Preparing for Reunion Sources: Ideas anyone?

So, I was contacted by a blog to write my relinquish /search / find/ reunite story for them. The hug challenge was that I had to do the whole thing in one post length and I do not do "brief" very well, as we all know. But, I nailed it down... it's like the readers digest condensed version. And it's up, it's cool. It's got a link back to here. #1) They are looking for more stories, so if anyone is interested, it's pretty easy to submit, etc. #2) While quickly realized that the blog is more or less for attracting people to sell DNA testing, It also will have a good chance of getting traffic via search engines from people looking for information in finding folks and DNA testing, so I suggested to the author that they should really do moire than have just heart warming stories that inspires people to find lost relatives, she should also have resources for to prepare for reunion.. coz lord knows, even if it's good.. it still makes you feel weird and overly emotional and kind of insane of times. Thankfully, she is very open to that.. so since I was MIA for some time, if there are any new good reunion prep sites, or posts, or whathaveyou.. please pass them on. I just hate the thought of people going into renions thinking Hallmark moments and getting blindsided.

Open Records in Adoption Poll: 100% Favor Change in Laws

I have been eyeing that bit of real estate on my sidebar. The one where I have that poll. My side bar is too long. It' just that my blogrools are huge. I guess I shoul dgo through them, but that always means that I must add more. Which is good, but it makes for a very long sidebar. I guess it balances out my long posts. Anyway, I have been counting down the days for the poll to end. It's been up for over a year. It's closed. Finially. The results are rather surprising. But not. If you haven't noticed and have no idea what I am taklking about, then here, let me explain. I took a poll. I asked:

Do you support access for adult adoptees to obtain their Original Birth Certificate?

And you could answer yes or no and we to idenify which portion of the so called adoption triade you wee in. So you could be an adoptee, an adoptive parent, a parent of loss, or not directly effected.

Two Hundred and fifty seven people voted. 100% of that 257 said yes.

And the breakdown was as follows:

Adoptees: 45 or 17% Parents of Loss:68 or 26% Adoptive Parents: 89 or 34% Unaffected: 52 or 20%

Now what is really no that surprising is that everyone said yes, that they support open access for records. I mean, one would think hat anyone who came here would be of like mind.

But, there was once a time when people "on the other side" would purposely go and skew polls just to prove their point. Heck, I have rallied votes when needed.

What I find interesting and surprising is that no one voted no. Not one person. Someone who found their way here at least ONCE in over a year must have felt strongly in favor for closed recors.

Or maybe not.

And that, makes me ponder in a good way.

and now I can take down the poll!

How to Become a Birthmother: Chapter 2ish

I recommend reading "How to become a Birthmother Chapter 1" first ****

There was a second lunch. It rode on the innocent coat tails of the first.

You know, “That was nice. Let’s do it again” I am a sucker for great food. Growing up, my Uncle Mike would think nothing of spending eighty or ninety dollars at the specialty Italian deli on imported prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella that we would dine on with fresh semolina bread. It’s a family tradition to anticipate the arrival of the Christmas Harrington Ham that he still sends every year. To send me this ham, Fed Exed from Vermont, wipes him out approximately one hundred and fifty dollars and it’s one of my most treasured gifts. So maybe it was the thought of the great wine and succulent veal that tempted me again. I can admit that I probably just as greatly anticipated the attention and conversation with him, but I could not have seen that then. This time the restaurant was ethnically Spanish in flavor which made sense knowing his love and business attachments to Spain and the South Americas. I believe, it is considered one of the best of its kind in New York. Whether it is Portuguese or South American I can’t recall. But I had been there before he took me that day. I actually couldn’t remember the details of this lunch until I started writing this and then it hit me, much like the way I hadn’t remembered being in that restaurant until I walked in with him. I had gone there before with my parents. I want to say to celebrate a promotion of my father’s in the police force. It could have been when he made Sergeant, though I was three at the time and I think I would not have had such a recollection, so I will guess that it was when he had made Lieutenant. I must have been about eleven or twelve? You would think I would remember such an important event in my parent’s lives. It must have been the highest point of my father’s career in the NYPD, and though never a cheerleader type, my mother would have applauded the rise and monetary benefits, yet I am completely in the dark. What is it about childhood that makes it all so warped? I was not ever an oblivious kid. I took great pride at knowing everything. I knew where all things were kept in the house. I knew all my Christmas presents every year. I knew where my father stashed his porn. I knew what the arguments were about. I eavesdropped. I spied. I listened to the adults talk over Sunday dinner and the whispers from my parent’s bedroom late at night. To this day, I am not the one to ask questions, but I strain for answers and one of the worst things someone can do to me is withhold information. And yet, I find myself left with big black holes in my youth where I yearn for the truth and I have no one left to ask. Maybe it is a matter of perspective, but my adult mind struggles for the adult versions now and all that I have is the view from my childhood eyes and mind. I find it so frustrating. The place was extremely unique in decor and that is what triggered the memory, yet I didn’t know then what I had been there for. I think my grandparents were there too? Oh, who knows! You had to go upstairs to the main dining room and the stair case was all mosaic tiles and obviously quite unforgettable. I have never been good with names, so I am not going to attempt to pull that from my brain. I know both times I ate paella. The first time I ever had paella was there and then Sondra and Marina made it one Christmas Eve and then I ate it there again. Hard to believe I have such a good memory for the food, but as I said, I am a sucker for good food. Luckily, I have also learned to be a good cook and I can make my own paella now and I do a darn good job if I don’t say so myself. I can’t, however, begin to reconstruct the conversation and, again, looking back, I am hard pressed to even imagine how I could have pulled it off. I guess this is where my acting abilities come into play for I must have been somewhat entertaining. I know that I was an extremely shy and fearful child, but I forcibly shed that skin when I donned my teenage black persona years earlier. I had one therapist who called it a “grandiose mask” as if it was something negative, but if my true self was so very shy and fearful..well I would not want to be my real self again as it makes it very hard to function in real life. I know I can still control my outward self and come across with great confidence and self assurance. What is that saying? “Fake it till you make it” I must have faked it then for there is no way I could have let on to him what was really in my heart.

The date book again provides the painful truth of what my daily life was like.

It reads like a social whirlwind and I believe that was my intentions. Constantly on the go: parties and concerts, talking to names that I cannot phantom a face to now, roving from one bar to the next, shopping and spending, into the city and back to the island, staying at one friends, crashing at another’s, hooking up with this guy, seeing that one for drinks, and pining over a third. It doesn’t seem that I ever slept in my own bed in whatever place I called home. I had a ring of places in the city to stay at: Anna’s, Laura’s, Ian’s, Bethany’s, Christopher’s, Ashmi’s, Guy’s, Pammy’s. Always sore from sleeping on a hard floor and needing a good shower. I feel so disassociated from that life now. Like it something that I saw once in a movie or read in a novel. It is hard to remember that it is me and I did live it. It is very hard to remember the true feelings that I had then. It all hurts. It looks and sound’s exciting, but the essence is sadness. I get the sense I was running, running away from my life and trying desperately to find some other life to live. My writings at the time, aside from being horribly adolescent, are overwhelmingly bleak. Constantly questioning why was I not good enough for anyone. I go from great excitement when facing anything new, an abundance of hope and exuberance at the thought of a chance and then quickly and repeatedly betrayed, the despair at that being an reoccurring theme. I am obviously depressed and frequently suicidal. The words are written in haste and running from tears. I am saddened to recognize it in myself, yet angered when I remember that no one else seemed to notice and I was left alone to war with myself.

Perhaps I was too good of an actress.

