Script For A Jester's Tear

Workin' It

2010-03-16T21:36:00.000-07:00

This isn't really an "official" blog; more of a dry run. I just became an Amazon Associate, and the ad to the left is a Kindle "book". Now, I don't know if I'll ever own one of these; I'm a person that just LOVES reading a real, physical book. But who am I to get in the way of progress? As long as there are ways to keep reading, to be able to get lost in a story, to be pulled into an adventure, to be wooed into a romance, I'll be there.

I hope my friends and family have enjoyed my blog. I appreciate everyone's efforts at helping me get this started.

I LOVE YOU ALL!!!

The Kitties I have Known part 1

2010-03-15T21:32:00.000-07:00

In an effort to prove to someone that I'm not all doom and gloom, that my life really doesn't revolve around adoption reform, I want to change things up a little bit. Add some spice to my blog; I want to introduce the cats in my life. :)

Introducing Oscar. He's an 11 year old tabby, with an old man attitude, a crook at the end of his tail (I think that his tail was stepped on as a kitten, but I'm not sure), and the deepest purr you've ever heard. He's my buddy, and I'm his person. He tells me LOUDLY when it's time for bed, and woe to me if I don't listen, or get out of bed after I'm safely tucked in. He's the patriarch of our kitty clan, and takes no guff from anyone! He was recently diagnosed with asthma, and has been having a difficult time of it lately. His wheezing has been keeping me up at night, though, and there was one time I thought he'd just curled up next to me and slipped away. Imagine his ire when I woke him up rather violently. I think I was lucky to come away from the encounter with all my fingers in place.

This is Cleopatra, a 4 1/2 year old tabby and the matriarch of our kitty clan. She is the Queen; you can call her Mama Patra, Auntie Patra, but just don't call her Cleo. You'll get a paw full! She is a definite daddy's girl; its especially funny to watch her jump on her daddy's lap and start to tread on his belly, purring up a storm an drooling all the while.

This is Qu'ushi, a domestic medium furred kitty. His name is Hebrew for "little black boy"; in some ways, not very original, but Qu'ushi is a one of a kind cat. He's a small fur kid, with a small voice, but a lot of love, and very much a daddy's boy. He is Cleopatra's Prince Consort, even though he walks like a dandy, with a distinct swoosh to his stride. And while he is a black cat, his time spent outside has bleached out some of his color, so he has patches of a deep mahogany brown. If he wants something from you, he'll stand on his hind legs and stretch his forepaws up your leg and dig his claws in, meowing in a complaining voice until you figure out what it is he wants. Typically his requests are for food, to be let outside or occasionally to be picked up.

These three cats are what I call our triumvirate. They are the original cats that my fiance and I brought to the relationship when we moved in together.

Meet Jazz. Beth is HER girl, and she is claimed by my daughter. Beth is the one who found Jazz and her brother (whom we gave to some friends) on the grounds of the commercial nursery that we lived in for a year. This 2 1/2 year old tabby quickly edged her way into our hearts. She is named Jazz because she "sings"; her voice is melodious, for a cat, and she is a very vocal kitty. She and Cleopatra tend to have arguments over who is dominate. I'm not really sure if Cleopatra wins all the time, but Jazz is gracious enough to not shove it in her face every minute of the day. Part of why Jazz thinks she's a contender for the throne is the fact that she's had several litters, and thinks that makes HER the Queen. Which, in cat worlds, it does, but not necessarily in this household.

This handsome fellow is Pinkerton. He was originally named Pinky because as a kitten, his fur was white, and showed a very pink skinned kitten. At the time we thought he was a she, so Pinky would have been a perfectly acceptable name. Boy, were we surprised! So, his name morphed into Pinkerton; sometimes Stinky Pinky, Detective Pinkerton, and Pretty Boy. He's about a year and a half old now, and is a short haired, tabby-Siamese mix. We're not entirely sure where the Siamese comes from because ALL of his siblings, except for one have been either black, tabby or gray. He's a very sweet boy, and always looking for a pet or to play. We have an arm chair that is next to a walk way in our home; he'll jump up on the edge and either reach out a paw in play or he'll cock his neck to one side coyly asking for some love.

