotten. She's doing better, but she's not at her sparkling best either. And there are good days - great days - but sometimes it all feels like more than I bargained for.
But while this is true, while there were things I was wrong about, I still feel like the same person I was then. I haven't become someone different with children. And while I do have a new perspective, now that I have children, it owes an awful lot to the old perspective. I think once you've stood in that place, you can't - or at least you shouldn't - ever forget the view.
And yet. It is hard, but all of what has gone before means that I don't really know how to talk about the fact that it is hard. If I'd acquired these babies by drinking one glass too many of red wine after dinner and tumbling cheerfully into bed, I would probably go to facebook and post something like "Claudia.... should not have gone for the buy-one-baby-get-one-free-deal. Srsly. ROFL." * And wait for people to 'like' it, and go away feeling better.
But I can't do it. Because I'm too grateful for these children to turn the difficult bits into a joke, cheesy as that sounds. And I can't seem to do the other option either, the heart-to-hearts about how tough it all is. This year, on balance, my life is the happiest it's been for as long as I can remember, but I've had more people than I can count be incredibly sympathetic about how hard I must be finding it. And it's nice that they're kind, but I think 'where were you LAST year? That was when I really needed some sympathy'.
Parenthood brings a whole new bundle of challenges to my life, but I guess it will never, ever be to me what it was to some of my friends. It will never be my first truly adult experience. It will not be the first thing that shows me 'oh, so you mean life is really difficult from now on?' and it will not be the first thing to keep me up at night, questioning everything that I do and am. I'm not saying it doesn't do those things. I'm not saying it's not a profound experience. But I didn't become a real, proper adult when I gave birth to a baby - I think I became a real, proper adult when I had to deal with the fact that I wouldn't. Childlessness, to me, was a much more profound and character-shaping experience than motherhood, so far. Complaining about what I've got now feels too much like denying all that I learned, then.
But some days.... some days are really hard. Sometimes, I find myself thinking - yes, this is what I wanted, but I didn't want it to be like this. And I really, really want a kind word or a hug, but I find myself utterly unable to ask for it. The memory of listening to others' complaints, for all those years when I wanted nothing more than some children to complain about, is still too fresh and too raw for me to suddenly become that person. I am still too marked by what went before. I still feel prickly and I still feel brittle. Here I stand, in this post-adoption life of mine, knowing too much about what else my life could be like to really put my heart into complaining about the one I've got.
Also, I feel like admitting things are difficult means buying into the whole urban mythology about motherhood being the most difficult (yet profound) experience in the cosmos, and I am unwilling to do that. If we want to talk difficult experiences, I think, how about caring for elderly parents? There's some poop and wee stories that aren't so cute. How about dealing with bereavement? Surely, I think, we are kidding ourselves if we let ourselves believe that this early, intense motherhood is the hardest thing we will ever be called upon to do.
See what I mean? Prickly.
But the thing is, I still can't bear to hear variations on the theme of : Until you've been a mother, you just can't understand how hard it is! Because I hear that, and it makes me want to scream. Even though I am a mother now, It just still feels like such a deeply excluding thing to say. My life is harder than yours, and you can't say I'm wrong, because you may have done any number of other things, but you haven't done this. It puts motherhood up onto an untouchable, unquestionable pedestal, and on behalf of my former self and childless women everywhere, I do not want to hear it. On one level it's true, of course, but then the same could be said about everything else in the world, surely? Until you've directed a multi-million dollar feature film you you just can't understand how hard it is. Until you've put together furniture from IKEA you you just can't understand how hard it is. Until you've styled the Olsen twins for the Oscars, you just can't understand how hard it is. Until you've bred rottweilers you you just can't understand how hard it is. And I'm sure all those things are true, too. But nobody has ever pulled me into a corner and sat me down and said that the problem is, really, that the lady rottweilers are so ugly that it's just terribly difficult to get the boy rottweilers to go near them** and nobody understands because until you've bred rottweilers you you just can't understand how hard it is. And I don't know for sure - maybe somewhere, somebody is having that conversation, but not with me - with me, it's just the one about being a mother. And I hear it, all the time, and even if it was said in sympathy to something that I brought up find myself thinking - hey, it's not THAT hard! Because okay, it is hard, but did any of you people have a job before you had a kid? With deadlines and politics and demands and budget cuts and layoffs and late nights and managers and deadlines and okay, a paycheque, but did I mention the deadlines? Mothering is very hard work, but having a job was pretty hard work too, and being childless felt so impossibly hard that sometimes I was pretty sure I was just going to crumple. But maybe until you've been childless, you just can't understand how hard it is. Heh.