As I said, I lied to my poor therapist for a year and they are supposed to see through these kinds of things. At lunch, I must have put on the good, amusing front for him. Spun the stories in an exciting web while leaving out the tears of shame and scars of self mutilation. I could speak of the wonderful concerts I attended and my fabulous friends in cutting edge bands. We went to movies and to museums, I dined and danced. My sarcasm and wit could make the uncomfortable humorous and I could edit the rest. Yes, I can imagine doing just that. And perhaps the sorrow behind the anecdotes made me all the more mysterious. Somehow, I managed to pull off innocent lunch number two. The line in the proverbial sand was not yet crossed and had I just thanked him for the fine food and went back to my dejecting life then I would have little story to tell. But once again, it was so lovely to feel good about something. It was so nice to have someone, and such an accomplished someone, to think fine thoughts about me. Maybe it was as plain as day and anyone observing us would have seen where we were headed. But I left the restaurant that day feeling upbeat and happy, feeling special and thankful and all the more vulnerable for the next invitation.

The memories begin to become much sharper here.

I know the date. It was January 16th. It was my brother’s 6th birthday and it was a Friday. The Long Island Railroad was threatening a strike that night at midnight and that would have been a concern in my world. I took the train from the Massapequa Park station every morning for the hour long ride into the city. Always tired and constantly late, my mother would rush me to the 7:55 in town. I hated the times in the car with her as that was a time when I was trapped in her presence. She could bombard me with her strident voice, whether complaining about my life or my father’s antics or some new insult or annoyance from my grandfather. It was not a good way to start one’s mornings. Of the day itself, there was nothing of note. I worked my position as receptionist. By now I was pretty much there full time having the scheduling confines of art school removed by my distasteful withdrawal from school. I did enjoy the work, which I have always had the tendency to do. I enjoyed the weekly paycheck which seemed to make me rich when compared to my friends. Everyone else was in school of some kind and few had jobs as well. I think Laura lived for her two years at F.I.T on forty dollars a week spending money. I still don’t know how she managed, but I guess my generosity was helpful. I know I would buy us all drinks when we were out and often sprung for the taxi when it was time to stumble home. I would buy food and hair dye and shopping flings including the treasure black and pink mohair sweater and the rubber skirt. I would not stand for the excuse of having no money if I was up for an adventure. And we have already established that I did not sit still for long. I think I was wearing my black suite that day. I’d like to think so as it was an attractive outfit that my mother had purchased for me for my high school graduation that spring. Black, of course, it had a longish tight skirt and a fitted jacket. I think I might have been trying to pull off a professional look that day and wore my hair in a French twist. If this is so, then I most likely had on black pumps and black stockings though I sometimes would be daringly punk rock and wear my fishnets to the office. It could have been the fishnets that did it, for I would later notice a correlation between the fishnets and his attentions and use them often to entice a rendezvous, but I’m not sure of that day.

I know it was about four in the afternoon and the office was quiet when he approached me alone and asked if I’d like to go out for drinks after work.

I think he had precipitated the question with enquiring as to how late I was staying to work. I had planned on working to sixish (since most days I ended up arrived closer to ten rather than the traditional nine) and told him so. Did he respond , “Great! Wait for me to finish up and then we’ll go”? It feels probable. I knew that this time it was different. That this time there could be no pretending of innocence. I was completely aware of the consequences of this outing, but only felt disbelief and excitement. Disbelief that it was really true and excitement that it was really going to happen.

I know that I knew it to be at least questionably wrong due to the nature of our relationship as boss and employee and due to the huge difference in age, but felt that I must go through with the adventure.

I had to see it through and see where it would take me. Long a reader of trashy Cosmopolitan, I felt I owed it to myself to do whatever good Cosmo girl would do. And years of Cosmo, had conditioned me to see and glorify this moment as a moment of triumph. I had the city job, I worked on my city look, I pretended to have the exciting life, of course, I would go out with the boss. I had this innate desire know all to live all. I use to say that I would rather have lived through something, whether good or bad, and really knew what it was about rather than read about it in a book or see it in a movie and frightenly enough, I believed it. I wrote in that time,

“Life is weird. I want to experience everything and when I’m done and I’m bored then I want to die”

Unfortunately, this did little for heeded one’s sixth sense or survival mechanisms, or listening to the little voice in one’s head saying, ”Are you sure this is a good idea?” The little voice still sounded too much like my mother and I still had too much distain for her to hear any wisdom in anything she might have uttered. In fact, my tendency was probably to do exactly what I knew I shouldn’t. That it was my brother’s birthday and I would miss his cake was of little consequence. That I had to be on a train by midnight or risk getting stuck in the city only added excitement to the mix. He didn’t have to tell me not to tell anyone for I knew it to be an unspoken secret.

I knew it to be forbidden and that only made me more excited to say yes.

Of course, I went Continued on: Seduction of a Birthmother: part 3 *** Ah, the beauty of Google maps. Here I can find without question my old office building. Moving my little google man up the street until I see the familer view. It looks so much like any other building in Midtown NYC, but I know the truth. I know what happened there. View Larger Map

How to become a Birthmother: Chapter 1

Some people have read this already, some have not. It's the whole damn thing.. how I came to be a birthmother. How I ended up in that place where I was open to adopiton to save me from this situration I got myself in. This is the story of getting myself in it. Oddly enough, 22 years ago today....just occuring to me now....so this is me... 22 years and about 2 weeks ago...

It started innocently enough, or so I thought.

Looking back, what did I really know? Not that I think it was some big plot on his end and certainly not to the extent of the final outcome, but I did not have a clue that a belated Christmas “Here, I’ll take you out to lunch.” would somehow manage to permeate and effect my life for years to come.

I’d like to think that he had the best of intentions. He really was just trying to be a nice boss and show some appreciation. And of course, I was just so fabulous and interesting that he could not but help to become beguiled and bewitched. But that would imply that I truly was just oh-so fabulous and interesting that I somehow could manage a true beguiling and bewitching. It would be a monstrous feat for while I pretended that I was indeed all that, in reality, I know it was all an act that I sometimes believed myself while wondering why no one else bought into it for too long.

Perhaps it was the complexity of the grandiose acts combined with the sympathy generated by the effects of my long dysfunctional life that intrigued him? I still do not know and I probably never will, but I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt; it all really started with a lunch.

I was nervous. I couldn’t imagine having to make real conversation with him for over an hour during a lunch. I was use to him blasting into the office, booming voice and heavy stepped, always in a rush, grabbing the messages from the little plastic box on my desk. His was the first name listed on the plastic dividers for his was the first name listed on the solid office door. I was the first desk one saw on the inside of the door. Just the receptionist and only by default. I only had the fucking job as a charitable move made by my aunt. Sondra was his executive legal secretary and her mother the office manager.

I don’t know why a law firm in Manhattan would have trouble finding a receptionist, but they claimed they did, so they put up with my complete lack of experience and weird hair. I worked it around my school schedule and active night life. It probably was a bad case of nepotism that they both would regret, but I would not know that until years later. I can say that I did do a mean job on the copy machine and my natural talents for organization made me somewhat as an asset. I couldn’t type for squat, but I became proficient at ordering lunch and making coffee.

Plus, I was always pleasant and willing to do the grunt work. Maybe it was the fact that I was so inexperienced and eager that enticed the invitation from him. Perhaps he saw the malleability of youth and the evident, though still unnamed by subsequent therapy, desire to please people. Perhaps it was the penchant for the dramatic black clothing, nasty boots and overindulgence of eyeliner that made him feel dirty inside. Or perhaps he just realized that day as he passed by my desk in a flurry of schedules that he forgot to acknowledge me for Christmas and haphazardly invited me to lunch on the morrow. I have no idea what went on through my little brain, but I said yes and so it began.

We went to a cute little French restaurant in Midtown.