These are the first five of our cats...there's more to come so stay tuned.

The Brainwashing of America part 1

2010-03-11T23:07:00.000-08:00

For several generations now there has been a huge misconception in America that pregnancy, labor and delivery are medical diseases, in need of medical management and treatment. Look around you, it's everywhere! In our popular culture from movies to sit coms; every pregnant woman you see is a screaming, out of control banshee, blaming the man who put her in that condition. While it makes for a laugh, this is perpetuating a myth that began when medicine became industrialized. In reality, it began much longer ago than that with the persecution of midwives as witches by the male dominated medical profession.

But that's for another blog.

When I had my first child, I went into labor and delivery willfully ignorant, believing that my body would know exactly what to do, and that I could just coast along for the ride. I was sorely mistaken. Yes, labor was painful. Yes, labor is work. And my mistake was that in not realizing that as a woman in an industrialized society, without the benefits of being raised around women that were either constantly giving birth, or helping someone else in labor, that my brain, and the brainwashing I'd been subtly subjected to my entire life didn't allow me to just "go with the flow". Fairly quickly I began to request something for the pain. Since pain medication is based upon your pre-pregnancy weight, I was given very little; my pre-pregnancy weight was maybe 115 pounds. In the end, I had an emergency cesarean section. Turned out, my son's umbilical cord was wrapped around his foot. Every time he was pushed/descended into my pelvis, his cord tightened up like a knot, cutting off his oxygen and putting him into sever distress.

When I became pregnant with my next child, I made a conscious decision to be as educated as I possibly could about what was going on with my body, and how to successfully have a natural labor and delivery. About my 20th week, I spent some time with my parents. One day my mom and I were in a book store and I came across a book; "Husband Coached Childbirth", also known as "The Bradley Method". My hopes, wishes and prayers were answered! I devoured that book. I already had this "off" opinion of the La Maze technique, but I didn't know why until I read that book. When Dr. Bradley made a point of saying that animals pant to cool themselves off, but not humans, the light bulb went off over my head. As a youth, growing up on a farm, Dr. Bradley had been exposed to all sorts of animals having babies. He noted that many of these animals panted during labor, but understood as he began his medical practice that humans didn't need to do this in order to ease themselves during labor.

When he began to assist single women during their labor, he experienced a huge amount of displaced gratitude. This spurred him to further research, and developing a technique that we can recognize now as directed meditation. Taking long, deep breaths during contractions lessened the pain of labor, and made it more manageable. For some women, music can help put them in a good place to concentrate on the kind of breathing needed for a smooth labor, for others it's building a "safe place" in their mind, and go there while her body is working to bring her baby into the world.

These are just a few techniques that a student of Husband Coached Childbirth learns, but the point is that he was able to give back to thousands of women the power to give birth in a dignified manner.

So, as soon as I got home, I started looking for someone in the area who taught the Bradley method. I was blessed to find a woman who did double duty as our local Le Leche League leader and a Bradley method teacher. My class was small, only two other couples, and we were Darlene's very first class. It was a learning experience for all of us. The other two expectant mothers were both due on the same date; I was due a week and a half after them. We all ended up having girls, and they were all born on the same date! My daughter was the youngest; which I always thought was appropriate since I was the one due last.

My testimony for the Bradley method is even more significant in that the night after my baby shower; I woke up at about 1:00 AM, no knowing which body part to put over the toilet. I was violently ill for nearly six hours before I asked my husband to take me to the labor and delivery deck on base. During an ultrasound, it was discovered that my daughter was only surrounded by pockets of amniotic fluid. I was immediately put on an IV; both for hydration and a slow pitocin drip. The plan was to have me on the drip for 24 hours to monitor my baby to see if she could tolerate the rigors of full blown labor. If not, if she showed any sign of distress, it would be another cesarean for me.