I am also so aware, every time I open my mouth, that I don't know what is going on behind the sympathetic smile of the person I'm talking to. I don't know whether a complaint from me will feel like a knife in their chest. Or maybe that spasm wasn't pain, but boredom - one lesson I need to remember from my years on the outside is that listening to stories about someone else's children is about as interesting as watching that person eat a sandwich.
And so I find that all too often, now, I just don't quite know how to Be with all of this. Sometimes I wish I could embrace the naivete of the friends who dive into this whole thing, headfirst, and forget that there was a before and that there will be an after, and that there are people who are on the outside. But I can't. I can't. There's too much tension between what was, and what is. Between what I've always known, and what I'm finding out. I guess I just want to say that I do find things hard, without sounding like I believe it is the only hard thing. But I can't seem to find the words.
*Is this still how the young people talk? I kind of quit facebook after reading too many status updates like that.
**This is purely a guess. Lady rottweilers may, in fact, be very attractive. No rottweilers were harmed in the making of this blog post.
Saturday, 19 June 2010
Like a photo, but it moves
I am all about the photos - video just confuses me. But 9 months after getting the video camera, I wanted to figure out youtube and so on, and I have spent the longest - seriously, the longest - time trying to clip this video. It's 2 and a half minutes long, because the babies did something very cute and then I kept the camera running, unsure of whether they might do something else worthy of recording for posterity. They didn't. Sooooo, I wanted to trim it so it was just the first 45 seconds but there is some kind of technical conspiracy operating that means I can't do it. Obviously it's not because of any error or ignorance on MY part. Personally, I blame Windows Movie Maker.
Anyway, in the end I figured that it would be simpler to just post the whole thing and let you clip it yourself by pressing 'STOP' at about 45 seconds, after the baby boy crawls away. I don't want to spoil the ending for you, but if you do choose to keep watching, eventually baby girl's hat blows off. And really, that's it.
Anyway, in the end I figured that it would be simpler to just post the whole thing and let you clip it yourself by pressing 'STOP' at about 45 seconds, after the baby boy crawls away. I don't want to spoil the ending for you, but if you do choose to keep watching, eventually baby girl's hat blows off. And really, that's it.
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
My Children Are Not Educational Toys
[By popular demand.... #5. My thoughts on this were not as coherent as I had hoped. This nearly killed me, y'all.]
I've made a decision - the next person to ask me whether I need to put suncream on the babies is getting a punch in the mouth. I'm not quite sure why this is every white person's 'go-to' question about raising black children, but that seems to be the case. Like if they suddenly found themselves in my shoes, it wouldn't matter if the child grew up totally unsure about their identity, where to fit in, lacking any positive black role models and looking down the barrel of casual racism every day; that would be fine, but heaven forfend the baby should get sunburned.
I know I'm overreacting about that particular question, and if anybody I know in real life is reading this then they are definitely going to be offended, because I'm pretty sure that every single white person I know has asked me this question since the sun came out here, about two weeks ago. And I do take sun safety very seriously. And on one level, it's fine that people ask me this. It's sunny, we're at the park, they're slapping the suncream on their kids, it's a reasonable question. And I prefer curiosity to someone saying 'oh, seriously, your child isn't white? I didn't notice! Because we're all the same on the inside!' But sometimes, this question, and others like it, ('what do you do with their hair?') can make me feel really uncomfortable, and I don't quite know what to do.