It was cold being January, but, I think, we still walked. He walked quickly and I hustled to keep up and get out of the wind. The restaurant had a theme of crayons or colors were somewhere in the name. He, of course knew French, and had explained it to me, but being years later, I can’t recall. I just remember the large red, blue and yellow crayon decals on the windows and a sampling of the Crayola box in a glass container on the table. You could color and doodle while you waited to be served and, at that time, I found it unique. I didn’t understand the menu, but I got veal something because I liked veal. I still remember the taste. I don’t know if it was just my first experience in a really good French restaurant, or whether my senses were just heighten through the whole experience, but I wish I could have some more today. Creamy and tender in a bowl over rice and the sauce...oh, the sauce. It just melted in my mouth. I know it must have been just a blend of butter, cream and wine, but I was so taken aback by the pure indulgence of this lunch. And he ordered wine.

Now, at this point in my life, I did not drink wine. I did not drink beer. I drank sweet fruity alcoholic mixes that were made to be fun when ordering at the bar and to get girls drunk. My friends and I learned to mix up batches of Fuzzy Navels and Sloe Gin Fizzies because it was cheaper to drink up at someone’s apartment or dorm room and get going on a buzz before you went out for the night. They also had the tendency to turn on you if you drank just one too many and plenty of nights were ended in a nasty NY bar restroom stall, but I still preferred my syrupy sweet concoctions to wine.

Wine was what my family drank at my grandmother’s house on Sundays. I grew up on Sunday pasta with bread and wine and deserts picked up after church from the Italian bakery in town. My grandmother would have ginger ale for me and my grandfather would always pour in a bit of wine. If it was red, then the color was more attractive, but I wasn’t crazy about the taste even after having had it my whole life. Of course, at home the wine was Bolla and probably a Chianti. I still don’t like many Chiantis to this day, so maybe I was simply prejudice about wine. If I had grown up with family that liked Merlot or a nice Shiraz, then maybe I would have been more comfortable due to my natural preference for those grapes, but I still wanted to impress him. So I drank the wine.

I am sure this was a really good bottle of French wine. I don’t think I ever saw him order a bottle that was less than a hundred dollars apiece, so I’ll assume that this was too. I don’t know and I never saw that bill. Despite my preferences later for a mellow red, I would love to know what this wine was just so I could have it again and re-examine the experience. Maybe it was just your average white wine and I had really only been previously exposed to bitter crap, but I cannot explain how seduced I was by the flavor of the wine. Maybe it just blew me away that I liked it at all and didn’t have t fake it for him. Maybe I just willed myself to like it, but I really liked that wine. It was sublime wine.

And, you know, the funny thing was, that even before the wine took to my tongue, before I was overwhelmed by the sensation of the food, before I realized how good it felt to sit there as if I could belong in that world, I found myself comfortable with him and we had no difficulty making conversation.

In fact, it was easy. And the more I thought of how easy it felt the easier it became until it was actually fun. He was, of course, fascinating just by his very being. I mean, the wealth of his knowledge and experience and who he was held me captivated. To begin with, he was from California and even my friend Anna was automatically more exciting and much cooler than any of us locals in our group by virtue of being from the other side of the country.

Combine that with, well, with his age. He was a real grown up. He was beyond a grown up. He was a successful grown up. He wasn’t hoping to get his own place; he was importing Italian furniture for it. He wasn’t lusting after some new boots in Trash and Vaudeville; he got custom made loafers whenever he was in London. He didn’t wear clothes off the floor; he picked up his shirts from the Chinese laundry and sent someone out for his dry cleaning. He was living the New York City life that I had spent years dreaming of. He traveled for business and leisure. He ate out often and not at the falafel place on ninety-nine cent Tuesdays. He didn’t take the subway ever; he took taxis as a form of transportation daily and hired a car service to drive him on trips. He had season tickets to the opera. He was bilingual. He was a lawyer. He had money. He had looks. He had killer blue eyes. He was everything that every girl who ever read Cosmo ever hoped to find. And he wasn’t married. Can you see where this might be going? Can you understand that I didn’t have a chance? Who can really blame me?

I really thought that he would be bored or we just would have those horrid awkward silences.

I had no idea what we would find in common, but oddly enough I worried for naught. There was no hesitation in the conversation..it just flowed as smoothly as the wine. What we talked about, now, I cannot remember, but we talked and we talked. It wasn’t boring lawyer talk and it wasn’t the shallow or overtly dramatic conversations that I shared with my friends. We did share an interest in art and I think that was a topic, plus he did have a wealth of knowledge to share. But it wasn’t just about him. He listened to me and not in the way that a relative or former teacher asks about what you are doing and your plans and then they just nod their head, but their eyes become glazed over. I t wasn’t condescending or patronizing as if he thought I was ‘cute for my naive little ideas or feelings. He genuinely seemed interested in what I had to say. Like I was an equal and an adult despite being over 25 years younger and not at all equal. He didn’t seem disapproving of my youthful high jinks, nor overtly pitting when I discussed my situation on the home front. I made him laugh. He acted intrigued. He seemed to truly enjoy the rapport. And when he said it was fun, I believed him. It seemed natural that it would be fun to do again.

Yes, I now this seems terribly cliché.

I know that any girl worth her weight in salt should have seen right through it, but what can I tell you? Looking back, I can see how completely susceptible I was to him. There was no way I was going to be able to control the situation. The previous events of my life had made me primed for the assault and, in fact, I desperately needed to believe that someone found me worth something of value and interest. I was right there ready for the taking whether or not that was his intention in the beginning.

Maybe, it wouldn’t have all happened if it hadn’t been for that lunch.

Maybe, if there was no real attraction, then we would have just stumbled through the ordeal and gone on our merry ways. Maybe it was all the wine and I was totally set up. Maybe, I should have known better; that once was excusable for a belated Christmas appreciation, but anymore was treading dangerous waters. Maybe it was all suppose to happen. I just don’t know. It was a really fine lunch, so when he said that we should do it again, I agreed.

And so it began with just one, little, excusable lunch.

I don’t think I told anyone about that lunch or at least not to the full depth of the experience. Of course it had little magnitude at that point, so maybe I did. Did it come up later that week during drinking decision time with my girls and I mentioned the wondrous wine? Or did I boast of the fine dining experiences? Though I do wonder about that since my love of veal was looked down upon by my vegetarian friends. Might I have made sure to mention the interest, even if then seemingly innocent, to my male acquaintances to stir up some jealously or prove some innate attractiveness that they choose to oversee? I know that I savored the memories in my mind during the hour long train ride home to suburban Long Island that night.

I know I had no reason to mention it to my mother when she picked me up at the train station that night. We were at a very difficult point in our relationship where she still heart fully disapproved of any enjoyment that I might get out of life, but was too beat down by the ongoing divorce with my father, juggling unpaid bills, and making life somewhat normal for my then 6 year old brother to really show much interest in my day to day life.

That I got up every morning and went to work seemed to qualify my existence to her. She didn’t seem too concerned by the fact that I was no longer attending college nor did she bother complaining anymore if I stayed in the city overnight. In fact, now, I really wonder what the hell she was thinking during that year. I was going to a therapist during this time, mostly to spend the hour discussing my mother and our interrelationship so maybe she just thought that Jerry had the job of overseeing me and she was off the hook. I really think she just did not have it in her anymore.

That year was defiantly the lowest point in her life so far and my needs, ever second, fell to a dead last. Maybe she just assumed I was 18 and adult and I would do what I wanted, after all I had spent the last three years fighting her on that front. It felt then, like I had won the war and I did flaunt my independence from her, but I can still feel the hurt from the obvious lack of concern. I wanted her to care and I also wanted her not to care. No, I wanted her to care and approve. My mother wasn’t much on approval. It took me a few more years to figure out the right equation to make her satisfied with me. Actually it took me 21 years, and plenty of therapy to demand from her what I should have been born into: unconditional love and approval. And I don’t know if I ever really got that though I did spend too many years searching for it and that undeniably caused most of the troubles.

