Mythical Crack Wh0res

Recently, I have come across a few variations on this complaint: "Why can't I get pregnant when the crack wh0re down the street has four babies?"

I have no idea where this myth comes from. Not from personal experience, surely? Because ladies: if there is someone in your street selling their body for drugs, it's probably time to move. But the myth of the pregnant crack wh0re is a persistent one in infertility and adoption circles; I've been hearing it for years and just to check I wasn't imagining it, I googled it. (Ummmm... some advice: don't do that. I may have to wipe my computer's search history. And that's why I've changed the o's to 0's - it turns out there are a whole lot of people out there on the internet that I do not want on my blog).

I've definitely had pregnancy envy, so I understand where this complaint comes from. But if I'm honest, this mythical pregnant crack wh0re doesn't bother me at all. In fact, she makes me feel much better about myself, and here's why.

When we were childless, I hated it - hated it - when people acted smug about their ability to produce children. Granted, I was extremely sensitive about it, and some of the comments that upset me were probably thoughtless rather than anything more sinister. But I do remember walking along beside a river with one particular woman. She was stroking her pregnant belly and talking about people who can't have children, and saying didn't I agree that they shouldn't have fertility treatments, because maybe if they couldn't have babies, it was because they weren't meant to be parents, that they weren't the right sort of people.

I was too taken aback to say anything coherent at the time. This woman is generally very nice, and now does know about our adoption, including why we chose to adopt. I doubt she felt bad about that conversation when she found out, because I doubt she remembered. I hope she would be kinder now. But while most people don't put things quite that bluntly, comments like this come from a pretty common attitude:

I totally deserve these children due to the power of my personal awesomeness. People with no children must therefore automatically be less awesome than me.

And we all hate that attitude, right? What I hate most about it is that even though I know how stupid it is, there's a teeny tiny voice inside saying: "but what if it's truuuuuuuuuuue? What if this really is happening because my body knows something about me that I don't? "

So that voice is coming from one side, but on the other side there's a voice shouting about how unfair it all is. If you've been through the adoption process, I'm sure there was at least a little part of you that resented being assessed for your fitness to parent. No matter how much we know about the importance of preparation, and how much we totally agree that none of us are entitled to parent someone else's children, it still STINKS that someone else has the power to decide whether or not you get to be a parent. Because we are good people, right? And surely this means that we deserve kids? At least, more than that pregnant crack wh0re down the street?

(And yes, it's never a good idea to make assumptions about someone else's worth. But let's assume, for argument's sake, that she really is both a bad person and a bad mother. Fortunately she's a myth (or at most a stereotype) so I don't think we're going to hurt her feelings).

But - when we say this, when we complain about the mythical crack wh0res, we're buying into the lie that getting pregnant has something to do with virtue. We're buying into the idea that women who are mothers must be better people than those who are not. We're buying into the myth that people who have kids can take some kind of credit for it. We might as well be standing at the delivery suite giving out halos as new mothers and fathers come out, because we are totally buying into the idea that parenthood is something that people deserve.

Whereas actually, what she shows us is that parenthood has got nothing to do with how much you deserve it. There are so many people out there who do a terrible job of raising their kids. Not necessarily abusive, just lazy, uninterested, not involved, treating their kids as accessories, whatever. We don't have to even agree on what bad parenting means to agree that there are a lot of bad parents in the world. Which is sad for their kids, but it does make me feel perversely happy. Bad biological parents in general make me feel really comforted - they prove, beyond all doubt, that failure to procreate isn't a punishment for being deficient. It's not an assessment of our value as people. And if being more fertile doesn't make you better, being less fertile doesn't make you worse. That first voice really is wrong after all.

I am really rather grateful to carry this knowledge with me through my middle class life. Women in my social group do tend to treat pregnancy as an achievement rather than a gift. This is very hard to deal with when it's something you will never achieve yourself. But now, while some of my friends are attributing their pregnancy successes to yoga, their organic diet or just generally being an all-around better person than me, I'll be thinking:

Stop being so smug about your pregnancy. Pregnancy is no indication of moral worth. Don't you know the crack wh0re down the street has four kids?

So thank you, mythical crack wh0re. I'm glad you don't live on my street. But I'll always be grateful.

2010 Books

Well, it's new year's eve. I'm sitting at home on my own because, well, to cut a long story short, I'm still under the weather and I didn't feel well enough to go out to a friend's place with J so he's gone alone. Which means that Christmas was a bust, our time off work together was a bust and now New Year's is a bust too. In the last week, we've added the following symptoms to our family list: conjunctivitis (the babies) vomiting (me) diarrhea (the babies) sore throat (me and J) and extreeeeeeme crankiness (also me, quelle surprise). (Although at times, also the babies). (Ummmm, and J for some of the time too. If I'm honest).

I have noticed that the longer an illness goes on, the less sympathetic people are about it, and frankly that's been annoying me a bit. (See? Cranky!) After all, it's much worse being sick after three weeks than after one - all your food is gone, for one thing. I was talking to my dad about this, since (as long-time readers might remember) the sociology of illness is something he knows far too much about. He said that when you get sick, you get a new status as a 'sick person', with privileges attached (eg not expected to do very much). But it's part of a social contract - people have to be nice to you while you're sick, but the expectation on the sick person is that they will get better in a reasonable amount of time. If you try to extend your sick status past the social norm, it doesn't really work because you have broken your part of the contract - you were supposed to get better already. This is one of the reasons that it's difficult to live with chronic health problems like rheumatoid arthritis, he said- you don't get the same status and privileges for long-term illness as you do when it is acute - people just expect you to get better, and if you can't get better they mostly stop caring. That's very interesting, I said, and asked: what happens if it's a terminal illness? Are you allowed to stay sick, then? And he said that yes, you're allowed to be sick for quite a long time if you're terminally ill. But there's still a social contract - in exchange for being allowed to be sick for an extended period, your half of the bargain is that within a reasonable amount of time you're supposed to die.

