Writing My Wrongs

Hairy Conversations

The hair is the richest ornament of women.  ~Martin Luther

An new haircut is calling me.

It has been nearly three months since I had a cut and color. That is a record for me. The house sale, move, moms surgery, and sons surgery, put my hair addiction on the back burner. It has now gotten so bad (dark roots are evil things) that I am feeling physically ill from it. I feel rather trailer park trashy with a few inches of dark roots, washed out cooper highlights and frayed ends.

I have quite a relationship with my hair. A first mom in Texas said I take my emotions out on it. That made me laugh. In some ways that is very true. In other ways, it is merely the fact that for me, it is yet another canvas I can work on. It is amusing to me that I am rather well, bold, with my hair which tends to cause people to notice me and comment. I greatly dislike this. I am the type that prefers to be lost in a sea of people and not stick out. Yet, that is not the image I project. My hair colors, my crazy jewelry selections, my piercing and tattoos clearly say "look at me". Perhaps it is the Gemini in me. The hair coloring twin is the one that likes to be noticed. The silent twin just wants to be left alone to skulk around in a corner.

My hair has been:

• my natural color (which is some sort of dark brown with strong red highlights -but don't quote me on that since I have not seen that color in over 30 years)
• black
• chocolate brown
• blonde
• beige ( It was more like taupe and it wasn't intended to be that way. However, it did match my shoes I owned that time so I worked with it)
• red
• cranberry/burgundy
• red with blonde chunks
• burgundy with copper chunks
• peach (yes, you know, that color the old lady sitting in the pew in front of you in church has in her hair?)
• and variations in between.

I have been this way since I was around twelve and started pouring peroxide and later Sun-In in my ashy brown/auburn hair. My mother, at one time a professional hair stylist, was all too eager to indulge me. She turned me on to Clairol, Nice n Easy, Loreal and other over the counter bottles of color. These days I get it done professionally every 4 - 6 weeks. Yes, its my little indulgence. Even moms in the maternity home knew this about me. When I found my daughter and discovered she had a hair thing too, a mom friend from the home asked me if there was a hair coloring gene.

I am pondering a medium length, asymmetrical, heavily layered bob of burgundy and copper. This means I will cut about 4-5 inches off the bottom. Maybe more. I want something a bit sassy and funky for the summer.

I discussing this with my oldest son last night he disagreed.

"You should keep it long Mom. It looks better long" he said.

"Well, it wont be too short. Just a few inches, near my shoulders" I respond.

"Long, Mom, it looks better long." He insists as he sharpens a pencil.

"But, Nik, look at these dead ends, its all raggedy. It will look much healthier if I trim it." I explain

Appearing incredibly disinterested, he returns to his math homework. I stand there expecting more dialogue.

"Long?" I ask.

"Mom, I have homework to do. Its your hair. Do what you want. I am a guy, you know? I don't care about that stuff. Too bad sister is not here. She could give you some good advice. She cuts and colors her hair as much as you" he says as his pencil scratches the paper of this math work sheet.

Gulp.

Yes, that is true.

Too bad sister is not here.

That was WHACK

"Collective fear stimulates herd instinct, and tends to produce ferocity toward those who are not regarded as members of the herd." - Bertrand Russell

Sweet.

Last night I had a drive by commenter on my blog who left me a comment indicating I was a "whack job". Said commenter from Fredonia, NY (IP address 206.159.161.175), had googled "reign over me" and had come across my blog since I had once written about the movie and how it affected me.

I laughed at the "whack job" statement and certainly did not get upset. Frankly, I am surprised I don't get more haters. Whenever you challenge the beliefs surrounding the sacred cow that is known as Adoption in the USofA you are bound to get a few angry folks coming out of the wood work. In my experience, the ones that get most angry at me sharing my experience are usually adoptive parents. I have received buckets of emails from adoptive parents and prospective adoptive parents who in their own unique sort of way ask me to STFU because if I keep talking they might not get that baby they are trying to buy.

I get emails from adoptive parents who say "their adoption wasn't like mine" so they therefore assume that all adoption is peachy. Must be nice to live in that bubble, don't you think? I remember being there. I had a trip there once. Back in oh, I guess late 1986 I visited that land where adoption was fabu. It was foggy there. My emotional visa expired though and I had to leave. Since then, I have learned there is good and MUCH EVIL in adoption. I don't need to support the good. I do need to fight the evil.