Anyway, I didn’t see a lot of this then even though I spent an hour a week talking to a shrink. Poor Jerry. I was a horrible patient. He was a friend of the family. Married to my mother’s sister’s college roommate and best friend. I think he took me on as a favor probably at the insistence of my Aunt Linda who always seemed to think that a good therapist can solve anything. I wouldn’t be able to remember on my own what the initial cause of my sessions. Did I start going to him when I was still living in the city or was it after the whole apartment fiasco? I don’t think it was due to the incident with my father when I threw the knife because that was much earlier in the year; that was March or April. Was it the self destructive acts of hating very same school that I had fought so hard to go to?

The reason for the initiation would be lost in time except for the existence of my little date book. I had a habit of filling the days with quick notes of what I did that day for good blocks of time. Talking to friends, crashing at F.I.T., what bar, what guy, etc. The ‘going to doctors’ starts showing up every Wednesday right before Thanksgiving of that year. So I am clear that it was the loss of the Manhattan apartment and the trauma of that ordeal that actually signified the low level of my existence and forced the adults to ‘do something’ with me. At least, there was that attempt at help. I do know my mom couldn’t afford to pay for him and it was agreed that he would be compensated for his time, later. I don’t think the man ever got paid a dime.

Maybe since I was such an absolute failure of a case, he did not feel that he had the right, but it really wasn’t his fault. He was a nice man and he did help with many things, I just never told him everything. I don’t think I like to tell anyone person everything. I think I like to have my secrets. Michael still gets mad at me sometimes and says that I’m secretive. It’s just the way I am, I guess. I was sent there to talk about my childhood and my parents. And so, I talked about my childhood and my parents. Of my current life, I pretended that all was well because I desperately need to believe that it was.

Even when it was clear that it wasn’t.

***

Continued in "How to Become a Birthmother: Chapter 2ish"

Adoption Agency Reputations

I think this is really important. Please, spread this news: We have consisitantly been fustrated by the unscrupolusness of the adoption agencies as a whole. Between their blantnet marketing, their trolling for expectant mothers who are young and unwed, recruitment and false advertsiment, the lack of truthful impacts of adoption, the lack of regulation and oversight,and general coersive and exploitive practices; agencies often seem very unstopable. They have the power to keep doing what they are doing. They have the money from their "services". They pour advertising dollars into flooding the interent with their pay-per-clicks and get to any market who might remotely be subject to thier influences. And then, they have the backing of the National Council for Adoption, paid lobby group existing only to further the agencies ease at seperating mothers and babies. They don't listen to US.. why should they. They don't need mothers after the relinquishment papers have been signed and our motherhood anulled. They don't even often seem to care about the concerns of adoptive parents becasue hey, there is always another couple desperate for a child. And so they keep doing what they do best. Ok that's the groundwork. Let's switch gears now. Going on the geek train. In my job, we have a service called caled reputation managment where we help clients who have listings on Google that say bad things about their company. One of the websites that we all HATE is called RipOff Report. Aparently everyone involved with SEO work hates RipOff Report and even Googel knows that they are a problem, but can't do anything about them. The thing is with RipOff Report, they know what they are doing geekwise. And if you happen to have a business that someone gets all hot under the color and complains about your, even if it some nut job ar a nasty competitor making a false accusation, the listing shows up super fast and, becasue they are good geeks, very high up on the Goggle search engine rankings. It's like the worst thing ever to have a bad listing on RipOff Report. It's always right there. Any idea where I am going with this? Becasue for me, it was one of my "big hairy ideas" that hit me as I showered. So I tested my plan last night. I went and registered at RipOff Report. Typical registration. Got my confirmation email. Went to the site and hit the "file a report" button. I listed my agency and explained what they had done that was unethical and coersive. I took my time writing it out so it was truthful, to the point, but explained it well enough for the general reader. And then filed my report. Last Night. Google "Adoptions with Love". Just do it. What no window open? LOOK here It's 7:34 AM. Google has it as #8. NUMBER EIGHT. That means that anytime someone looks for AWL, they will in all probability, see it. If the agency posts a rebuttal, then there will be two listings and they will both rank higher. If they freak out and click it a million times, it will continue to rank even higher. And Rip Off Report claims they NEVER remove a listing. It's like internet stone. Ladies and Gentlemen, the the battle against unethical adoption practices, may I annouce that RipOff Report is our new best friend. I beleive that not only can we file reports against unethical agencies, but we can also file against laywers. We can file against the NCFA . We can file agianst the state gvernemens tht refuse to open records. We can file agaist faciliatators. You think of someone who has done something wrong in the name of adoption, file it. It took me about an hour all together. A hour. And I can tell you, that compainies, they check their rankings. Espcially agencies and lawyers. They are paying for PPC and SEO companies so they show up first and high when people search. It's going to drive them batty when they see RipOff Report listings. It's going to render their advertising useless. It will hit them where it hurts.. in the pocketbook. At their bottom line. Please...spread this information. We can take our time. You don't have to do it today. They can trickle in most naturally. But repost anywhere you can think of and then, take a trip to RipOff Report.com. and just tell the truth abut Adoption.

Birth mother Assimilation via Facebook

Once upon a time, I had a life and adoption, while affecting my life and all, was really not part of it. The kool aide was still in my system and I was sleeping in Egypt. I understand it. I functioned and did what I had to do. It's survival for many birth mothers. Then, about 8 years ago, cable Internet was introduced to my house and the first thing I typed in was adoption. That was the first step on the long journey that has brought me here today.

Even when I was completely engrossed with online adoption happenings, I was silent about it in my real life.

I still carried the secret that it HAD been part of my life and that it affected me in any way. It was only when I was actually in the process of finding Max that it did begin to break out into my real everyday occurrences. It became just to big and I was overwhelmed with excitement. It wasn't something that HAD happened to me, but was something that was happening RIGHT THEN. But right around the time of this blog's birth, three years ago, I became much more comfortable with who I was because of adoption. Attending conferences, learning to speak out, finding that people understood my point of view..was very liberating and I was proud of what work I was doing. Then, last year, when I started my job and was exposed to every world on the Internet, I had a hard time really seeing my place in the whole scheme of it. Our little adoption niche was nothing when compared to other blogs, other happenings online and I lost sight of what was important in a way. I found it harder to be "Claudia the Adoption Blogger" because I was also trying to be someone else online. I had to know about other things. And then be other people and care about their stuff. I had to separate who *I * was and be more.

In my professional work, I had to become prolific in understanding Facebook.

I hated facebook at first. I didn't get all the pokes and throwing cows. I don't use the Internet to play games. That's Rye's job. For me, it's my job now and what I do. An educational tool, a way to process my life, a way for me to understand and be free. So Facebook, what do I want with fake plants?? If I want fake things I will give in and play WOW with Rye! But then, something really amazing happened. All these dear people whom I have wondered about for years began to show up on Facebook and they were happy to find me. Oh I laughed that they found me, when I , master of hunting down facts and information and adoptees lost online had looked for almost ALL of them at one point or another and could not find them, but wow, it was great!

Of course, the adoption community online, as apt as always with our careful Internet prowess also was on Facebook...

and so is my family, and old school friends, and then old friends from Long Island, and work friends and bosses and colleagues, and then home friends and neighbors and then the things and connections I make at work professionally.. and oh my! They are all coming together!! One of my key goals or themes for this upcoming year is assimilation. Finding that balance between all the things I am and all the things I want to do and all the things I have to do and simplifying and organizing and just being better at who I am. And so here I am, determined to NOT go back to Egypt and hide, yet afraid as I use the Internet as I do for this adoption work, that I will be "Claudia the insane adoption chick". I still seek balance, but I must be who I am. Of course the other side of this second "coming out" is that, people who have not known me in regards to adoption and do not understand who I am based on this say, well.. those good old things that we have heard so many times before. And I expect it from an open forum online or when commenting about some news story or even when I go to speak to those I know do not know the real truth. But today, I got it from my cousin. I'm usually lucky in that I can say enough clearly right from the start that I don't get upset. And granted, while this is my first cousin and as kids we looked like twins, my father was an ass and kept us separated from his side of the family and they all grew up close and I will always regret that I was denied that closeness with my family. Kind of like adoption! They are, most like me in attitude ( usually) and our general say what you mean and mean what you say. It's sad. But, while I know she really does not KNOW me, I was able to tell them all of Max and the story about two years ago. I could swear I blogged about it, but I can't find the dern post now. Anyway.... I thought she was there for that whole conversation. I know her sister was and was very kind and understanding to me, but whew.. when she first wrote this on my wall today I thought that she was like, Rye, who sometimes says something outlandish just to get my blood going:

I believe that adopted children should never be told that they are adopted.