Well, I did ask, I suppose.

All this is just to say that this week I have sworn that from now on, I will be much nicer to the chronically ill. Three weeks of illness has almost destroyed me, which is pathetic. I've realised how much good health we have normally, and I'm going to be more grateful for it. And more understanding of those who don't. When I have it again, that is. Right now I'm still going to just go to bed early and continue to feel sorry for myself.

Actually, on second thoughts, no I'm not. The last few weeks have been interesting, and I've been unsure what to write about. But there must be something, right? Should it be the day at someone else's house when I unexpectedly found myself watching adoption-themed movies, and realising that one day this was going to happen to my children? It was going to be that, but then I realised that I couldn't face it. So I've decided to recommend some of my favourite books from 2010. (Books I read in 2010, not necessarily published in 2010). And because I'm realistic about who is reading this, the links send you to Amazon US.


Red Dust Road, by Jackie Kay and My Fathers' Daughter by Hannah Poole

Yes, this is two books, but I read them in the same week back in June and they cover similar themes so I can't help grouping them in my mind. They are two of the best adult adoptee memoirs I've read, and I would put both of them on my 'best adoption books of all time' list. Both are written by women who write for a living - they were writers before they decided to talk about adoption, and it really shows. Both are about transracially adopted adults in search of biological roots, but RDR covers years and loops back and forward in time, while MFD mostly focusses on a very short period in the author's life.

It's hard to do either of these books any kind of justice in a paragraph or two. Jackie Kay's book is the story of a UK domestic transracial adoptee who searches for her birthparents - both alive, but on different sides of the world. It's a complicated story that defies a lot of the usual adoption stereotypes. The writing is lyrical - unsurprising, as Ms Kay is a poet - and the story is gripping. Hannah Poole is a journalist, and her book is written quite differently. It covers a short period of time in graphic detail, and by the end of the book you feel very much like you are living right inside of her head. She was adopted from Eritrea in the 1970s and the book is about her travelling back to meet her birth family. It's incredibly honest - brutally so - and very entertaining but not a feelgood read. Well, not if you're an adoptive parent.

I can't help thinking that a big difference between the two stories is that Ms Poole's first family is still intact. Her mother has died, but if she had been raised by her first family rather than adopted, she would have become part of a family that still exists. It's impossible to imagine not feeling huge grief over missing out on being part of something this real. Ms Kay's family, on the other hand, isn't that simple. She does not write with the same sense of painful regret, and it is hard to know how much of that is because there was not an obvious alternative life for her to be part of. Life is much more complicated than this, of course, and I don't mean to say that this is the only reason that the books 'feel' different, or why the two women seem to have had very different reactions overall to their adoptions, but I think it might be a significant factor.

I think that the two books balance each other out very well, if you are reading them as an adoptive parent looking to learn from the adult adoptee experience. RDR is sad in places but ultimately uplifting - it feels redemptive and positive. MFD does not feel like that. Ms Poole writes with piercing clarity about how she finds herself regretting so much of what has happened to her. I am grateful for her book, and I'm glad that I have read it. But it's not an easy read. Her adoption was based on a lie, and that is hard to read about. But this lie is not the only reason she wishes, often, for a different life, the life she might have had. Some adult adoptee memoirs make you think 'oh, right, her parents did this wrong and this wrong and that's why she's unhappy. If I just do things differently, things will be okay'. This book does not give the reader that option. Her adoptive Dad sounds like a great guy, and they have a really good relationship. This book showed me more clearly than any other I have read - Claudia, it's not about you. You cannot parent in such a way that you can guarantee your kids will end up feeling happy about their adoption. So don't kid yourself.

Don't take my word for it, though - read them!

The Alphabet Series by Sue Grafton

Pure private detective escapism. But really well written escapism - funny, well plotted and a truly likeable no-nonsense heroine. How would it be possible not to like a woman who takes a bubble bath with washing-up liquid? I'm a little embarrassed to be including this series in my books of the year, but I've read twelve in the last 8 weeks or so, so it would be dishonest not to. I bought a box set of these books at a bargain bookstore, never having heard of the series or the author. But I read all of them within a few weeks because they were so much fun. The first books were written in the late 80s, and the private detective she does a lot of her research at the library using microfiche, which is pleasing and amusing, but they dont' feel dated. I'm not saying spend money to get the first editions, but look out for them in your library. The copies in my library nearly always seem to be gone, so I guess I'm not the only one who likes them.

The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin. I've already written about this one.

Blue Like Jazz by Don Miller

I don't quite know what to say about this. I'm trying (painfully, slowly) to write a book about our adoption, as most of you already know. One of the agent blogs I've been reading had a really interesting post a few months back saying that if you're trying to write a memoir, you really should make sure that you've read at least ten really, really good ones. And that made me realise that I hadn't - I'd read a lot of adoption memoir writing, but not very much outside of that box. She had some interesting recommendations, and asked for commenters to recommend others.

One that came up again and again and again was Don Miller's Blue Like Jazz. The subtitle is 'nonreligious thoughts on Christian spirituality' and to be honest, I wasn't very keen. I'm a Christian, and that sounded like a very 'woo-woo' (yes, folks, that's a technical term) version of Christianity that was just going to make me cranky. (Incidentally, a Christian in a book who DID make me cranky was Jackie Kay's birthfather. Read that book and you'll know what I mean. But I digress). But I ordered the book, because so many people recommended it, and when it arrived I opened it up and from the first page I was hooked.