I welcome that kind of mail. I interpret those sorts of responses to mean that we are making people nervous, that real change could happen.

Hate away. If it means one more baby gets to stay with her mama, send me all the hate mail you want. It will not deter me and if anything will only add fuel to my fire.

Think about it this way. Consider a time line. In 1960something or other, babies were taken and lost to closed adoption. In 1986, the carrot of semi open adoption was used to bait many mothers I lived with in the home. In the 1990s, open adoptions became more dominant. See a trend here? Things are opening, changing. I believe strongly that with time we will be saving more babies and helping more mothers to keep those precious bundles. I believe someday mothers will believe that the best gift they can give to their child is themself.

Keep hating. Keep driving by and getting nervous. I love it.

And to those friends who got so offended for me, I adore you but really I am fine. Whack job that I am.

Hee hee.

Here you go, Dawn.

"The good enough parent, in addition to being convinced that whatever his child does, he does it because at that moment he is convinced this is the best he can do, will also ask himself: "What in the world would make me act as my child acts at this moment? And if I felt forced to act this way, what would make me feel better about it?" - Bruno Bettleheim

Dawn got tagged to list three things she does well as a mom.

She stated there could be "No hemming and hawing, no excuses or defensive explanations. I tag myself and I tag any of y’all who want to play, too."

Here I go.

1. I am very focused on my children's feelings and inner lives. Having had my own so blatantly disregarded as a child and subsequently when I lost my first born to adoption, I am very sensitive to my sons feelings. Additionally, since they are males and their father is a man who struggled with feelings and emotions, I want my sons to be in tune with what they feel and find a way to express that and know that it is OKAY to feel and be angry and sad and happy and glad and so on. I don't want them all tangled up inside or projecting or transferring or any of those other nasty psycho things.  I want them to be equipped with the proper tools to express themselves.
2. I encourage and support my children to pursue their interests - and allow them to quit if they change their minds. My oldest son has played soccer and quit after a few years. He has taken years of percussion instruction and recently told me he wants to quit and try something new. I allow them to explore the world and change course as they see fit (see feelings above). My own parents (and even my ex) would force them to "stick with things" and not allow them to quit. I dont understand this. My sons dont quit midstream or when things get hard. They quit when a year is over, a class is over, when they decided something wasn't for them or when they find a new interest. I see nothing wrong with that. Furthermore, for me to not trust them and their own judgment, would teach them, in my opinion, to not trust themselves.
3. I encourage my sons to care about others. Recently, I applied for a volunteer program at a Senior Center. My sons and I will go on weekends to this center and visit with seniors who have been forgotten or discarded by their own families (I know what that feels like). We will play board games, cards, clean rooms and generally socialize with seniors. My oldest son Nik (who is by nature an incredibly caring and sensitive child) thought it was such a great idea and is anxious to go visiting. I also just applied to be a Big Sister. While this has little impact to my sons, I do believe I, as a role model for them, am showing them the value of caring for and helping others. When I discussed it with my oldest son, he was quite interested and ended up saying "Wow, thats cool Mom. I hope you get matched with a Little soon".

I don't feel that I do anything WRONG per se but I do feel there are things I could do better. However, I work hard at not beating myself up about it. I believe whole heartedly in Winnicotts "good enough mother".  I am not smothering and always with them but I am there for their basic needs. Additionally, as they grow, I grow and have to adapt to their changing needs.

Where I feel I fail (but don't stress too much about it) is that I am not a cookie baking, recipe following, crafty, Halloween costume making mom. At least not all the time. As a single, full time working mom, I cannot be all things to all people. I have accepted that.   

I am a good mother. I know that. And while I am proud of that and can confidently state that it is bittersweet.

I would have been a good mother to my daughter too.

Home

"It feels like home to me, it feels like home to me
It feels like I'm all the way back where I come from
It feels like home to me, it feels like home to me
It feels like I'm all the way back where I belong"
Chantal Kreviazuk - "Feels Like Home"

I am in.

My old home is sold. I am no longer responsible for a mortgage I can barely afford and an acre of property I care not to tend to. The walk through went well and while proceeds weren't what I had hoped for, the truth is that I have avoided a possible foreclosure action and I have relocated to a wonderful thriving town and community.