So I replied just that:

I'm just gonna pretend you didn't say that...or you want to kill me!

Figuring, that's enough, but I am thinking.. noooooo..you really don't want to go there with me!

But she did. Yeah, I had the whole first part of the conversation here, but really..it just got much worse and...well, it kinda sucks. I do want to , though, put it all together in it's entirity becasue it's almost like a weird sick look into the hearts and minds of ignorence. Let's just say that exchange has left me physically shaken. Though I do hope that she has some desire to understand, ( she does not) I am not having this argument with her as she is my cousin( but we did) I can only hope that she does come here and reads..and reads the others moms and the adoptees and the adoptive moms who know the score.( And she found fault with all of that too) So If you land here, my dear lost cousin, Welcome. ( or not) And I thank you for letting me know that indeed, we still have allot of work to do. (Oh and that sometimes blood means nothing, I guess.) And I thank Facebook for giving me this opportunity to expand who I am and come full circle and be more completely myself... in all aspects. And just because, I have been thinking this and it kind of fits in here.. I wanted to mention something. Three plus years ago, when I first saw that there were adoption blogs and other moms blogging, the best adoption blog was the creme de la creme, The Daily Bastardette. That was the blog I admired most. I was afraid of Marley and who she was... she was Bastardette! And I was small and lowly ion my eyes. Since then, I have had the best times with her at various conferences and such and I love that I have gotten to know her as a person. But still, the other day when I popped over to catch the adoption news briefs from Marley, I was very touched by her mentioning my return to the blogosphere. And it struck me how honored I was. I have been touched and honored by everyone who has made mention and welcomed me back and relieved my guilt, but My Montel moment a classic??!And in that moment I realized that I was very happy with who I had become, of who I was, and that she did such a thing. That I had grown into someone that is considered beloved by Bastardette! And it felt like I achieved at something I had set out to do when I first began blogging those three years ago. ( Not that I set out to kiss her bum!! lol).. but.. wow.. I had admired her blog so much and I remembered that then, while reading... it just felt real good. Assimilation. Bringing all parts of myself together. Sometimes the pieces don't fit quite right and sometimes they do. And sometimes you got to cut off the parts that rot. *** Please note: If my choice of words leaves you wondering, please see Adoption Language and SEOfor more explanation.

Great Investigative Journalism on International Adoptions!

I love it when some one else "gets' it". It's even more super fantastic when a trusted and reputable investigative journalism outlet really gets it and seems to be getting into even more. It's equally loveable when I stumble upon this thanks to Teresa's ULB Diggs of the Day!

Corruption in International Adoptions "The Lie We Love" The story of abandoned orphans in developing countries who need to be whisked away to adoring moms and dads in faraway lands is, unfortunately, largely fiction. So writes E.J. Graff, associate director and senior researcher at the Schuster Institute in her new investigative article "The Lie We Love," published in Foreign Policy's Nov./Dec. 2008 issue. The article exposes the myth of a world orphan crisis—and reveals that the large amounts of Western money offered for healthy “adoptable” infants and toddlers are inducing baby-trafficking in poor and corrupt countries.

What also nice, as you check out the site, they are looking to add soon: Stories of Loss, Suggestions for Parents, and Adoption Discussion Forum. I am particulary interested in, of course, the stories of loss.

I strongly suggest that anyone slightly interested in truthtelling, check out their website and read the ful story: http://www.foreignpolicy.com/story/cms.php?story_id=4508. And also, take a moment and tell them how muchc they rock..and maybe, put the bug in their ear that the US volentary doemstic situation is no bed of sweet smelling roses either.

Just Put Out the F-ing Garbage!

I find motherhood to be very repetitious. As in; you repeat the same things over and over again:

• Did you brush your teeth?
• Say thank you.
• Don't touch that.
• Close the door.

I know you know exactly what I mean.

Our ongoing "issues" with Garin were fairly repetitive as well. The same things that caused problems years ago, were still bones of contention. Nothing got solved, it just morphed.

Like we fought over the garbage for 7 years.

I am specifically describing one chore when I say the garbage: on Sunday evenings, the weekly garbage goes out for Monday morning pickup. Garin was expected to go about the house and make sure that all pails were empty and they had new bags if necessary. Kitchen, office, both bathrooms, and my room. Occasionally, I asked him to look at the kids pails and take care of his own. Scooping the cat boxes have been part of the job description for years. Then, all the house garbage goes out, you put out the pails from the week and you reorganize the recycling to keep the garbage men happy. Bonus points if you bring in the empty pails the next morning. On a bad week, doing it well might take 25 minutes, but usually, it was a fifteen minute job.

He just refused to get it right ever. It got more and more specific as he acted like he needed such direction.

"You have to do garbage on Sunday before you go out for the day, and before you go to work. You can't do it at 10 o'clock at night or you wake the kids, please put bags in upstairs, please can you just do the garbage?"

I can say that in the entire 7 years that kid has been in charge of putting out the garbage, I can count on my two hands the times when it was done on time, was done completely, no one had to beg or demand to get it done, he actually remembered on his own, and it was not a frustrating experience for me.

It's not brain surgery here, folks. It's putting out the freaking garbage. He just seemed to choose not to care about it at all. He couldn't put in the effort to care even the littlest bit. There was always some excuse, that should have been acceptable, and he could never quite get that we really had a right to be mad.

I remember one time, not too long ago, fighting with Garin over "would he please do the garbage now at 7:30 before he goes out with his friends, and not at 12:30 pm when he gets homes, if he even would remember then", and he was really put out because he had to go RIGHT NOW because PEOPLE WERE WAITING..and there would be no grasping of "but you slept til 2 even though we tried to wake you and then sat around and you KNEW it was Sunday, and if you were planning to go, just do this first". And part of his argument t was "why was I making such a big deal about WHEN he would do the garbage, as it took only two minutes and was not a big deal"

And if it only took two minutes, then WHY the hell are we fighting over it.. just DO IT. DO it because I AM YOUR MOTHER!

And you know, it hurts that he would rather stand his ground rather than give in.

We really didn't demand very much. I mean, there is NO WAY, and I mean NO WAY, that we were crazy or unrealistically demanding.

Go to school. Get there on time. Do your work. Don't get in trouble. Get decent grades. Have a job. Help out around the house. Have dinner here sometimes. Don't be home too late. We need to know when people are here and no, not when no one is home unless we have previously discussed it. Don't take what is not yours. Don't be mean to your brother and sister. Always use a condom. Be nice. Don't be a dick. Don't fight.

Really, nothing out of the ordinary. And he wasn't expected to be perfect, but hey, I'm still a parent. And yeah, you're gonna screw up and yeah, there are consequence of your actions.

So when the math teacher calls last June and says that she knows he probably thinks it's OK because they are just reviewing for the final and he thinks he's all ready, but he needs to know that he just can't skip the past 8 classes, and she doesn't want to get him in trouble, but..come on.

Well, as a mother, I might just feel a little bit annoyed at my child's behavior. And when, really, he is actually quite smug about his decision and accuses the teacher of being stupid, and him refusing to "waste his time reviewing", well, it's really annoying. And so, yeah, at a pissed off mother I can say to my misbehaving teen; "yeah well you can now plan on staying in today!".