By about the tenth page I was thinking 'this man is a wonderful writer' and by the twentieth page I was thinking 'actually, he is so uncomfortably perceptive about the human condition that his writing is beginning to remind me of C. S. Lewis' and then a few pages later 'this book is much, much funnier than any Christian book has a right to be' and by halfway through the book I realised that the subtitle had probably been put there by his publisher, and when he really started talking about Christianity I realised that all he's trying to get away from is religion as an empty form, he's actually not 'woo-woo' at all. And by the hundredth page I was feeling like I was seeing my own hypocrisy more clearly and feeling humbled and by the end I had decided that I was going to give it to my Dad for his birthday (I always give him my favourite book of the preceding year for his birthday - last year it was The Tale of Edgar Sawtelle). And my Dad loved this book too, and he's pretty fussy about books, especially Christian books. He also said that the writing reminded him of CS Lewis, and I don't think he really has much higher praise. I've since read the sequel to this book, and another companion book, and I think I may have liked them even more than this first one. But this is the one that gets a place in my list, because I read it first.

I may never get my own book written, and that would make me sad. But honestly? I think the process would still be worthwhile because it meant that I found Don Miller's writing, and I'll always, always be glad about that.

The Hunger Games Series by Suzanne Collins.

I know, teen fiction, seriously? I had low hopes - I hated Twilight. But I started this series and I was turning the pages so fast that I'm pretty sure I nearly set fire to my house. I was dreaming about these books at night, the suspense was so intense. Fortunately I bought all three books at once because if I had needed to wait to read the next books in the series I would have gone crazy, for real. I don't know how people coped who read the first two books before Mockingjay (the final book) was published. How did your nerves stand it?

After reading this series, I told J 'you have GOT to read this!' and he harrumphed a bit. He wasn't keen, but he took the first book on his commute to work one Monday morning. And he got so involved in the story that he missed his stop on the tube. And then on the way home, he got so involved that he missed his return stop. Like I said. Intense. For pure plot and pace, I can't recommend this highly enough.

How I Became a Famous Novelist by Steve Hely

I have my sister to thank for this recommendation. I laughed until I cried while reading this book - this may be the only book where I have started laughing while reading the dust jacket. (The fake bestseller list! Priceless!) It's a novel written in the form of a memoir. The protagonist sets out to write a literary novel in order to become famous, and the memoir shows how he makes it happen. The plot is average, but the extracts from his fake novel are some of the funniest things I've ever read. I'm going to warn you straight up - this book is very, very silly. If you think it's funny to laugh at inappropriate overuse of the word 'visceral' in bad literary fiction, you. will. love. this. book. Seriously. Tears of joy. Buy it now. If you don't think that 'visceral' or it's friends have any potential for humour - (I'm pretty sure there were a few 'nascents' as well) steer clear.

(Actually, that reminds me - not a 2010 book for me at all but if you like silly books about books - do not do a single 'nother thing until you have read The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde. Genius. Don't ask any questions - just buy it).


I'm sure there were others, but these are the ones that came to mind first, which must mean something. What would you put on your list for 2010? You know I'm all ears for this kind of thing.

So for me - that's it for 2010. The babies are now 17 months old. How did that happen? Mostly a great year, although December left me longing for the whole thing to end. It's been lovely having your company - may 2011 treat you kindly. A great big MWAH! to you, and you, and you, and yes, you too. See you next year!

Day nine

And I'm still sick.

Survived the adoption hearing. In fact, it was a totally magical day. Well, magical in the same way that Voldemort is magical.

Seriously, one of the worst days of my life. Low point was me sitting on the tube on the way home, crying in public because I felt so sick. Ah, happy memories. Other magical moments were the judge being nearly an hour late, which was sufficient time to turn our two well-rested, well-behaved munchkins into slavering monsters who then yelled their way through their hearing. It could have been quite moving - when the judge made his ruling, he said "I grant this adoption because I deem it to be in the best interests of these children, both now and for the rest of their lives." And I kind of felt a bit teary, but J had to take I to the back of the chamber at that point because he was going nuts with silly bending and screaming himself hoarse and in the end I was just thinking 'could you not just go a bit more quickly so we can get outta here?' Like I said, a magical day.

After the pronouncement (probably not the proper legal word, but I'm going with it) we got photos with the judge, who was really incredibly nice. The solicitor for - actually, I'm not entirely sure who she was representing, even though she was there for our case - took them. Unfortunately, there is not one single photo where both children look even halfway presentable. Also, we're not allowed to post any pictures from court on the internet so even if they were good I still couldn't show you. Please enjoy this photo of a fluffy bunny instead:

Well, it was that or Voldemort and I know which I prefer.

I finally got to the doctor on Friday (because getting to the doctor is next-to-impossible when you actually feel sick - WHY did doctors stop doing housecalls?) He listened to my chest and told me that I did not have a chest infection, whereupon I saw my chance of drugs receding and I almost cried until he said 'wait.... do you have a history of.... asthma?' like a gameshow host. And I gulped 'Yes! Yes I do!' and then he opened the doctorial equivalent of the golden suitcase and wrote me out a prescription for a short course of steroids. I don't know if you've ever had the good fortune to take steroids, but they are pretty horrible things. My friend Amy described it perfectly by saying 'they make me want to unzip my own skin and crawl right out'. So ummmmm, yes, that is exactly what I feel like right now. And my gums feel like they are buzzing or vibrating, so my teeth keep feeling like they are about to fall out. I really wish I was making that up. But they (the steroids, not my teeth) do seem to be making a dent in the coughing, and lately when I try to breathe the oxygen tends to go in the right direction, so I guess it is worth it. Just.