I think I've almost figured out how to deal with conversations that are openly racist, or, more commonly, just plain ignorant. No matter who, no matter where, don't let it slide, ever. Challenge. Disagree. Not just when it's a conversation about people who share the same colour skin as my children, but anything racist, all the time. Zero tolerance. There's a lot of stuff that I used to let slip by me, but now - no way. I'm acutely aware that many adult adoptees say their parents weren't active enough as their anti-racist advocates, particularly with extended family, and those of us who have had the opportunity to learn from their experience have NO excuse if the same is said about us.
But I find this kind of thing much harder. It's not a racist question. It's not even a particularly stupid question. But it makes me prickle. I think that what upsets me is this. I get the distinct impression that some of my white friends ask me questions about my black babies that they would never ask if I was a black mother. Or at least, ask them in a way that they wouldn't ask a black mother. This is difficult to articulate, but I feel like there is an unspoken assumption that we belong to the same club, they and I, a club to which my children do not belong. And that our sameness means that it's okay - indeed, expected - for us to share information and experiences about our encounters with those who are not the same. Even, in my case, if those who aren't the same are also my children. We all know that the first rule of White Club is YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT WHITE CLUB, so none of this would ever be said out loud. But honestly, in some conversations it is palpable.
It feels similar to what I experienced when I moved to the UK from Australia. When I came across other Australians, we would always form a huddle and complain about the same things - usually the price of food, how cold it was, how long it was since we'd seen the sun and the impossibility of really getting to know anyone properly. Then we would tell stories about Rude English People I Have Met, and What They Said To Me. It was comforting. But time went on, and something changed. I began to feel at home here. I worked out how to navigate the supermarket, bought a decent coat, resigned myself to a lifetime of Seasonal Affective Disorder and made some friends. My accent was Australian (and it still is) but I didn't feel quite so partisan anymore. I began to feel that at least part of me was becoming British. And then the moaning sessions weren't quite so welcome. When people would hear my voice, and then want to talk about what was wrong with the UK, I kept finding myself thinking 'what makes you think I'm on YOUR side in this conversation?'
And that's how I keep feeling now. White people see my skin, and I think it makes them think that I'm on their side. I'm not going to go down the 'now that I have Ethiopian children, I consider myself to be Ethiopian too', road, because I think that's a pile of horse manure. I'm still white, I'll always be white, and there's nothing I can do about that. But that doesn't mean I'm on their side.
It does feel, sometimes, like people view my children as educational toys. They're a safe, easy way to learn about black people. You know, without actually having to talk to a black person. And I get frustrated, because my children are not a bridge. They do not have a responsibility to my friends to link all the colours of the world into a complacent little circle. And they are not objects; curiosities to be examined. They are their own selves, with their own complicated histories, and neither they nor I owe my friends any information about their skincare regime. I think that sometimes people are wanting some kind of inside scoop - for me to go into detail about how hard it is to care for such 'difficult' hair or skin, but it's just not going to happen. They aren't entitled to that information, even if it was the case. I am not on their side.
But sometimes it's a hard balance. Because sometimes I ask myself - are these the opportunities I've been waiting for? Is the problem not too many questions about their skin, but too few? I think most of us can agree that a fake-o 'colourblind' approach to life doesn't do our children any favours. And I wish that I could have more frank discussions with my white friends about race, not fewer. But I want them to be real. Surely the really important issues around skin are privilege and prejudice, not, well, skin. I want to talk about how we approach our own whiteness, before talking about anybody else's blackness. I don't really know how those conversations would sound, but I'm sure they wouldn't just be about sun safety or hair products. I hate that I am still so bad at making those conversations happen.