He was out of control. Once I tried to tell him that he had to stay in that day as a consequence to his poor choice to cut classes, he flipped. Nope, there was just no way he was going to do what we said. He was out of here. This was bullshit. We just needed to leave him alone. He was going to move out. That's it. Fuck you, fuck her, fuck math.

That was the day that turned into "Garin going to his father's for the summer". It wasn't, of course, as quick and clean as all that. It took hours. All day actually. Us begging him to calm down and get a grip, explaining again and again, how really.. we had a right to be pissed off about him cutting 8 classes. And that turned into explaining to him that he could not, at 16, just move out and we would be OK with it.He clung that he did no wrong..we were just all crazy. Calls to his father, back and forth. Tension, Tears. Yelling. Bleh. In the end, he went to see his uncle in NY for a few days. Then he came back to his fathers.

There was a week in between the initial blow up and the "talk" that I had with my ex husband. Unfortunately, this was the day that Rye decided that it would be a good idea to say " I'm going to the Bank" at 11:30 am and then go missing in action for the next 10 hours. Granted he was only waiting to get a hair cut, hanging out with Murry, and general nothing at all, but after 4 hours of wondering "where the hell is he?" it gets old.

Then at 5 hours MIA current husband, you have the conversation with your ex-husband, and while logically you KNOW that this is probably the best thing, and Garin needs some attention from his father, and Pat actually might be able to be more stern with him and pull in the reins, and lord knows we need a break, and maybe Garin will realize that we didn't demand too much and appreciate what he has here, and ...sigh...as you both decide that yes, your unruly teen will be moving to his fathers for the summer...the logic just does not matter..and all my heart is screaming "My baby is GONE. I'm losing my baby. Garin is GONE!

I get through the day somehow, but after many conversations trying to explain to my now somewhat inebriated current husband that the situations is dire and really, just come home I am NOT OK, when he finally does.. I am the puddle on the kitchen floor.

Well, it wasn't the kitchen floor, it was the living room in the dark, hiding, on the couch, and shaking uncontrollably, trying to keep down the wailing sounds that wanted to spring forth from the depths of my soul. It was, for me, the single most adoption triggering instance to date. Full on, living in the moment, ripped from my arms, mother howls of loss.

I was in the middle of writing the "Birth mothers and Grief series" inspired from SEO. And suddenly, I was back into the firestorm.

And I had to completely disassociate, emotionally and mentally pull back from adoption, force some form of secondary denial because I just had to. Everything was too close to the surface, I was all churned up again, and I had to settle down inside. I had to focus on just living. Not what I coulda, woulda, shoulda; for Max, for Garin. Not what's gonna happen next. Not how do I feel. I had to not feel for a while. I just had to be.

And I was quiet.

Finially! The Montel Williams Adoption Scam footage.

Well, not all of it. Just the part starring...me! In case you missed it, back this time around two years ago, I was on the Montel Williams Show and it was pretty horrible. Since then, I have been trying to get the dern thing online. Long story, but even after having the geeks at the office mess with it, it still could not be converted to a playable file. Though Rye says he can do it; I don't know what he was waiting for. So I came up with the fine plan to film it playing and so I did that. I'm quite pleased with my ingenuity. Now if I see it one more time, I'll poke my eyes out with a fork. Enjoy! Montel Williams Show and me... (don't laugh at me)

Adding an Adoption Book List

I have been thinking about adding an "Books about Adoption List" for some time. I know there are probably better book widget's to add in the sidebar, but sinc they have such a huge selection of unsugar coated adoption books, Amazon will work fine for now.

In a perfect world, I would have read every single adoption book on my list and only put up the ones that I could totally recommend, but a) I don't have the time to read them all even if I would like to, and b) I don't own all of them and probably wil not anytime soon. So if you happen to see a book on my list and think it is best left on the shelf, please tell me why I would be horrified associating with such drivel so I don't embrasses myself. I confess I did judge some books by their covers.

As I am adding to the collection of adoption books, looking for both classic must haves and newer personal memoirs, I come across a bit that, well, gets my gag reflex going:

Affirming the Birth Mother's Journey: A Peer Counselor's Guide to Adoption Counseling

Now, I don't know about you, but already the whole "affirming" word choice is getting my feathers ruffled. I mean, just what birth mothers need; more people telling us that we did a brave positive thing. And then I look down at the description:

Counselors who deal with women in crisis pregnancies are frequently hindered by fear, negative preconceptions, and ignorance regarding one of the positive, life-affirming options available to women: adoption. Many counselors are unaware of the wide array of choices now available to clients seeking to place. Sadly, the failure to inform a woman about her alternativesƒincluding the possibility of placing in an open adoptionƒcan prove detrimental to both mother and child.

Recognizing the needs of its clients, the Calgary Pregnancy Care Centre has embraced the adoption option. In addition to addressing volunteers' fears and equipping them to present the alternative in a positive, non-threatening manner, the Centre (based in Calgary, Alberta, Canada) provides clients with ongoing support. The results have been striking: whereas the American adoption rate is one percent and the Canadian rate is two percent, Alberta's rate is four percent.

The Centre itself has seen years in which up to ten percent of clients carrying to term have placed. Taken from the birth mother's perspective, and written for counselors, this book explains how Pregnancy Centers can support clients through the complex adoption and grief process. Its aim is to help counselors present the adoption option; enable clients to choose adoptive parents and nurture long-term relationships; support women through the grief process; run a successful birth mothers' support group; and contend with other pertinent issues. Included are extensive interviews with birth mothers and other members of the adoption constellation.

Open adoption is a positive option. We have walked with birth mothers through decision-making, grief, and joy. We have seen their children thrive in relationships with both the biological and adoptive families. We have watched adoptive couples become advocates for open adoption. Our hope now is to equip other Centers to give clients this life-changing opportunity.

Yeah, sounds like they took the National Council for Adoption's horribly coersive BirthMother, GoodMother to heart! shudder...

Anyway, this bit of drivel is brand new and right now only available on Kindle. I don't have a Kindle, so I could not take advantage of the free sample even if actually I wanted to take up vomiting and purging this evening. Hence, here's lies the delimma: I am so dying to read it, even if I know what it's all about. I mean, they have listed the Family Research Council in their tags!! But, I do not want to give them my 22 bucks for this junk.

Yuck. I'm just going to go back and list my adoption books.

My Life as a John Hughes Movie: Parenting Teens part 2.