Now I'm just waiting for the anosmia to go away. I seriously. Cannot. Smell. Anything. I was so freaked out that I went to my (extensive) perfume collection just to find if anything could make it through the blocked tunnel that is my sinuses. And if there are any perfumistas reading (I know there's at least one) back me up on how bad this must be when I tell you that I cannot even smell POTL. At all. This is a perfume so strong that I keep my bottle inside a sealed box and only allow myself to wear it when it's actually snowing outside, but right now? It's on my skin and I don't even know it's there. Lots of days around here, there is so much pooping that I wish I couldn't smell, but when it happens it turns out to be no joke. I know the babies' usual pooping schedule pretty well (duh) but this morning we had an unscheduled incident that I was totally unaware of until .... ummmmmm, on second thoughts, actually, let's just move on from this topic.

Oh, and of course the babies are sick now too. I am so looking forward to travelling for Christmas.

You know? I have no idea why I'm even writing this. I guess sitting upright at the computer is a step in the right direction towards properly getting back in the human groove again. (<------- most worstly constructed sentence, ever, for which I apologise). As for getting back in the blogging groove? I'm feeling terribly uninspired, but that might be because of the whole wishing-I-could-unzip-my-skin thing. I've pretty much finished the choose your own adventure that I set myself much earlier in the year. I have a few ideas kicking around but nothing is making my fingers desperate to tap at the keyboard. So.... any requests? Any burning questions? Any suggestions?

Right, I'm off to see if I can find that zipper pull somewhere at the base of my spine.

I haven't gone anywhere

I'm just sick. Sick. As. A. Dog. Presuming that a dog has skin that burns when you touch it, a cough like an eighty-year-old smoker, dizziness and needs to type this sideways with her head resting on the table.

The last few days have been awful. The babies have been pretty well behaved, but even the most well-behaved children still poop, and get hungry, and try to eat bits of plastic. And it turns out that even the most laid-back children only want to spend so much time in their cots 'resting'. I'm trying to celebrate small achievements, giving myself a lot of pep talks that go 'yeah, claudia! You went down the stairs without falling over!' and 'go claudia! you opened a pack of bread!' and 'well done, claudia! you turned on a dvd for the babies!' but things are rapidly going downhill around here. It's a disaster area. All of which would be JUST about bearable - these things happen, right? And I'll get over it eventually, right? except:

We have our final adoption hearing tomorrow.

At the High Court.

In Central London.

Which means that in less than 24 hours, J and I have to get two wriggly toddlers onto a train EARLY in the morning, then onto the Underground, then into court. And back again. And today I'm finding it hard to stand up. It's been days since I even wore shoes. We were really looking forward to this - it's the end of a LOT of legal stuff that I haven't really written about here, but we will really be glad to see the end of. We even had plans to drink a particularly nice bottle of wine afterwards that's been sitting around for about two and a half years, waiting for just such an auspicious occasion. (Nice, in my house, means that it cost more than £6. And actually, I'm sure this was at least £8, so we're talking beyond nice and into fancy).

But I'm definitely not looking forward to it anymore. The thought of it is bringing me out in a cold sweat - although on second thoughts maybe that was already there. What am I going to do? I'm totally at a loss, people, and asking for your advice. The hearing can't be rescheduled, so that's not an option. But I want your home remedies, however wacky, or advice for looking after babies while sick, or heck, just tell me a joke to make me feel better.

Because I am all out of ideas.

Wordless Wednesday

Queuing for Starfish

Before you start: Read this background post first. And be aware that what I'm writing about here is the adoption of healthy infants. I don't know enough about other types of adoption to know whether much of this applies to them too. It may. It may not. But I know it's true here. Also, I'm assuming ethical adoptions; this post is long enough.

Oh, and just in case anybody thinks that I'm sitting up on my high horse to write this post, I want to remind you all that we adopted three month old healthy twins. Hear that? Three month old. Healthy. Twins. And one of the twins was a girl.

***************

A few weeks ago, I was talking to a friend who we hadn't seen in a while. She's really nice, and she was telling us how lovely our babies are. I was lapping it up, of course. It was good. And then, she started talking about adoption in general. She said that one of her friends talks about adopting one day, she talks about adopting a baby girl from China. She wants to do this because she feels so sad about all those abandoned babies, all those children with no homes.

And I said 'well, if she wants to adopt from China it would be a very long wait'. And she asked why, and I said that there are fewer legally adoptable babies than parents waiting for them. And this is why there is such a long wait - essentially, there is a very long queue. And she asked me whether it was like that in Ethiopia too, and I said yes. The queue isn't nearly as long as China, but it's getting pretty long. There are a lot more waiting families than waiting babies. In fact, there aren't really adoptable babies anywhere in the world who are waiting for families. There is nowhere, at the moment, where there is a legal, accessible international adoption programme and a need for families. Nowhere.

Talking about this made me think about how I felt when we were waiting. I read blog after blog and saw little tickers marking out how long people had waited to be matched with their Ethiopian baby. Six months. Nine months. A year. More than a year. My heart clenched. I was not sure that I could bear that weight of waiting. I felt sad-sad-sad, but I also felt a teeny bit cranky. How could this be possible? Wasn't there a huge, gaping need? Weren't there millions of orphans? Why was mine taking so long to appear, if that was the case? Eventually, I came to face the fact that my imaginary orphan, the one who needed us, was a myth. He didn’t exist. Maybe he did, ten years ago, or maybe she still does, if she is thirteen years old and has severe health problems. But a healthy infant? There was no need there. These waiting times were getting longer because there was a queue- a huge queue - of people wanting to take one of these babies home. I realised what I said above - that none of the healthy infants available for adoption, anywhere on this planet, will grow up in an orphanage. I should have been happy about this. I should have been singing for joy. After all, who wants to see a baby grow up in an orphanage? I should have been happy, but I wasn't, not really. It turned out to be surprisingly hard to face the fact that there was no baby orphan waiting for us to rescue him. That was just a fantasy. There are children to adopt, but there was a queue in front of us and a queue behind. Joining that queue wasn’t a bad thing to do, but it wasn’t fulfilling James 1:27 either. I wanted a baby, but I also wanted to believe that I was doing something worthwhile. I wanted to know it was needed.