I spent the next 24 hours worrying that my baby wouldn't be able to come into this world naturally; though I must admit that much of that time was spent trying not to get sick again. It was the fastest flu I'd ever had, though! By the time 24 hours rolled around, I felt fine, and my daughter was handling the contractions like a pro!

At that point, the pitocin was increased to truly start labor. It's well known that women who have induced labor with pitocin have a much harder labor. Their contractions, instead of slowly climbing to a natural peak, begin at the peak and last that way throughout the entire contraction. And so my labor with my daughter was textbook, by pitocin standards. Obviously having had another child, I had a good idea of what was to come, but I couldn't have really guessed how hard those contractions would hit me. That's where the Bradley training came in; my husband was a miracle! He helped me stay focused, especially when I needed it the most. During transition, I was asking for a c-section; practically begging for it. He used a technique that we were taught during class. He recognized that I was in transition, and he made a deal with me; if I could hang in there for another hour, we would seriously consider a c-section, but just give it an hour. I gave him that hour, sulking through most of it in between contractions, and then suddenly found myself in the pushing stage.

My daughter was born 4 hours later, 12 hours after the pitocin was amped up to put me into real labor. It was shift change around the time my daughter was born, and I had an audience! The reason? No other mother had labored naturally through an entire pitocin induced labor at that hospital before! And since I was the only mother giving birth at just that time, I had about 14 people in my labor and delivery room; I was completely naked. And I didn't care!

During this entire time, I never actually screamed, or yelled, or cursed, or blamed my husband for the condition I was in. The only time I lost my cool was during transition, and I only whined a bit. Did labor hurt? Definitely. But I was able to deal with it, with the proper education, training, and guidance.

This is when the idea that America has been brainwashed truly began to take root.

2010-03-07T18:38:00.000-08:00

For my newest blog posting, please see the link below. Eventually I'll probably post this to my own blog, but I want to showcase Amanda's blog, too.

Amanda is an adult adoptee, who has recently started her reunion with her first Mother. She is also an activist, being the founder of an Adoptee Rights Advocacy group in her home state, a blogger, and all around great person.

http://adopteerightsreform.blogspot.com/2010/03/forced-gratitude-and-its-consequences.html#comment-form

Return Adult Adoptees the right to their Original Birth Certificates

2010-03-03T03:16:00.000-08:00

Until I figure this out some more, this will have to do;

A Strange Marriage of Ideas

2010-02-22T02:02:00.000-08:00

I have recently found myself in a bit of a conundrum; how do I pull two seemingly disparate passions of mine into one cohesive, integral whole?

My first passion is midwifery, breastfeeding and co-sleeping/sleep sharing. After I gave birth to my first child, which ended in an emergency C-section, I determined that I wouldn't go into another pregnancy, labor and delivery as blindly as I did the first. Because adoption was a serious consideration for my first child, I willfully under-educated myself as to what labor and delivery would be like. I reasoned that women had been having babies for longer than recorded history, so mine will know what to do when the time came. While I still believe this, I didn't realize at the time that my handicap was the fact that I didn't have a community of women who could give me the knowledge of what to expect, and how to help my body do what it needed to do. My ignorance caused me to shoot myself in the foot, as ignorance usually will.

When I became pregnant with my second child, I knew I wanted to nurse, and I knew I wanted to have this baby naturally. For me, one step naturally lead to another. I contacted my local Le Leche League leader and found that she had just finished her training as a Husband Coached Childbirth (also known as The Bradley Method for Dr. Bradley, the techniques progenitor) instructor and was seeking clients for her first class. I attended a LLL meeting when I was about 6 months pregnant with my daughter and had my eyes open for the first time. I was an immediate convert to the beautiful ways of breastfeeding and gently welcoming a child into the world.

And what a world it is! I credit The Bradley Method for giving my children the best possible entrance into the world, and Le Leche League for supporting breastfeeding exclusively. While I see breastfeeding as being the best nutrition for a human child (how many babies do YOU see crawling up to a COW to nurse?), studies have show the importance of mother's milk, and the necessary touching that accompanies nursing, for the vital growth and development of the infant brain. While I would never call my daughter developmentally delayed, she is behind the curve as far as her peers go in her academic pursuits. I shudder and cringe to think what may have happened had I been a lazy mother and just propped a bottle in my daughter's mouth and left her in her car seat to feed. (A sight which enraged me even before becoming pregnant.)