Please, for your own Sanity, begin at Part 1. I have to say that right at the stroke of 13, you could actually see the difference and difficulty that hormones bring on to both budding teens and parents alike. I hardly expected it to be that drastic and true, but it was. Maybe I was hoping that all the horror stories I had heard were wrong, but they are not. You can see it rising up like the swell of a wave. You can feel the physical change like electricity charging the air. Being a girl, and after a lifetime of dealing with PMS, I could understand the overwhelming and uncontrollable emotions Horrible emotional outbursts for no reason. Crying and sensitivity at the drop of a hat or a heartwarming Coca cola commercial, thinking for days that wow, suddenly, my life really does suck, but then you ride it out and the fog lifts and you go: “Oh, it was PMS!” I certainly did not have that clarity when I experienced myself as a teen, feeling oh-so-righteous in my personal indignant; but as a parent, I could sympathize. I didn’t hold it against him. I understood it and mostly tried to guide him through the other side. Now I would not be honest if I did not think that somewhere the root to some of this was male pissing contests and some kind of weird vying for my affection. After having me to himself for years, and a usually absent father, it was hard for Garin to assimilate to the new male in the house. Especially when that male was ex-Marine, had a lousy (aka horror story) male role model/ father really step father/ absusive Ahole for real of his own, and didn’t, especially at first, take too kindly to anyone questioning his authority. But, this is not about making it all Rye’s fault, because it is so not. Rye came in as a friend to Garin. Always very clear about his role, “I’m not your dad, I’m not trying to be your dad, and you have a father”. In fact, Rye cared way more than I ever could about what Pat thought of what was happening in our home. He actually cared about Garin’s father approving of him as a role model than I ever could. Still, it was there. I think. I can be aware enough to think that possibly some of my seeing it is based on my own childhood as my mother DID play my father and me off each other and there WAS some weird ass family dynamic where I HAD to side with my mom against my dad. Needless to say, I knew how crazy fucked up THAT was, so I had no problem acknowledging that the parental units ARE a united front. Even if that is easier to say verbally than to always act on, especially when your other half is saying or doing something that makes your insides scream NO! Granted it took Rye and I a few years, or maybe it is still a work in progress, to master the subtle signs given between partners that say “Hey, your crossing one of my lines... back off...back off.." Looking back, the been to too many shrinks in my day me wants to say that Garin felt displaced by a new daddy man, a new sister and a new brother. Looking for fault lines, I can understand how having all the attention (which was NOT EVER my 100% undivided attention Live-for-and-through-my-child because I have NEVER been that kind of mother and I have always maintained MY OWN personal space.. aka Bedtime is bedtime and them mommy is OFF!)..Anyway, the attention gets sent to another man, and then these two needy babies who happen to be full sibs and we all make the nice happy perfect family...except that I WAS ALWAYS SO AWARE OF THAT ISSUE AND CONTER-ACTED AGINST IT. In fact, that’s one of the reasons why I have always adored Rye’s family...they don’t pull that blood-not blood thing. We don’t do “half’ siblings. None of us do. No step crap either. The family is all over with all that stuff... and we are just that FAMILY. Scarlett and Tristan were always just Garin’s Brother and Sister...he just happened to have another dad. Just the same way Max is all their brother’s too – he just happens to have been raised by another family as well. I mean, as Garin stopped doing things with us as a family, I thought it was because he was a freaking teenager and that’s what teens do. So, I am being an uber cool understanding mom by not making him go to Easter brunch at Grandma’s. The thing of it is really, is that this all me worrying to death and the child has never really said that he feels this way. I am really projecting. The only time that he ever said he felt left out was this past Labor Day weekend when we all went to NJ to go camping and I told him at the last minute, assuming he was working (he was), and assuming he would NOT want to go away for 4 days with 3 kids under 7 and 4 boring adults to the beach ( he didn't) Also, was the fact that the two daddies didn’t decide to go until THAT MORNING and messed it up as well. So yes, he pretended to be insulted and maybe he was somewhat... but he also threw it in my face because he knew it upset me and made me feel guilty and he would laugh. He did like to torture me so. Can you tell I still feel bad anyway? Oh wait, when S and T were really little he used to act jealous at times, but I would calmly tell him that he had all the same baby like attention that they are getting, even more so when he was small, but he didn’t remember it. Maybe he was too independent for his own good. I don’t know. I do know that he was a tremendous help at times, and really, two babies, 20 months apart…sometimes Garin was necessary to my sanity. Which also made me feel guilty as I, being 12 years older than my brother, HAD to babysit him as a teen and I hated it...and so, swore I never would do that to my kids and I did. Heck, if you have a 14 year old at home and two toddler’s asleep and you and your husband can run out to see friends for 2 hours... without paying a babysitter... I get it now. Sanity. Anyway, back to the hormones. OMG, they suck. Maybe for girls it is all crying and drama, but for Garin... it was this “I-just-can’t-let-go-of-this-issue-even-if-it-is-so-stupid” and then some pretty yucky rage. Now part of that is just Garin, I think. It’s his personality. I mean, one of the constant lines of his childhood was “Garin, I said no and I mean no. I’m not going to change my mind no matter what you come up with. That’s it. Stop arguing with me. Just say OK, mom. My answer is final. End of Story!” The kid-man-child thinks he can talk anyone out of anything and only HE is logical. The rest of us…. freaking stupid. And I expected that. I can deal; with being so very un-cool and not knowing, in his opinion, what real cool consists of, I can deal with my opinion meaning doodie. I MEAN, THAT IS, REALLY, PART OF FORMING ONES IDENITY. You reject what you know. You question it. You reject parts. You form your own ideas. Maturity...adulthood... etc! Ok... I didn’t take the rejection of myself personally. On a real level, yeah sometimes it hurt my ego. Sometimes it made me feel old. But I could understand it, and I feel it was normal and expected. Seeing it pretty clearly, sometimes the situations were laughable. Really. Like the time that I was being parental with Garin about his report card. I do believe it had to do with Spanish. And he had failed it... and I was disappointed, but cool about it. What got me was not that he had failed, but he had not really tried, had decided he hated it and failed. So yeah, I was being “disappointed” as it is MY JOB AS A PARENT. (and that was something I would tell him... it was MY JOB to know where he was and what he was doing... MY JOB!) And I remember this very clearly, it was after the BIG TALK about how ONE SHOULD NOT FAIL SPANISH BUT IF THEY DO THEY HAD BETTER ACT LIKE THEY HAD STUDIED WAY MORE.. and I was walking out of Tristan's bedroom, and he came up on me in the doorway. And you could tell he had been stewing on it for a while... and he actually said “Nothing I do is ever good enough! You didn’t say anything about all my other grades... you just freaked out about Spanish... I’m never good enough!!” Really, there should be a great big “Whaaaaahhhhh….” after that. And it was all I could do not to laugh. Of course we focused on SPANISH becasue that is the class that he FAILED. Doh! It was just so ANGST ridden!! And I said to him, ‘Garin, I feel like I have stepped into a John Hughes Movie... which, being that he was born in ’91, was a lost reference to him., but I was able to tell him, to GUIDE him, that this was an emotional surge and he needed to STOP presuing this line of reasoning and just go ride it out until he felt better. (AKA it’s just your hormones...go eat chocolate and cry for girls or for teen boys.. go sulk in your room and play loud music and then sleep please!). Granted we had friends over that night and yes, he heard us laughing about the insanity of teen years on the porch and no, he was not amused to hear us laughing over his emotional reactions and us joking about how “Wa, I NEVER do ANYTHING right for you.. I can’t even FART good enough for YOU... I can’t even CLENCH my SPLINTER the way YOU like it”... OK... definalty a parental mistake. Yes, you must , as a parent, keep your sense of humor for you own sanity, but DO NOT let them hear you! But I tell you, the hormones made us all nuts! It was actually very freaking funny. But still, I understood them... and I knew that those hormones just had to be ridden out. Must not let them get the best of us! It was hard because inevitably Garin would slam a door when dismissed. As in OMG... you’re THAT WAY...go calm down and we can talk about this further when you get control. And Rye, poor man, the inner drill sergeant... could NOT deal with the slamming... and I had to train him to LET IT GO. Don’t correct the slamming... it is the child expressing his frustration... don’t engage... and if he was allowed to ride it out... then after bit, he would come back and apologize that he was, indeed, acting like an ass. And all would be ok... parental logic would rule the day and all would be right in the world. O fopcurse, he usually only apoligized to me and was Ok then with me.. At least that was my plan to ride out the teen years. It was not easy. And yes, more often than not, Rye and I would end up fighting about how each of us handled it. I felt he was too hard. He felt I was letting myself be manipulated. But we got better at it, we really did and I thought that there would come a time when Garin would realize that you just could not fight the system ALL THE TIME. I was waiting for his idealism to get beat down by life and for him to realize that sometimes, you just got to play by the rules. Granted that might sound weird coming from me, but actually no. I know you actually DO get more bees with honey than vinegar. And people DO listen more when you talk to them normally rather than throw your opinions down their throat in anger. So I do practice what I preach... and even if, (again...my projections here) even if Garin and Rye just had an oil and water mix and for whatever resentments, rubbed each other the wrong way... I would tell Garin... you have to deal with assholes in life. Someone in your life will be, to you, an asshole. Whether it is a co-worker, or your boss or your father in law SO YOU MIGHT AS WELL FIQURE OUT HOW TO DEAL WITH THOSE KINDS OF PEOPLE NOW…and no matter how many times and in what ways Rye followed my lead, Garin could still NOT get over whatever it was. To the point that one day, about a year and a half ago, it could so awful that I said to them... that’s it No one wins! And I announced that Garin would have to move to his dads and Rye would have to get out and I would sell the house and live alone with the kids... because the fighting was horrible and I felt so torn... and THERE WAS NO WAY I COULD CHOOSE EITHER ONE OVER THE OTHER. I think I shocked the dickens out of both of them…which was, somewhere..I think.. my intention. And they begged me not to be so crazy and rash. That we should not throw out the whole family because they were jerks. It was a good coming together kind of time. I mean Garin was very ernest about how we should not be silly over their fighting. He was seriously concerned.. or so I read into it. And I had hoped we had gotten over the evil hump of teenage years. HA HA HA .. I am such an optomistic fool! -oh, there is still more-to be continued