My boys spent last night with their father so it was my first full night alone in the apartment. I should have unpacked boxes and organized. I should have played with the cat. I should have gone grocery shopping.

I didn't.

Instead, I laid on my bed and listened to the sounds of the neighborhood, the passing cars, and took in the environment. Nick, the golden lab upstairs, paced the floor as my mind wandered through thoughts of my children, the neighborhood, and what lies ahead of us in the days and weeks to come.

I found myself most amused at the fact that I really like this old place. The building, a three flat, was built in the early 1900's. The floors, while outstanding, are uneven. The closets are small and oddly shaped

When you walk from my bedroom, past the bathroom, down the hall to my sons bedroom, the floor creaks and sags and it makes me smile. Many of the doors don't fully close as their old hardware has been painted over one too many times. They are solid wood doors with ancient knobs. They would look beautiful with crystal door knobs on them. I consider a visit to Restoration Hardware.

The kitchen, while updated with modern day maple cabinets and appliances also has interesting floor elevations. It is likely why the owner chose a vinyl floor covering versus tile for the kitchen. I pass through the kitchen into the butlers pantry and I stop to rest as I admire the shelving and old cabinets. The walls have been painted a sage green. My burgundy colored fiestaware contrasts nicely against the wall color and the white shelving. A vision of red toile flashes before me for a possible window covering.

Into the large dining room, filled with natural light from the three windows, I stop and admire the neighbors home clad in dark green shingles. My eyes wander to the high ceilings where I note the older lighting fixture, chandelier type, dangles haphazardly. I must fix that. My eye is drawn to the built in china cabinet with the old leaded glass doors. Should I put my Mikasa china in there or something else? I am anxious to create backers to the shelves with vintage wallpaper. Being a rental unit I cannot do much with paint and permanent changes but I can certainly get creative with cardboard and wallpaper to create a colorful faux wallcovering to the back of the china cabinet. Perhaps I should decide on what I will put in there first. Then I can use a color that compliments the contents of the cabinet.

The glass on the cabinet reflects the image of the french doors that join the dining room to the living room. How old are these doors? How many children have slammed them and been hollered at by their parents? How many hands, and in what eras, have grasped the old pulls and welcomed guests into the dining room?

My jewel toned oriental type rug looks quite nice on the high polished floors in the living room. I had previously planned on making this living room into a chocolate brown, ivory, turquoise color palette. That old rug, placed their yesterday by me, is now messing with my design vision. This old place might not welcome a contemporary design style. I will need to sit with the place for a few weeks to let it speak to me and let it tell me how it should be decorated. It should be a joint effort, this home making. The apartment, with its many years of history, will work in tandem with me to create a place we are mutually comfortable with. I am a visitor here. A new addition. These walls, these high ceilings, the wide moldings, they have been here for generations. They know better than I what they need. I will listen and learn and respect the design energy of the architecture and the previous inhabitants.

The windows flanking the fireplace wont need coverings. They are small enough and high enough that security is of no concern. In addition, the way the sunlight comes into each window creates lovely streaks of light across the living room walls. Who would ever want to block out the sun?

There is character here. History. Color. Flavor. Vibes.

I like it and I am surprised by that. Yet I understand why I like it.

I am a not a fancy, pretentious person. I have had fancy and pretentious. I have lived in it. Less than ten years ago my ex husband purchased what many refer to as a McMansion. An enormous center hall colonial in a new development, it was indeed lovely. But it wasn't me. The neighborhood was filled with stay at home moms with executive husbands (one of the neighbors was Jack Welch's press secretary). The moms had play groups during the day. I wasn't invited. I worked. The moms (as they told me) "raised their own children" while I hosted au pairs from Europe and beyond to help me with my sons. The moms played bunco at night. I was invited once but I did not fit in. While they sat and discussed their latest strand of pearls and the newest line at Ann Taylor, I talked hair color, tattoos and literature. During the progressive dinners that were held annually, I found myself on the outside decks with the men doing shots and discussing business and politics. This alienated me from the women who preferred to discuss recipes and diaper cremes.

I did not fit.I tried for my husbands benefit (he did fit and wanted me too as well) but honestly I did not try very hard. It wasn't me. I did not want to fit.

I fit in this new place.