So, back to the sun cream. Mostly, when sun cream comes up, I say 'Well! The babies take longer to burn than a very pale baby, but they will still burn. I do put sun cream on them, but we don't need it if they're only going to be outside for a little while. We have suncream that smells like coconut. Doesn't their skin smell delicious? What type of suncream do YOU use?' And questions about hair get 'isn't their hair BEAUTIFUL? I just can't wait until her hair is long enough to braid. Do you think your little Susie's hair is going to stay blonde?' And none of this is going to set the world on fire, and sometimes I wish I could have the courage to be a lot ruder, but for now, for questions that aren't outright impolite, I've decided to stick with simple answers that affirm my children and then move swiftly on.
All of this feels almost impossible to write about, because I'm so painfully aware of how little I know. And maybe my approach is wrong - maybe I'm reading too much into comments that are totally innocent, or maybe the reverse is happening and I'm ignoring something really big, and I should be... well, I don't know. And of course some of my friends don't do anything like this, and I need to remember that I never used to care about race until I realised that it was going to affect my family. So I'd better not climb too high onto my high horse, or I'm liable to fall off. This is all really hard. I know I'm making mistakes. I hope I'll be willing to learn from them. But whatever happens, I hope the babies always know that I am on their side.
I've made a decision - the next person to ask me whether I need to put suncream on the babies is getting a punch in the mouth. I'm not quite sure why this is every white person's 'go-to' question about raising black children, but that seems to be the case. Like if they suddenly found themselves in my shoes, it wouldn't matter if the child grew up totally unsure about their identity, where to fit in, lacking any positive black role models and looking down the barrel of casual racism every day; that would be fine, but heaven forfend the baby should get sunburned.
I know I'm overreacting about that particular question, and if anybody I know in real life is reading this then they are definitely going to be offended, because I'm pretty sure that every single white person I know has asked me this question since the sun came out here, about two weeks ago. And I do take sun safety very seriously. And on one level, it's fine that people ask me this. It's sunny, we're at the park, they're slapping the suncream on their kids, it's a reasonable question. And I prefer curiosity to someone saying 'oh, seriously, your child isn't white? I didn't notice! Because we're all the same on the inside!' But sometimes, this question, and others like it, ('what do you do with their hair?') can make me feel really uncomfortable, and I don't quite know what to do.
I think I've almost figured out how to deal with conversations that are openly racist, or, more commonly, just plain ignorant. No matter who, no matter where, don't let it slide, ever. Challenge. Disagree. Not just when it's a conversation about people who share the same colour skin as my children, but anything racist, all the time. Zero tolerance. There's a lot of stuff that I used to let slip by me, but now - no way. I'm acutely aware that many adult adoptees say their parents weren't active enough as their anti-racist advocates, particularly with extended family, and those of us who have had the opportunity to learn from their experience have NO excuse if the same is said about us.
But I find this kind of thing much harder. It's not a racist question. It's not even a particularly stupid question. But it makes me prickle. I think that what upsets me is this. I get the distinct impression that some of my white friends ask me questions about my black babies that they would never ask if I was a black mother. Or at least, ask them in a way that they wouldn't ask a black mother. This is difficult to articulate, but I feel like there is an unspoken assumption that we belong to the same club, they and I, a club to which my children do not belong. And that our sameness means that it's okay - indeed, expected - for us to share information and experiences about our encounters with those who are not the same. Even, in my case, if those who aren't the same are also my children. We all know that the first rule of White Club is YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT WHITE CLUB, so none of this would ever be said out loud. But honestly, in some conversations it is palpable.