I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one. I think that most of us - the adoption community, society, the media - have a 'starfish' view of adoption. This view says that there is a huge need - a global orphan crisis - and adoption is a way of responding that need, one starfish at a time. We are always quick to say that adoption isn't the answer to the crisis. We can never throw all the starfish. And it would be better if there were far, far, fewer starfish on the beach in the first place. But there's an unspoken assumption that deciding to throw a starfish will definitely help a little bit. It's this view that inspires people to write a hundred variations on this sentence:

"Adoption is not for everyone, so here's how to help orphans if you can't adopt!"

Because obviously, adoption is what will help the most. Obviously. Right? But I've come to think that when the motivation is to help, to give back, to care about orphans, then applying to adopt a healthy infant is actually more like looking for lost money underneath the streetlight.

Here's what I mean by that.

There are children in horrible, unbearable need around the world. In Haiti, in Pakistan. In Somalia. We see them on our screens. We read about them. We are haunted by them. We want to know how to help. And this is absolutely the right response - how can we go on living, unchanged, knowing that there are children who don't have enough to eat, who don't have clean water, who don't even have parents? It's unimaginable, especially if we start to think of our own children in that situation.

And so I think the logic goes something like this. I know that there are newborn babies abandoned in, say, Haiti with nobody to take them in. I can't bear it. I really, really want to help one of those babies in Haiti. Maybe I should adopt a baby. There is such enormous need, and I have so much to give. No, it's too expensive. No, it will disrupt my life too much. No, everybody will think I'm crazy. But the idea doesn't go away, and I continue to be haunted by the faces of the children who have nobody. Who am I to say no? How can I be that selfish? How can I know about the beach full of starfish and not take even one to safety? Okay, that's it. I have to do this. I will do this! I'm going to adopt! I can't actually adopt from Haiti, but there are babies to adopt in Ethiopia - there are lots of orphans there too - alright, I've made up my mind. We are going to adopt an Ethiopian orphan. Baby, here we come!

But adding your name to the Ethiopia queue doesn't actually do anything to help. There are children in the world who need families and can't get them, and that's awful. But those babies aren't in the Ethiopian adoption programme. There's a really good, transparent, seemingly ethical adoption system operating in Ethiopia that acts like a great big streetlight. This means that adoptable babies in Ethiopia are in no danger of languishing in an orphanage, waiting forever for a forever family. So going there in order to help by adopting an infant is like that man searching for his coin under a streetlight. Good idea, wrong place. Ultimately a bit pointless. All that is really achieved is that everybody behind you in the Ethiopia queue is going to wait a bit longer. Not the sentiment of which youtube adoption videos are made, perhaps. But true, I think.

I think that the problem comes in because we confuse a micro-need with a macro-need. (Look at me! I just made up some words!) On a micro level, at the level of each individual child, there is undeniably a need. A child without a family needs a family. But on a macro level, there is no need for families to come forward to adopt healthy infants because there are already so many waiting. And so coming forward as a way of helping seems - as I said - a little bit pointless.

Two statements I come across pretty frequently as reasons for adoption are "There are so many orphans and we want to give one a home" and "There is so much need, and we feel called (or some secular version of the same sentiment) to respond". But if those are your reasons for adopting an infant from Ethiopia, here's what I want to say to you: I get where you are coming from, and I honour your desire to help, but I would encourage you to reconsider your plans.

People often say - don't adopt, send money instead. And we respond by saying - you've missed the point, it's not about the money, what children need most of all is families. And this is true. But here's something - none these adoptable babies are going to miss out on families. Because of the queue. So if what you want to do is help, then it really would be more use to send the money. The money you send can help the other kids, the older kids, the kids who are about to become adults, the families, the mothers who have trouble affording food, the fathers who are out of work, the aunts and uncles who have taken in their sister's or brother's children. If you want to help, your money will do a lot more good than joining the queue.

Having just typed that, I'm a little shocked at myself. Am I really telling people not to adopt? Well, yes and no. I'm not saying don't do it, I'm just saying don't do it in order to help anybody.

I'm aware that this has different implications for those of us who are fertility challenged, and whose primary motivation is to have a family, rather than respond to an orphan crisis. It's only possible to do that ethically when there are children with individual needs for families, as I outlined earlier, but we shouldn't kid our selves that when we adopt babies we're doing anything grand, no matter what our fertility status is. I'm always a bit tempted to roll my eyes when people go out of their way to make sure others know that their adoption is not because of infertility - I sometimes suspect there is a bit of a subtext that says 'we don't need this baby, we could totally make our own. We are just seriously awesome people who love orphans'.

That makes me want to puke a bit*. But those of us starting families by adoption need to be careful too, about the way we think and talk about our children and what we're doing. If there is a saviour fantasy, a starfish fantasy, in adoption, the infertile are also pretty heavily invested in that. Sometimes I wonder if this fantasy is particularly appealing to the infertile because it seems so beautifully redemptive for us. I know that after months or years of having nothing, I wanted to believe that I was finally in a position to have something to offer. I was so needy for so long, I wanted to be rid of that role. If I can convince myself that there is a need, it takes me from supplicant to benefactor and of course that is appealing. We have been through so much before we get to this point - surely we are due something spectacular? Infertility is a deeply, deeply humiliating experience, and coming out the end of that ordeal as a humble supplicant – again - felt like more than I could bear. How much more attractive to see my situation transformed and redeemed – to see my pain eventually becoming the trigger for an action of pure good. And on a micro level, it is good. But that doesn't mean it's needed, in any kind of larger sense. I prefer the version of myself that is responding to a need rather than waiting in a queue. But I think the second is more accurate. By adopting, I get a family, but if I hadn't adopted, my children wouldn't have missed out. The worst thing that would have happened to them is that they might have ended up in Belgium. My self-concept doesn't like that fact, but I know it's true.