The neighborhood is multicultural, diverse, many ages. There are single moms with children, there are older couples with glorious golden labs. There are graduate students from UConn, Trinity College, UHart. The homes are close together and people readily introduce themselves and watch out for each others children. Yesterday, the older gentlemen from upstairs (the owner of Nick the golden lab) brought my sons a plate of home made cookies he and his wife had made. My sons sat with Richard on the large from porch and played with Nick the dog.

I fit.

One Order of Hugs and Snugs, Please.

"Everybody needs a hug.  It changes your metabolism."  ~Leo Buscaglia

I have been reading about other mothers taking a break from their adoption blogs or considering making them private.

I understand this.  I have been pondering same.

I would not make it private. I find that annoying and decreases readership when someone has to remember my password. (It is one reason why I don’t ask for passwords of those that go private. I never remember them.)

I am more likely to take a break. Of all the possible stressors in my life, dealing with adoption related trauma and topics ranks at the top of the list. Add regular life stuff to it, and I turn into a bumbling idiot (that leaves her car running).

The past few weeks have been hell on me. Other than losing my daughter to baby brokers, I don’t think I have ever been under so much pressure. Financial issues caused by divorce, house sale and closing, finding a new place to live, dealing with my sons pending surgery (minor), changing jobs. I am beat. Drawn. Exhausted. Depleted.

I have been staying away from the computer in the evenings. This was not a decision made with intent. It was dictated by the environment. I sold my home office furniture and desk and currently the only way to work on a computer is to sit with my laptop on top of two packed boxes. It is not comfortable.

I have also been sick with a respiratory thing and I just don’t have the energy. My hair is falling out in massive clumps (all stress related). My master bathroom sink is getting regular servings of Draino to deal with the nests of red and burgundy hair that seem to collect there (mea culpa future owners). My back is tight and sore and I have lost weight.

My daughters’ college graduation is on the horizon as is her 22 birthday. I am hoping to get a gift out to her and I am behind in both shopping, wrapping and shipping. I must do it soon for as soon as she leaves college I will be prohibited from mailing more gifts. I am not permitted to mail anything to her parents home (they don’t appreciate it). Alas, more stress.

So yeah, I want a break. More than that I want to be snuggled and cry for a bit. I think of my friend Joe and his use of the "hugs and snugs menu" term. I could use some.

I need to place an order.

Law of Attraction

"Your mind is a powerful magnet that will attract to you the things you identify yourself with. If you have sad thoughts, you will attract tragedies. If you are a good man, you will attract the company of good people." - Alfredo Karras

I have written about this so many times I am sure you are bored with it by now. 

Another adopted individual has crossed my path. I "met" this guy on a social networking (ahem, dating) site. It is kind of a dating site but not. What I mean is that the end goal, I suppose, for many that are on the site is to hook up. However, the site has tests and quizzes and other stuff that make it (to me) a little less cheesy than eharmony or match.com or such.  I don't go there trolling for men. I have a profile. When I am bored, I take the tests, etc. Rarely do I talk with anyone who writes or stalks me.  Many of them are incredibly disturbing.  One guy likes to go on and on about the size of his member. Another guy has sent me the same lengthy clingy message at least ten times yet each time he calls me by some other name (and I have never once answered the guy).  He is clearly sending this message out to everyone woman on the site.

SCARE - EEE.

But I do belong to the site and occasionally a decent person crosses my screen and we start up conversations, friend each other on facebook or myspace or whatever. In two cases, I ended up assisting the men with single pregnant teens that were in their life.

So, I have been chatting with an interesting fellow.  College professor, creative, interesting, educated, traveled, the kind of person I enjoy.  Multi-lingual, passionate, expressive, gifted. He is intelligent with just the right amount of freak juice pumping through his veins.  Perfect.

So, imagine my surprise (or not), when last night he tells me he is adopted.

Good god.  Does it ever end?

Note my name is not on this site, nor is there any reference to my adoption experience. How, I ask again, do these adoption torched individuals seem to find their way to me?  (Or I to them?).

I emailed Mr. Dink in a fit of hysteria (Mr. Dink is an adoptive dad, you may recall).  I have had conversations with him before about how frequently adoption comes rapping at my door.

I am stupefied.

Once I recovered from my initial shock, I told friend to google me. He did. I wondered if he, an adopted male, would cease our friendship once he figured out my role in adoption. 