It feels similar to what I experienced when I moved to the UK from Australia. When I came across other Australians, we would always form a huddle and complain about the same things - usually the price of food, how cold it was, how long it was since we'd seen the sun and the impossibility of really getting to know anyone properly. Then we would tell stories about Rude English People I Have Met, and What They Said To Me. It was comforting. But time went on, and something changed. I began to feel at home here. I worked out how to navigate the supermarket, bought a decent coat, resigned myself to a lifetime of Seasonal Affective Disorder and made some friends. My accent was Australian (and it still is) but I didn't feel quite so partisan anymore. I began to feel that at least part of me was becoming British. And then the moaning sessions weren't quite so welcome. When people would hear my voice, and then want to talk about what was wrong with the UK, I kept finding myself thinking 'what makes you think I'm on YOUR side in this conversation?'
And that's how I keep feeling now. White people see my skin, and I think it makes them think that I'm on their side. I'm not going to go down the 'now that I have Ethiopian children, I consider myself to be Ethiopian too', road, because I think that's a pile of horse manure. I'm still white, I'll always be white, and there's nothing I can do about that. But that doesn't mean I'm on their side.
It does feel, sometimes, like people view my children as educational toys. They're a safe, easy way to learn about black people. You know, without actually having to talk to a black person. And I get frustrated, because my children are not a bridge. They do not have a responsibility to my friends to link all the colours of the world into a complacent little circle. And they are not objects; curiosities to be examined. They are their own selves, with their own complicated histories, and neither they nor I owe my friends any information about their skincare regime. I think that sometimes people are wanting some kind of inside scoop - for me to go into detail about how hard it is to care for such 'difficult' hair or skin, but it's just not going to happen. They aren't entitled to that information, even if it was the case. I am not on their side.
But sometimes it's a hard balance. Because sometimes I ask myself - are these the opportunities I've been waiting for? Is the problem not too many questions about their skin, but too few? I think most of us can agree that a fake-o 'colourblind' approach to life doesn't do our children any favours. And I wish that I could have more frank discussions with my white friends about race, not fewer. But I want them to be real. Surely the really important issues around skin are privilege and prejudice, not, well, skin. I want to talk about how we approach our own whiteness, before talking about anybody else's blackness. I don't really know how those conversations would sound, but I'm sure they wouldn't just be about sun safety or hair products. I hate that I am still so bad at making those conversations happen.
So, back to the sun cream. Mostly, when sun cream comes up, I say 'Well! The babies take longer to burn than a very pale baby, but they will still burn. I do put sun cream on them, but we don't need it if they're only going to be outside for a little while. We have suncream that smells like coconut. Doesn't their skin smell delicious? What type of suncream do YOU use?' And questions about hair get 'isn't their hair BEAUTIFUL? I just can't wait until her hair is long enough to braid. Do you think your little Susie's hair is going to stay blonde?' And none of this is going to set the world on fire, and sometimes I wish I could have the courage to be a lot ruder, but for now, for questions that aren't outright impolite, I've decided to stick with simple answers that affirm my children and then move swiftly on.
All of this feels almost impossible to write about, because I'm so painfully aware of how little I know. And maybe my approach is wrong - maybe I'm reading too much into comments that are totally innocent, or maybe the reverse is happening and I'm ignoring something really big, and I should be... well, I don't know. And of course some of my friends don't do anything like this, and I need to remember that I never used to care about race until I realised that it was going to affect my family. So I'd better not climb too high onto my high horse, or I'm liable to fall off. This is all really hard. I know I'm making mistakes. I hope I'll be willing to learn from them. But whatever happens, I hope the babies always know that I am on their side.
Friday, 28 May 2010
Not by me
We're going away for a week, and the post I was intending to write is still only half done. So I'm going to post some links from the last few weeks - you may have already read some of them, but I hope you'll meet something new and interesting from the overflowing spout that is my google reader.
A post about failure and courage that I really loved. This is from a blog that I devour ravenously but feel too shy to comment on.
John Raible's crash course in Transracial Parenting - I think this is going to be really worthwhile, but ... errrrrrm..... confronting. Ditto the comment above about being ravenous but shy. And a great perspective from Mama Dog about the same kinda' thing
An incredibly vivid post about Lori's ESL class
I keep meaning to make this carrot salad, but I haven't yet
How did mothers' day make you feel? There were several great posts about mothers' day, but this is the one I wish I could go back in time and send myself before my babas arrived, and it sums up how I'll always feel about the day, I think.