So if all of that is true... what then? Well, for a start, I don't think that we should be colluding with the starfish narrative, at least not when it comes to infant adoptions. We should probably get more comfortable with saying 'no, there wasn't a need. Actually, there was a really long queue. But we waited in that queue, because we really wanted a baby'. Because that's what's true, surely? And if that isn't true... well, why did you adopt?

.

*{edited to add: Just to be clear, because I probably wasn't clear enough above - I don't have any problem, at all, with fertile people who adopt! Frankly, your fertility is none of my business. My only puking issues are with people who NEED everyone to KNOW that they are fertile, and can't bear the thought that anyone might think they are adopting due to fertility issues and so make a big deal of it - there's a great big huge giant difference. Fertility issues are nothing to be ashamed of, and this attitude implies that they are, which really annoys me. This doesn't apply to ANY of my regular readers / commenters. Not even one of you.

.

Oh, and one gentle reminder to those who have adopted before ever trying for a baby - and this sort of includes me, since we came to adoption because of genetic stuff rather than textbook infertility - I'm sure you think you're fertile, and statistically you probably are, but you don't actually KNOW that you are. A lot of people who adopt due to INfertility thought they were fertile too, until they tried. But you knew that already, right? :) }

A Link, Two Stories And A Question

My sister used to be a moderator on a parenting forum. While she was doing this, she told me that she had learned the First Rule of the Internet: the longer you mull over something, the longer you spend writing a post, the more it matters to you: the less anybody else is going to care. Her rule makes me think of this xkcd cartoon (hat tip to Dawn):

Right. So, I know all of that, and yet I've been thinking far too much about National Adoption Month and other things of that ilk. I have had a post half-written on this topic forever - I keep deleting bits and then writing more, THIS TIME IN ALL CAPS, BECAUSE THAT WAY PEOPLE WILL KNOW THAT I'M RIGHT. I'm tired of it, I'm tired of how upset it makes me, and I'm tired of the shrill version of myself that I see there.

If I post my hugely important, life-changing, world-shaking, how-did-anybody-live-without-reading-this thoughts, I realise that most of you are probably going to say 'duh! We already knew that!', some will totally disagree, and the rest will just think it was a lot more fun when I mostly posted pictures of my cat. And yet, I think I'm probably going to post it anyway, because I still think it's important stuff and I want it out of my system. But not today, obviously, because it's still only half-written. And not enough of it is yet in bold, the most persuasive font modification of them all. Ha ha.

Okay. I feel like there is far too much to say. In fact, I think the whole thing would be a bit easier if I split it in two, so that's what I'm doing. I'm going to just start off with some background, without any commentary. If I have to tape my typing hands to the wall, I promise I will not provide any commentary. So here you are: just background. A link, two stories, and a question.

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LINK

I have no idea who Six Seeds are, and I certainly have no idea how they got my email address. I guess I probably gave it to them willingly, but I have no recollection of it. Whoever they are, they've taken to sending me emails. Here's a link they sent me this morning:

Is Adoption the Only Way To Help?

The strapline they used to entice me to click on the link was: What's the best way to help orphans without adding diapers to my grocery list?

STORY #1

The Starfish Thrower

As the old man walked along the beach at dawn, he noticed a young man ahead of him picking up starfish and flinging them back into the sea. Finally catching up to the youth, he asked why he was doing this. The answer was that the starfish would die if left until the morning sun. “But the beach goes on for miles and miles and there are millions of starfish,” said the old man.”How can your effort make any difference?” The young man looked at the starfish in his hand and threw it safely into the waves. “It makes a difference to this one,” he said.

—-Loren Eisely
adapted from ‘The Starfish Thrower’ in the book ‘The Unexpected Universe’

STORY #2

A policeman is walking along the street at night. As he gets to the corner of two blocks, he sees a man looking for some lost money under the street light . He offers to help him look. After a few moments the policeman asked the man, "Exactly where did you lose the money?" The man replied, "Oh I lost it half way down the block." The policeman said, "Then why are you searching here?" The man said, "Because the light is so much better!"

QUESTION

Why does it take so long to adopt a healthy infant from Ethiopia?

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Okay. There's the background. More tomorrow. Or, knowing me, maybe the next day.

Not Everything Is About Adoption

(Just a miniature post today. I've used up all my computer time sorting through photos).

Yesterday was J's first day off work to do Daddy Duty. After the babies' nap, he walked into town to get his phone unlocked. He wheeled the babies to one of those kiosks that unlock phones and sell watches of dubious origin. The guy running the stall, a South Asian man, agreed to unlock his phone and got working. After a few minutes, he gestured at the babies. He said:

"Their mother? She.....?" J had learned from my mistakes and said:
"No, she's white too." The man looked confused.
"We adopted them." The man continued to look confused.
"They are from Ethiopia." Still confused. After a pause, he finished unlocking the phone, J paid and then went on his way. He hadn't got far before he realised what the man had really been asking about the babies' mother - not where is she from, but where is she now. And he should just have said:

"At work. Their mother is at work".

Last Day

Here are some reasons that it's nice to live in England:

Reason 1: It's very close to Europe, so we can go on holiday to Barcelona with only a two hour plane flight. Well, theoretically. We have only done it once, and J's work was paying (conference = holiday, right?) We had hoped to do it again two weeks ago, but a Spanish visa for an Ethiopian bebe turned out to be harder to procure than we had hoped. Boo. So instead (and here's reason 2) we just went for a two hour drive and got to go on holiday here instead:

Okay, not this actual place (this is Leeds Castle, which is nowhere near Leeds, for reasons that I would probably understand much better if I had bothered to read the guide book) but close enough to spend the day visiting. It was nice. There is nowhere like that in Australia.