I learned from Darlene and the Le Leche League that it's ok to sleep with your child; you're more in tune with your child and their needs. While it takes a little time to coordinate, eventually mother and child can learn to nurse laying down, and eventually sleep through night time nursing. For the first 6 weeks of my daughter's life, I woke up to her needs to nurse, but we practiced nursing laying down. Finally it just clicked and we began to happily sleep through night time feedings. That's not to say she didn't breastfeed at night; she did. We just became so in tune with each other, that it became second nature to maneuver ourselves into just the right position that falling back asleep was the next logical step.

Call me smug, but I always laugh to myself when I hear new parents complain about the night time feedings. If they only knew how hard they were making it on themselves, they would become fans of nursing and sleep sharing fairly quickly, I think.

However, it was during the pregnancy of my youngest child that I finally figured out "what I wanted to do when I grew up" (I was 28, by the way). I wanted to become a midwife. I wanted to share with other women, expectant mothers, the joy and wonder of bringing a child into the world under her own power, free of hospitals, law suit phobic doctors, and people who thought labor and delivery were medical diseases to be managed instead of natural processes to be celebrated.

My second passion, as anyone already familiar with my blog will know, is the Adoptee Rights Movement and the Family Preservation Movement. Just read the post prior to this one and I think my positions are fairly clear, and I don't necessarily need to enumerate them again.

Maybe someone reading this will automatically jump to where I did only today, and if you do, bravo, you're smarter than I am (no, for once, I'm NOT being sarcastic). However, the marriage of these two passions seemed like an unlikely pairing in my head for a while. Then, during a musing of "if I knew then what I know now", I came upon the solution to my problem. One of the biggest reasons I caved to the pressure to give my first son up for adoption was financial. Neither my adoptive parents, nor my boyfriend's parents were willing to help out financially with raising our son. Both sets of parents had, independent of each other, the same reply, "We've raised our children and we're not interested in raising anymore". My boyfriend was the only one working between the two of us at that point, and we didn't have the money for formula, diapers, a crib, changing table, etc, et al. All the traditional accoutrements found in a nursery were beyond our financial capability. No one ever said to me before my son was born that I could save a great deal of money with simply breastfeeding him. No one told me that I could share sleep with my son, negating the need for a crib. No one told me that cloth diapers could save me expenses over disposable diapers. Those simple things could have saved us thousands of dollars and put us in a better position to keep our son. If I had known then what I know now, I wouldn't have inflicted the primal wound on my first son.

NO ONE TOLD ME.

As to how I utilize this knowledge, this new marriage of my passions, I have yet to fully figure out. I suppose my first step will be posting this blog. I'll go from there as to how I can bring these strange companions in my head to a useful, helpful way. Ultimately, I suppose I would like to help young, financially challenged women to see these alternatives that no one else is willing to tell them about. If I can help just one person keep their child then I'll know that all the pain and sacrifice I've lived through isn't in vain.

Young, Poor and Pregnant; Reasons to Relinquish?

2010-02-20T22:43:00.000-08:00

Recently I added my first Dad to my Facebook friends list and he's been privy to some of my not so thought through status updates. However, in discussing this with him and my fiance, I have discovered that many of those status updates are merely topic sentences for blogs that I want to start, even if I'm not quite aware of that yet. I think I also need some of the feedback from my Facebook friends that these updates provide in order to clarify my own thoughts on the things I "say".

However, both my first Dad and fiance urged me to make disclaimer statements at the beginning of my "topic sentence" status updates and post the blog link in order to be able to view the entirety of my thought process. While I can't guarantee I'll remember to do that every time, it will be something I will strive for in the future.

Below is the status update that began this discussion.