I've gotta say, though, the post I keep thinking about is this one. I used to know a few people in 'real life' who were thinking, for one reason or another, about adoption. But in the end, I think it's just going to be us. So this part, from the beginning, just keeps resonating with me:
Being a member of the adoption community often means we tend to draw the attention of couples struggling to get pregnant. The tears they shed are the same ones Laurie and I endured years ago while undergoing fertility treatments. I’ve come to think of it as the type of bond soldiers in war form while sharing foxholes, one that other people wouldn’t understand unless they have been in the trenches too. Friends we haven’t talked to in years may spend months trying to conceive, and then all of a sudden they’re interested in intimate details of Isaac and Vivi’s birth story. How much did it cost? What kind of relationship do you have with the birth parents? Laurie and I don’t like to broadcast our children’s lives to just anyone, but these people are hungry for the quickest directions that will bring them a baby. Sometimes these couples go on to foster or adopt (even from our agency), but more often than not, a few months pass and the couple “magically” turns up pregnant.
This is what happened to friends of ours a few years ago. After two years of trying to conceive, and a few weeks of communicating with us about adoption, they announced their pregnancy in a mass email, saying, “God heard our prayers.” We didn’t hear much from them after that.
While we understood pregnancy kept them busy, Laurie and I couldn’t help but feel hurt that our connection became hypothetical. We had shared intimate details of our lives to people that no longer related to us and we couldn’t help feeling stupid.
What with one thing and another at the moment, I've got to say that I'm a bit sick of that stupid feeling right now.
So anyway. Happy reading!
A post about failure and courage that I really loved. This is from a blog that I devour ravenously but feel too shy to comment on.
John Raible's crash course in Transracial Parenting - I think this is going to be really worthwhile, but ... errrrrrm..... confronting. Ditto the comment above about being ravenous but shy. And a great perspective from Mama Dog about the same kinda' thing
An incredibly vivid post about Lori's ESL class
I keep meaning to make this carrot salad, but I haven't yet
How did mothers' day make you feel? There were several great posts about mothers' day, but this is the one I wish I could go back in time and send myself before my babas arrived, and it sums up how I'll always feel about the day, I think.
I've gotta say, though, the post I keep thinking about is this one. I used to know a few people in 'real life' who were thinking, for one reason or another, about adoption. But in the end, I think it's just going to be us. So this part, from the beginning, just keeps resonating with me:
Being a member of the adoption community often means we tend to draw the attention of couples struggling to get pregnant. The tears they shed are the same ones Laurie and I endured years ago while undergoing fertility treatments. I’ve come to think of it as the type of bond soldiers in war form while sharing foxholes, one that other people wouldn’t understand unless they have been in the trenches too. Friends we haven’t talked to in years may spend months trying to conceive, and then all of a sudden they’re interested in intimate details of Isaac and Vivi’s birth story. How much did it cost? What kind of relationship do you have with the birth parents? Laurie and I don’t like to broadcast our children’s lives to just anyone, but these people are hungry for the quickest directions that will bring them a baby. Sometimes these couples go on to foster or adopt (even from our agency), but more often than not, a few months pass and the couple “magically” turns up pregnant.
This is what happened to friends of ours a few years ago. After two years of trying to conceive, and a few weeks of communicating with us about adoption, they announced their pregnancy in a mass email, saying, “God heard our prayers.” We didn’t hear much from them after that.
While we understood pregnancy kept them busy, Laurie and I couldn’t help but feel hurt that our connection became hypothetical. We had shared intimate details of our lives to people that no longer related to us and we couldn’t help feeling stupid.
What with one thing and another at the moment, I've got to say that I'm a bit sick of that stupid feeling right now.
So anyway. Happy reading!
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