Reason 3: Having returned from a holiday that was, as I said, less than two hours drive away, people asked - with totally straight faces- what the weather had been like there. I've been here nearly ten years, but continue to enjoy this part of British culture - weather is taken very seriously. It can be dissected and predicted for hours at a time. I once shared a house with a girl who liked having the smaller bedroom in that house because the window faced onto a busy street. Reason? It let her see what weight of clothing people were wearing that day in response to the weather outside, and helped her to make a more informed decision about what level of waterproofing she was going to require. I'm not making that up. If you value your life, here, you do NOT talk during the weather forecast. I like that.

Reason 4: We get royal weddings! Hard-bitten cynic I may be, but there is enough of the five year old girl left inside to squee just a teensy bit about this. She's going to be a REAL LIVE PRINCESS! Come on. That's fabulous. (And speaking of five year old girls... you've all seen Lori's latest post, haven't you? If not, go! )

Reason 5: Employers are legally required to provide 12 months of maternity / adoption leave. Really - 12 whole months. I know. And because mine couldn't actually start until the babies were in the UK, I've actually had 15 months. Fifteen months. Fifteen whole months off work. I know how lucky I am.

Really, I do.

But it turns out that even 15 months off work isn't actually infinity. I thought it was, but it's not. And mine is over. I know that if I complain (fifteen months!) you are all going to throw things at me (well, at your screen) so I'm not complaining. But I'm going to be honest and say that I feel sad, so sad about going back to work. And here's where you might want to throw things even more - I'm only going back two days a week, and J is going to be looking after the babies on those days. So my sadness has nothing to do with them. They will be fine, and more than fine. They like me, but they totally adore their father. Two days a week of Daddy's house of fun is going to be the best thing that ever happened to them. But dangit, I don't want to go!

Often, before I had children, people would say things like 'oh, motherhood is the hardest job in the world' and I would say 'uh huh!' and smile brightly, but I was always thinking 'you know what else is hard work, lady? WORK! Work is hard work!' and I still think that is true. I don't want to get into the whole "better than / more rewarding than/ less boring than / more fulfilling than / less likely to result in therapy than" discussion, because I think it's pretty fruitless. Paid work and full-time motherhood both have advantages, but choosing either means choosing a certain set of losses, too. I know that if I could pick, I would rather stay home, at least for another few years. But if I don't take my job back now, when they are legally obliged to give it to me, I'd never get another part-time job in my sector. Ever. And J wants to be with the babies, too. I don't own them. He has a long commute, which means when he's working full time he gets home from his job after they are in bed each night. This new arrangement is going to be so much better for the three of them. My head knows that.

And have I mentioned that on the days I'm working, they're going to be with their father? So really, there is no reason at all for me to be concerned about them. At all. And in a way, that kind of stinks because frankly, I want to be able to project my fears and anxiety onto something. I want to convince myself that all my heartache and paranoia is about them, rather than the prosaic truth which is that it is all about me. It's about me. It's just about me. I don't want to leave them. (Well, I do, but only to go and see a movie, or try on shoes. Not to work). I don't want to say goodbye in the mornings. And then when I get to work, I'm worried that I will have forgotten how to be a grownup. I'm worried that I will belch in the middle of a silence, forgetting that isn't appropriate office behaviour and nobody is going to giggle. I'm worried that I won't be able to solve any of my daily problems by singing or dancing. I'm worried that I'll be stupid and slow. I'm worried that I will have forgotten how to concentrate for more than ten minutes at a time. I'm worried that one day someone will ask me to produce some income / expenditure ratios and I'll say "No! And do you know why? Because I don't care".

But mostly, I'm worried that they wont' be all mine anymore. They will do things, and I won't be there. They are both right on the cusp of walking, the cusp of talking. I just assumed I would be the one who saw those firsts. And even when it's my husband who will get to see them instead, I still wish it was me.

It hasn't been an easy year, especially the last few months - September, October and November kicked my butt pretty comprehensively. But it was my year, and I'm going to miss it. And so today was the last day that they were all mine. And it reminds me that one day they are going to leave home, and get married and stuff. I know I should be philosophical about this, but I'm not. I just want to squinch them tight forever and keep them safe. I want them always to greet me in the morning by whistling. I want to always be able to tuck them in. I want them to stay snuggly and tiny and they won't. And I know that's okay. But today, it makes me feel sad.

It's Been A Year

Our adoption was finalised on October 27, 2009. That was the day we went to court, got some stuff stamped and signed, then went out for lunch, then went to the children's home one final time, took our babies back to the hotel in a taxi and became parents. Yikes.

We have video of all of us in the taxi on the way home. We seem calm-ish, but if you know us well there's an unmistakeable hint of hysteria in our voices. Rather than two well-prepared, rational adults, we seem a bit more like a couple who met in Vegas, had a few too many shots and are now walking out of the Chapel of Love wearing matching sweatshirts saying Mr & Mrs. Our voices are saying "we're so happy!" but our eyes are asking "what have we done?"

And we were happy, of course. But it was the strangest feeling to suddenly become parents. We had met the babies and spent time with them. We already loved them, but we knew that until the court made the ruling, they weren't our kids. Now, suddenly, they were. You know that feeling when you have eaten way too much and your tummy cries out "stop! No more, no more!" That's how my heart felt that day. It felt crammed full, too full of feelings. It was like being forcefed on emotions by a very insistent host. "Here! Have some happiness! It's excellent! Try the relief! Here, have more! How about the guilt? You like guilt? Ah, take a double helping! You have room for some gratitude? And please, you must take a little confusion. I see some more room on your plate! I'll put a bit of fear of the future on there! How about some generalised, non-specific anxiety? It's extra good with my specialty: feelings of inadequacy. Hey, look! All your happiness is gone! Okay, you must have some more! No, I insist!" You get the picture.