• Is he an angry adoptee?
• An adoptee in denial?
• How does he feel about being adopted at 5 months old?
• Does he really want to be friendly with a woman who surrendered her child to adoption? Is that a bad thing for all considered? Is that like someone in drug rehab dating someone they met in rehab?

I once asked Mr. Dink if it was a bad idea for adoption traumatized or PTSD affected people to date. Is it better to get into a different pool? Or is better to swim in the same pool of pain with your partner?

I suspect the truth is, like everything in life, it will vary upon the individual. I personally find incredible comfort in having Mr. Dink as my friend due to his knowledge of trauma. I got past his adoptive dad status because he is just that great of a person AND he was not one of those clueless, self righteous, doofus type of adoptive parents. Our relationship has little to do with adoption and everything to do with treating each other with respect and support.

But could an adoptee date someone who surrendered their child?

I am not suggesting this guy and I are or will date. It is just something I am pondering in general.

Claud once told me she dated an adoptee soon after losing her son. For some reason it just seems too loaded to me. Would the individuals involved be truly caring about each other as people or are they filling a void in their life with the other?  Yet, isn't that what love is on any level - using another to fill a void in your life?

Hmm.

Way too complicated for me to think about today.

Yet I remain - amazed. I am indeed a magnet for adoption.

Or maybe I am a lightening rod?

Losing (or Lost?) My Mind

“Stress is nothing more than a socially acceptable form of mental illness” - Richard Carlson

It is well known I am stressed.

I have too much going on in my life and way too much stuff in my head.

I am having to once again push back on various projects. I am consumed with worry about a million things (the house sale, my trip to Ireland, getting my passport replaced in time,  money,  adoption and more).

If I needed any more obvious signs, I got it yesterday.

I am producing a video for work. It is an 8 minute segment that features a number of our executives, project managers and business partners. It is pretty high end.

The first of two tapings were scheduled for yesterday. My "actors" were scheduled back to back for 5 hours. Half hour sessions. They were being shot on a green screen and I was to be off camera, interviewing them.

I spent weeks arranging the details, meeting with the production crew, the actors, prepping them on little details like don't wear green (it will disappear on the green screen). I wrote the brief. I wrote the interview questions, scripted the flow. Things were going well.

The problem arose when my husband had to leave town for a week on business thereby wreaking mild havoc with my childcare and work schedule.

My children cannot be dropped off at school until 8:30 a.m. My first taping started at 8:00 a.m. I had a production crew arriving at five to set up lights, cameras, etc.

I arranged with my boss for her to back up me until I got there. I could arrive at 8:45. This would mean she would conduct 1.5 of the interviews.

Unfortunately, her boss disagreed. She wanted ME there. I am the creative person, the producer. She was right of course. So we moved some appointments around so that I would only miss 15 minutes of the first one.

The crew and my two bosses would cover for me.

And THIS is where losing my head comes in.

I drop the kids off. I get to work. Park in the satellite lot. Hop the shuttle and off I go to the taping.  It all goes well.  I feel proud and encouraged. We will have a fine product in the end. I am anxious to see the rough footage and start the editing process.

I get back to my desk and feel like I am missing something. I rustle through my purse and attache and realize I don't have my car/house keys. I panic a teeny bit but don't have the time in my day to address at that time.

Four o'clock rolls around and I start to stress. On a corporate property with 10 buildings, thousands of employees, it could be a disaster if someone picked them up.

I take the shuttle back to my car thinking I left them there. The car is locked. It is pouring rain. I am pondering what I will do. How will I pick up the kids? Cab? How will we get into the house? Hotel?

I take the shuttle back to the office and approach security. They refer me to the main security office.

I am greeted by VERY LARGE sumo sized Hispanic man with a great smile. I inquire about keys. I describe them. Big smile appears on his face.

He turns around, takes an envelope off a shelf and produces my keys.

Security in the satellite lot turned them in.

Oh no, I did not drop them. Did not lose them. Did not forget them.

I LEFT MY FREAKING CAR RUNNING. I got out of my car, grabbed my laptop, my purse, and got on the shuttle. All the while the red two door accord was running!!!

Security noted it, turned it off, locked it and turned in my keys.

WHO DOES THAT? WHAT the hell kind of stress is in my life that I get out of my car and leave it running and don't know it??

Mr. Large Smiley Sumo Security man is chuckling up a storm.  I am quite confident that the entire security staff is belly laughing about the  big breasted freaky haired red head that leaves her car running.  I am pretty sure they snicker as they walk past me now.