"As I continue to read The Primal Wound one thing becomes blatantly, brutally obvious to me; it should be a crime to force, coerce, manipulate, cajole, or in anyway separate a child from their mother unless that parent is proven unfit. And it should be severely punishable should a person or persons be found guilty of this act. Adoption has got to be the most unnatural thing one human being can do to another in the name of a child's best interest."

In defense of my first Dad, he isn't a part of the Adoptees Rights Movements, or the Family Preservation Movements and is only just now beginning to be aware of it at all because of his avid interest in me, his daughter. Some things that perhaps might have been obvious to those of my Facebook friends who are intimately involved and aware of my positions wouldn't need any sort of disclaimer, but one of the things that my first Dad brought to my attention is that there may be people who, like him, have no point of reference and could find my statements very confusing.

Some of the salient points I should have clarified sooner are these:

Who exactly "a person or persons" are.
The legal status of adoption.
What constitutes an unfit parent.

I want to address these points now.

When I refer to "a person or persons" I was in fact referring to attorneys or agencies whose sole purpose is the making of money from adoption. I never said adoption should be illegal, but that force and coercion and manipulation in order to obtain a baby for an adopting couple should be illegal. Informed consent is required for every single medical procedure we have; a doctor is obligated by law to give all the information about said procedure and the alternatives to the patient, yet there is nothing in place to keep an attorney or an agency from outright lying to a woman who is considering adoption and to me, that is plain wrong. While placing a child for adoption isn't technically a medical procedure, it is a life altering event for the surrendering mother, the child and the adopting parents. To be less than fully informed is, in my opinion, a criminal act. In the system we have today, adoption is a money making industry, motivated by greed, not good will, on the part of the vast majority of agencies and attorneys. It's not in the agencies or attorneys best interest to give a woman who is considering adoption all the information that is available on the repercussions of adoption on all members of the triad. Those people understand that should a woman be given this information, she will likely chose another option for her child, and they can kiss the money goodbye.

As for teen parents, their youth should not make them automatically unfit. I believe we need a movement in this country to keep the children of these teens at least within the biological family, should a teen mother and/or teen father prove unable to care for the child. Placing a baby with strangers doesn't help the child, no matter how loving, caring and attentive those strangers may be.

Some simple definitions of an unfit parent would include neglect, abuse (physical, emotional, mental), drug abuse. There are other definitions of "unfit", of course, but, that would be up to a judge to determine, using the law as precedent.

Financial abuse is a trickier situation, generally speaking. There are millions of children in this country alone who don't have health insurance. I'm ambivalent about this being an abusive situation; one, because we do have access to emergency rooms that by law must treat patients who seek treatment (and should the child need to be admitted to the hospital, there are financial alternatives that most hospitals offer for payment, either through medicare or payment plans), and two, because for things like immunizations there are free clinics in just about every community that a parent can take their child to. It was stated in a conference on adoption at the White House in the early 1900's that poverty is NOT an adequate reason to remove children from their families. Another thing to consider for financial "abuse" are that there are a great many community, private outreach programs designed to assist poorer families.

As for who is a better parent, according to The Primal Wound (and frankly, common sense) there are natural processes that a woman goes through during a pregnancy that does enable her to be the best parent to her child. Societal pressures are the factors from keeping that woman from fulfilling the imperative nature has provided. An adoptive mother hasn't gone through the 9 months of pregnancy that will make her uniquely able to care for that child. Can prospective adoptive parents provide a more financially stable environment? Perhaps, but as I stated earlier, I don't believe that poverty is a sufficient reason to take a child from it's mother. And that mother and child do not necessarily have to rely on tax payer money in order to survive.

Additionally, our society has a tendency to view a young pregnant woman in a static position. They see her as forever being young, immature and unable to provide for her offspring. This is an incredibly narrow view point, very limiting, imposing a certain set of criteria upon that person that common sense must dictate as purely illogical. One of the primary reasons why many prospective adoptive parents want an infant is because we know that babies grow incredibly fast, and are soon out of infancy. Humans grow. They grow up, get older, wiser, more mature. Of course not everyone does, however, telling a young, financially challenged woman that she cannot care for her child because of these very transitory situations in life is to risk creating in that person a mind set that, as soon as she signs the papers, becomes reality instead of only a possibility. Youth and poverty are not permanent. But when a woman is coerced into handing her child over to an eager, infertile couple, society has stated that woman will forever be a child, incapable of taking care of her child, establishing a destructive pattern of behavior in her that will keep a part of her forever that age when she relinquished, and even sadder, can cause so much damage as to compel the young woman to sabotage any efforts or attempts at creating a better life for herself.