The Trouble Raising Teenagers: part 1- a preamble

So I had eluded in my Adoption Denial post the trouble that been happening with Garin. I figure that it might be a good exercise in processing to write about the whole situation. Parenting teenagers is hard, I can tell you that. While Max has made it to the over 21 stage, not being the active everyday mom, I don’t have the same reference points with him at all.

The best example I have for raising kids though the teen years is my own experience and for the most part, I was a pretty horrific teen.

No. Let me rephrase that: I was extremely strong willed and stubborn, but in some ways I was 100% correct and had to deal with quite a bit of bad parenting On the whole though, I was pretty good. I loved school and had no issue going every day. I wasn’t into after school activities or anything, but I was extremely driven in all aspects of art and was very serious about getting into Manhattan’s top art schools which I did. I didn’t cut classes unless I KNEW I could get away with it, was respectful to teachers (in fact they all loved me), and never got in trouble with the law. That said, I was going to wear black, stay up all night painting and listening to the Cure, was going to pierce my ears as many times as I desired ( 17 thank you), would not be satisfied with my natural hair color and I will shave my head, thank you very much. In other words, back from 1983-1986, way before it was cool or popular, I was going to look like a terrible freak and embarrass my parents. THAT was their big issue. Now they were…well, pretty nuts. My mother was narcissistic and it was all about her. (aka I looked that way purposely to make her look bad) My father was/is really was crazy and drove my mother so. Plus their marriage was on its last legs. I often think that the bond that kept them together for the last few years was “let’s gang up on Claudia”. I don’t think I ever was there, and perhaps it was a reaction to this, but being loved and accepted as an individual unconditionally really seemed to be missing and I think my rebellion was trying to force the issue.

In general, there was no way that I was going to do what I didn’t want to do.

In fact, if you told me I couldn’t do something, then I was bound to find a way to do it anyway. For example, don’t tell me I can’t go to NYC clubs, because I will make you believe that I am sleeping over a friends and I will come home on the 5:42 AM from an all nighter at Danceteria. Don’t tell me I can’t have a Mohawk, because I WILL grow my hair out to a nice normal bob and then shave underneath and no Mom, you won’t figure it out for months and then, when you do, it will only be because I rode my bike in the wind.. And really? You won’t let me have my own phone line so I can be alike any other normal teen and have you guys stop yelling at me when I am on the phone? OK, then I WILL run away from home and hold myself hostage until you meet my list of demands. Yeah, in that way…. I was bad. And that was BEOFRE I went and got myself knocked up! So, I go into parenting knowing that I will NEVER make an issue of the way my kids look. If I did, I would be a big fat hypocrite and I hate that. I accept my kids as their own beings and not a real reflection on me. And I expect them to be into their own shallow selfish pursuits and try to get away with murder, but I don’t have a need to pretend that they are not doing what teens do. I also pretty much always tell them the truth about all kinds of things, follow their interests and, from years of preschool teaching, know how to promote self esteem like no one’s business. It was pretty realistic and it seemed to work pretty well. And only once did I catch myself saying the most hated line of my mother’s:

“You always do what you want!”

Like duh! I use to think in my head” What I’m going to do: what YOU want?” I never sad that doozy again. Since my first marriage died its second and final death by the time Garin was 3, we had a good few years as boy and single mom. I stayed local and made sure he had a close relationship with his dad ( even if I had to force his dad to be around and I did have to do that for many years!) and was always available for the rest of the family as well, but we were like two buds for years; just him and I against the world. Even when I had a long term serious relationship (with the fiancé who announced he was gay a week after we got engaged) my romantic relationship was on weekends when Garin was usually at his dads. Garin was very independent, balanced and smart. I always said I over did the self esteem thing with him as he has always though he was the cat’s pajamas, but some of that is probably genetic. His father’s side is like that naturally. He also hung out a lot with adults, frequently my girlfriends and I told him the truth about most stuff. So he always had a bit of an attitude, could argue like a trail lawyer, and would push you until you wanted to scream in frustration. Still, eventually logic would win out. And there were those ever important moments when one could glimpse either a bit of your own parental wisdom taking hold, or an inner kindness that reinforced that, indeed, you were raising a good person.

I had enough of those moments that I was feeling pretty good about my parenting ability.

It wasn’t a problem at all that he was really into skateboarding, I supported that. I was happy to have teenagers practicing metal and punk music in my basement. I would do my mommy duty and tape them. I was happy to dye his hair green and didn’t make him clean his disgusting room all that often. He had a kindness in him, sweetness below the rough exterior and usually, it looked like he took my pearls of wisdom to heart. Granted, I have always wished that he was more of an “A’ personality and more driven in school, but even though he *thought* he was the first born child, I knew he wasn’t and maybe birth order did mean more than a hill of beans? And like us all, he did well in school if he actually liked he teacher and or the subject. Sadly, Spanish never fell into either one of those categories, but being that I had to fight to drop Spanish for Art, I was proud of helping him drop stupid high school never learn anything really Spanish for more music classes. After all, by age 15 he was in like three bands, had taught himself bass, guitar and drums, and was dealing with a booking company playing real venues. To me, those are skills that one can actually DO something with in life. Trig and high school Spanish... not so much. He was very independent and had been since age 6. He was real swell at making his own dinner even if it was “crap in a can” ( spegetios) or baked beans ( he loved them,, he really did!). He stopped asking for money after getting his own job. They liked him at work. I knew. The owner of the Taco joint is a friend and other friends worked there. It’s nice to hear that other people actually like your kid as a person. He did his own laundry and was pretty good about understanding realities of life. Even if some of them were pretty harsh for a kid his age: ·

Like the constant classic: “Dude, I just don’t have money for that right now”. · And, well... you actually DO have an older brother, but he was adopted at birth (age 13). · And we have to go talk to your father because he has to tell you something... no, he is not “sick” (ugg... don’t make it sound like you are dying of cancer!-tell the boy the truth!!). .. Yeah, he has to go to rehab and get the blow out of his life. (Also age 13…it is the summer he found out his parents were human and very fallible.) · Guess what? You’re going to be a big brother and have to share your mom. (At age 9) · And yeah, your mother’s pregnant again! (At 11) · And, yes, you have to stop doing ALL forms of physical activity until you have the open heart surgery or you can drop dead and die! I know it will suck to be on Coumadin the rest of your life, but a mechanical aortic valve will be better than dying! (That would be the summer he was 14)

Really, he did damn well! And I thought we would be OK. I really did. I mean, the kid bounced back from open heart surgery like he had a skinned knee. It wasn’t just physical, it was amazing and mental and his attitude was great. But- Oh, the dreaded teenage hormones and the need to rebel against SOMETHING..even if it means your mom is desperately trying to be everything to you that her parents never were to her.., or maybe it is male testosterone and pissing contests, but it’s not ok anymore and I JUST HATE IT!. _to be continued_