My lesson?

• Slow down.
• Get help.
• Get back up keys made.
• Make some friends (other than my ex husband I have NO support where I live and work. All friends and family are sixty miles away)
• Exercise.
• Try sleep once in a while. I hear it is a good thing.
• Try to stop worrying about my daughter - at least a little bit. I am right now consumed with her graduation, terrifying thoughts on substance abuse (I have NO proof but suddenly got this irrational worry in my head after reading Beautiful Boy that she might have inherited the addiction gene. I have spent weeks agitated over it. I see lots of pictures of her with alcohol. She works in the music business. I have this awful scary feeling. Since I don't know her at all, I cannot assuage it. The worry and anxiety runs around and around in my head and heart like a gerbil on a habitrail)
• Stop reading so much. Lately the reading seems to be doing more harm than good (like causing me to become unduly concerned about my daughters ability to handle drugs and alcohol).
• Try food.  A diet of yogurt, diet coke, vitamin water and the occassional Mike and Ike is not exactly brain powering delights.
• Find some brainless work to do. Maybe start making jewelry again.

I am open to suggestions. I am also open to you turning my car off if you see it idling nearby, mkay?

I get it, I do

"I'm not concerned with your liking or disliking me... All I ask is that you respect me as a human being.” - Jackie Robinson

I don't usually direct posts to commentors but I think this comment warrants it.

For the record, I deleted the comment.  It was left by "R" who seems to be a new visitor as there were no other comments from R or from R's IP address.

(EDIT: March 6 - I stand corrected. R/Ruta has indeed commented before. I deleted that comment as well.)

I deleted it because R sounded angry at his/her first mother and talked about restricting his/her mothers access to him/her.  R went on about his/her great adoptee life and projected lots of R stuff into well, my stuff. I rarely delete comments. In fact, I think I have deleted 4 in the entire time I had this blog.  But as noted, I reserve that right.  If it might be hurtful to my daughter or to other first moms, it goes.  I stand by my words - not the words of others.  That is my right as blog owner. (I once had a "Moms Gone Wild" flamefest here.  Two commentors - one an adoptive mom and one a first mom.  After that ugly experience, I decided to delete as necessary. Prior to that I left everything fly.   After seeing so many otupset  by hurtful comments left by visitors  on my blog, I decided enough is enough. We have all been hurt enough by adoption.  I will not allow anyone to use my blog as a stick to beat someone else with.)

But R did make a very good point that I want to clarify.

I do not know if my daughter had an awful life as an adopted child or a wonderful uber grand skippidy dippity do life being adopted.  I have no idea how she feels about it.  What little she has shared with me points to her feeling very conflicted and I assume that is why she chooses to avoid it, me and anything related to it. I am not going to share her words.  They are not yours to read or mine to share.  I will share my reaction and feelings towards them and our situation.  Also keep in mind, please, that there is much I DONT share here.  Do not assume you know the entire story by what you read here.

She could be rolling in a field of butterfiles over her adoption. I agree with R that it is possible, and I certainly hope  it is true that she is happy not knowing me, her brothers or why she was surrendered to a baby broker.

That was kind of the entire point of it, right? That she would have a life better than the one she could have with me? That she would have a life complete with ponies and pools and a college education.  I know she had a pool and I know she is in college. I never asked her if she had a pony. I know she had a jungle gym (so did my friend Susan who was also adopted).

Over twenty years go, I was lead to believe that was all that mattered.  I believed it.  I have no idea if my daughter likes being adopted, hates it or has no freaking clue.  Any or all of the options is perfectly acceptable.

But that is not really the point.  As previously mentioned, this blog is about ME, and my feelings, and my experience. If I feeel based on her interactions with me that she is conflicted or avoidant or anything, keep in mind that is my FEELING not a statement of fact of hers.  I cannot know that until she tells me that.  To date, she has not.

But for the record, I am fully aware that there are legions of adoptees across the world that are happy they were abandoned by their mothers. I realize there  are adoptees who are fine with the fact that their mothers were shamed, locked away and stigmatized because they were pregnant with them.  I realize primal wound is questioned by many.  I realize there are many adoptees that want records to be kept closed so that they dont have to be pestered by the uterous that gave birth to them.

I get that.

If I get that, if I respect that, (even if I dont agree), I expect the same in return.