Additionally, as the child grows, he or she can inevitably experience these exact same situations. Where the birth mother was unworthy to parent, the child was unworthy to be parented by their biological family. When one feels unworthy, there is no desire to better oneself. It can turn into a self perpetuating cycle to the point where the child turns into a birth parent themselves.

We regularly prosecute people for coercion, manipulation and force when these methods deprive another of health, happiness and well being; however, when done in the name of "the best interest of the child" we excuse the behavior, even if studies have shown time and again that adoption isn't always in the best interest of the child. Its criminal to leave a child in the hands of a parent who is patently unfit. Why then is it encouraged to take a child from a fit parent simply because of transitory situations in life?

My First Encounter With an Angry Adoptive Parent

2010-02-04T02:59:00.000-08:00

On January 1, 2010 I posted in my status update on Facebook this statement:

"Warning: this status update could be construed as offensive. To all those infertile couples out there who think adoption is a good solution, did you maybe consider that God made you infertile ON PURPOSE?!? Maybe you're not MEANT to parent?!?"

A month later, February 1, 2010, I received in my inbox on Facebook the following private message. My reply is below. I have yet to receive an answering message in return. Please note that the names of the letter writer and his wife are deleted out by my choice to protect their privacy, since they privately messaged me. While I understand that simply posting this to my blog may seem contrary to the spirit of privacy the letter writer intended, I feel that the points she makes and I rebut should be made public in order to help all in the Adoption Triad understand the difficulties in communication on all three sides of the triangle.

"you don't know me but I am Xxxxx' wife. I feel since you are putting your feelings out in a public forum that I can do the same, but a little more tastefully than you.
We respect anyone for having passion about what they believe in but we are very offended about your comment regarding people who can't have children naturally not being meant to have a child, through adoption either. I am unable to have children but i don't believe God would want me to let that get in the way of sharing our good values, morals and unending amount of love to a child who needs it. Anyone can give birth to a child but it doesn't earn then the right to be called a parent....you earn that title.
Xxxxx is the greatest father to our adopted son and I can't imagine our son missing out on that just to stay with his abusive, gang member, drug using birth mother who us tax paying citizens are paying for because she is in jail.
We feel very sad for you. you sound like a very bitter person with lots of issues and maybe you need to take some of your own advise, when you made the idiotic statement about God not giving some people the ability to have children because you are not meant to have have children.....well did you ever stop to think that maybe God doesn't want your birth parents to know you or that maybe you don't deserve to know them!
just putting our feelings out there also."

My Response:

"Dear Mrs. Xxxxxxxx,

I appreciate that my comment was offensive, generally speaking. I was venting some of my feelings in as safe a public forum for me as possible. My comment was not directly aimed AT you. The anger you sense in me is from the community at large believing that simply because a woman is poor and/or young that she will make a bad mother. Being poor and being young are not crimes, nor are they permanent situations in life. This country has a love affair with adoption that sickens me because of the sense of entitlement many prospective adoptive parents feel concerning young and poor pregnant women. There is a broad paint brush sweeping type attitude that if you are either of these things, then automatically you should not, cannot mother your child; and to me, that is plain wrong.

When Xxxxx added me as a friend, I looked through his pictures, and saw the photos that were taken of the official adoption of your son, and I was happy for him, and for you and your son. It looked like a very happy day for your family. I will admit that I was under the impression that your son was biologically yours, Mrs. Xxxxxxxx, but for some reason his biological father wasn't in the picture and Xxxxx stepped in. I was unaware that you were unable to have children biologically.