So, hearts full to the point of nausea, we took the babies back to the hotel and unwrapped them. I don't want to get all symbolic on you and start talking about chrysalises and butterflies, because if I do that you will all need to run off and find a container to barf into. But unwrapping them felt incredibly important to us - it was our first act of parenthood. They had been so tightly and thickly swaddled while in the children's home that they were always bathed in sweat. This is pretty dangerous for babies (duh!), and seeing it had always terrifed me. Every time we visited them, they were damp, and limp and underneath all the layers it turned out they had no muscle tone at all. But now we could let them move. We didn't change their clothes, because we wanted them to have familiar smells, but we massaged their little arms and legs and watched their huge eyes widen as they learned that their bodies could s-t-r-e-t-c-h. We held them and fed them and looked and looked and looked and drank in the fact that we were all together in the same room, a family at last.

Well, that's how it felt to J and I, anyway. We knew that this wasn't 'at last' for them - adoption issues aside, they were three months old and three month old babies don't really have a concept of time.

Eventually, everybody over two feet tall got hungry. Mum and J decided to go and get pizza from the shop at the end of our road, and I stayed behind to keep up the flow of milk. They left, and suddenly I was on my own with these two tiny humans. It was amazing. I remember putting baby I down on my lap to feed him. I pulled my knees up nearly to my chin and we stared and stared at each other. He blniked at me quietly and drank and drank while L slept. M and J can't have been gone for very long, but it felt like hours. Things would get really, really hard in about six hours time, and stay that way for weeks, but that first time on my own with my children (my children!) felt magical.

We'd been advised by the paediatrician to just let them drink as much as they wanted, and so that's what we did. That afternoon I think he drank pretty much his whole bodyweight in milk. Three month old babies don't know very much, but it turns out they aren't stupid. They had been, frankly, neglected. I am not drinking adoption Kool-Aid when I say that they obviously preferred the care of two imperfect, utterly overwhelmed parents to the life they had immediately before adoption. On that first day they learned that they could have all the milk they wanted, whenever they wanted it and they adapted to life on the milky train pretty quickly. I don't mean that they loved us, but they were perfectly happy to have us around. This was actually a bit of a surprise. I had prepared myself for some kind of writhing yellfest, but it really didn't happen. I know that all kids are different, and I know that babies process loss in ways that aren't always obvious. I'm not saying they were wearing badges with 'I love my new forever family!' written on them, but I never had a moment's doubt that they were better off (yes! I said it! Better off!) with us than they were in the orphanage.

Let me tell you something about that orphanage: it was awful. You know how some people get to say "oh the care our baby got was wonderful"? We did not get to say that. I've heard that things are better there now, and I'm really glad about that. And I know that, as institutions go, it was a pretty good institution. So relatively speaking, it was fine. But as a place to leave your child, it was not a good place. The guilt I feel (and believe me, I feel plenty of guilt) has nothing to do with taking the babies away from there. In fact -if you will bear with a digression - I think the main reason why so many conversations about ethics get derailed with the old saw about families being better than orphanages is because adoptive parents see, first hand, how visibly children tend to thrive when they leave an orphanage for parental care. It makes us think about butterflies, and I'm not the kind of person who often thinks about butterflies. I compare my children's life in the afternoon of that day with how it was in the morning and I know it was better. That makes me feel, viscerally, that our adoption must have been a Good Thing. But when I'm thinking clearly, I don't really think that the 'orphanage or family' question has very much to do with the heart of international adoption ethics. The real questions must be about this: why was that baby in the orphanage in the first place? Because if you stole my children from me right now, or paid me to relinquish them, or coerced me into it, and then put them in an orphanage, anybody who adopted them in six months time would have the same post-adoption experience that I did. Life with their new family would be infinitely better than it was in that orphanage, but if the children shouldn't have been there in the first place that isn't really the point, is it? But that's a whole different post. Okay, digression over.

And so now it's been a year. I'm so thankful. But there's a part of me that feels like we don't have the right to celebrate it. Like all I should ever say as an adoptive parent is I'm sorry, I'm a bad person. I didn't post about it at the time because I felt kind of weird publicly celebrating something that was making me feel so conflicted. I feel like there's a lot of anti-adoptive-parent sentiment out there, and sometimes I find myself buying into that out of guilt. And how can I write about something when I don't even know what to call it? This post is a great explanation of why I'm not fond of the term 'gotcha day'. I would lean towards family day, but there are times when I feel like even this is more than we should claim. I'm so aware that these are our first children, but we are not their first parents. They were born into a family before they were adopted into one.

And so, 2010. My mother was here with us again, and my father too, this time - so we swapped stories about our memories of the day, and kissed the babies a lot, and thanked God for all his mercies to us. We ate pizza and milk that day a year ago, and so this year we marked it by doing the same thing - milk for the babies and pizza for the adults. Next year I'm hoping the babies will actually eat some pizza too and not just fling it on the floor. So maybe we should just call it pizza day. And maybe we will. If we were being scrupulously honest about 2009, we would call it "pizza and milk, most of which got vomited up later" day, but that's not really something we're hoping will become an annual event.

But the more I think about it, the more happy I am to confidently claim Family Day too. Not just as a technicality, but as a celebration. Forming our family was difficult, ethically complicated and the result of tragedy. There's no disputing that my babies have four real parents. But J and I are definitely two of them. We are definitely a family. Our babies have to face some very sad anniversaries in the years to come, but October 27 is not one of them. So Happy Belated Family Day, babies. We're so glad we're yours.