Law of Attraction

"We don't attract what we want, we attract what we are." - Unknown

I met Mr. Dink on a social networking site. Okay, some might call it a dating site but since I did not stumble upon it or join it for a dating purpose, I don't necessarily consider it a dating site.

But I suppose it is. 

I found it after I took a personality test on Facebook. Unknown to me, the test was an app by the aforementioned site. Upon taking the test, you had to join that site to get your results.

I was annoyed but I am that much of a personality test dork that I just HAD to have my results.

And hence, I stumbled upon Mr. Dink.  I would have to go back into my emails to refresh my memory but I can tell you that immediately, somehow, he struck me as a bright, decent, caring person I wanted to get to know.

And so I have. 

I believe it was a few days into our online pen pal relationship that his status as an adoptive dad came out. Shocked, startled, unsure, I struggled for at least 24 hours with my decision to continue - or not - corresponding with him. 

Clearly I did and I am glad I did. (To me, for me, it showed some sort of growth or maturity or healing that I could not only befriend but later date an adoptive father. Boo to all of those adoptive parent haters who will tell me I betray the cause. I will deal with you later.  Have you heard of sleeping with the enemy? Or keep your friends close but your enemies closer? Kidding. Mr. Dink is no enemy - adoptive dad or not. LOL)

But Mr. Dink is not really the point of this post, he is being used to set the stage. (And frankly, I am sure even HE is tired of me talking about him.).

I have continued to randomly peruse this online site. I switch up my photos, change my bio, take more silly tests.  My participation on the site usually has much to do with my insomnia. It is how I pass the time when I cannot sleep.

Sooo, I begin corresponding with two more gents. Unlike Mr. Dink, these guys are just nice interesting peeps. I am not interested in dating them. They are true penpals. One lives up north and the other out west.

Well, imagine my surprise when I learn that Mr. Upnorth is a first dad who lost his first born child to adoption. Unknown to him till after the fact, his high school sweetheart was pregnant and surrendered their child.

Odd? Well, maybe.

But Mr. Outwest?

He tells me today that his ex wife is an adoptee in reunion who was reunited three years ago.

What the hell?

Is every single person I encounter somehow affected by adoption? How is that random people on a social networking site, that decided to converse with ME are affected by adoption?

Like bees to honey or flies to poo, adoption finds me.

Am I the honey or the poo?

Reality 1 : Dreams 0

"There is nothing wrong with change, if it is in the right direction” - Winston Churchill

The house went on the market officially this morning. We have had three requests for showings as of 3 pm. This is taken as good news. I hope it is a trend that continues.

A friend asked me what my plan was for moving. Was I going to buy or am I going to rent?

My intent is to rent. I have viewed a few nice townhome communities, some gated, some not. My credit took a hit with my divorce and I feel it is best if I work to restablish that. 

The rental properties I have viewed are nice. Very nice. One luxury apartment community has a pool, an onsite gym, clubhouse, discounts at adjancent golf course, and even offers discounts for those who work for the employer I do.

I toured the complex last week on my own and later took my two sons back with me. My oldest son was ecstatic and uttered many ten year old "co0000ols" at the various amenities.

Even in the face of a beautiful property, glee on my sons face, inside I felt disheartened.

I am grieving.

It wasnt supposed to be this way. Our children are supposed to have better than their parents. My children were supposed to have better than I did.

I grew up in a nieghborhood chock full of kids. We rode our bikes, played tee-ball in the street, babysat for neighborhood families, had barbecues on small lots with tree houses and played on jungle gyms.

My sons will get a town house or apartment complex? I dont care if it has a pool (I never had a pool).  I dont care if they pick up and drop off my dry cleaning.

It is not a house. It is not a neighborhood.

It is not what I wanted for my children.

This makes me sad and again makes me feel I am a failure as a mother. I already failed my daughter in the worst way possible. Now I fail my sons.

My mother and sister assure me daily that I will get through this. They remind me I am not the first woman on the planet to go through a divorce and experience life changes as a result They tell me I always come out on top. They remind me of all I have been through and survived.

And their words make me cry.

Yes, yes, yes, I know.

But again, it wasnt supposed to be this way. Fantasy and reality are colliding in front of me and creating the perfect emotional storm. My heart is aching.

Like my daughters adoption, it wasn't supposed to be this way.