I understand that not every single person who has a child, biologically speaking, is capable or fit to raise that child. I feel very badly that your son has a birth mother who is a burden on our society, but I am pleased to know that he has adoptive parents who love him, care for him, and are providing a warm and secure home. That's what ever child deserves.

That being said, not every child who grows up in an adoptive home has the benefits that you are providing for your son. I am a survivor of incest from a very early age for many years by my adoptive brother. Does incest happen in biological families? Of course, so I understand that simply because I'm adopted that doesn't make my situation unique to adoption. It is what it is.

As far as "tasteful" goes, if you read my status update saying that, you may have read the replies to it and there are many of my Facebook friends that feel the same way I do, and in fact feel even stronger about it than I. That same week I posted in my status a question about what my FB friend's general opinion was of step parents adopting their spouse's children, and got very much the same response as the original post. However, I would love to see my fiance adopt my children from another marriage because he is more of a father to my kids than the man who provided the sperm for them.

I cannot, however, agree with your belief that "you earn that title" as far as being a parent goes. My next statement will more than likely be viewed as offensive, though it is not intended as such; however, I have found that the majority of people who make that statement are adoptive parents who are insecure due to their lack of inability to biologically procreate. When I say that, these are my experiences, nothing more, nothing less. That being said, not only am I an adopted person, but I am also a birth mother. I was a mother the moment I found out I was pregnant with my first son. You wouldn't tell a woman who had a miscarriage that she was never a mother. You would sympathize with her loss, grieve with her, and offer your condolence, but you would never be so rude as to say that she was never a mother. So why is it any different than a woman who lost a child to adoption? I carried my son for over nine months in my body; I loved him, cherished him, nurtured him with my own body. I cared for him when we were in the hospital while I recovered from my c-section. I agonized over what would be the best choice for him; raising him or to place him for adoption. How are my feelings any less than yours as a mother of an adopted child? Does the fact that I was manipulated into giving my ONLY flesh and blood up for adoption mean that I wasn't a mother?

Perhaps to you it does. But to me and to literally millions of other women, it doesn't. We ARE mothers. We are mothers who LOST our children to adoption. Do we grieve any less than the mother who had a miscarriage? NO. But by societies standards and expectations, we are not allowed to grieve our loss. We are told that you should just get on with your life, you did the noble deed, you gave the gift of life. Collectively, that's a slap in the face of each one of us because you can't carry a life inside of you for that long and just walk away with no repercussions. Children are not gifts to give away.

Does this make me bitter? To some extent, it does, because giving my child to another couple to raise was the worst decision of my life. It was the best decision for my son, but on a purely selfish note, that doesn't help me one bit. I am overjoyed that my son was raised in a household that could afford two houses, vacations all over the country every year, a private school. These were things that I couldn't give my son at that time in my life. He is one of the lucky adoptees because he had these material things as well as a wealth of love. That doesn't mean that I didn't love him with all my heart, and that doesn't mean that I would have been a bad mother. I was simply a young, poor mother.

Beyond that, I'm not a bitter person, regardless of what you interpret from what you read in just my status updates. I am a very happy, passionate person who is full of love and joy and wonderment at the world around her, especially with my children that I've been blessed enough to raise.

All that aside, I have a few last things I would like to say. I would strongly urge you to research "the other side of adoption"; educate yourselves with books like "The Primal Wound", "The Girls Who Went Away", and "Not Remembered, Never Forgotten". Please take the time to find out about specific issues concerning adopted children and the trauma adoption can cause. I urge you to do this for your son's sake. He may have questions, concerns that you simply cannot be aware of unless you have educated yourself in these matters. It will strengthen the bond you and your son have. Not every child experiences adoption trauma in the same way, some may never even experience the trauma. But it would be better to aware of the possibility that it may arise, rather than be caught unawares.

I realize, for the most part, that you are simply regurgitating my words back at me due to the pain you allowed them to cause yourself, but my reply to you is that every child, every person deserves to know where they come from. They deserve to know their genetic heritage, their cultural heritage, their medical background, and the people they come from (extending beyond abusive parents to generations preceding them). So, yes, I deserve to know my birth parents. And if God didn't want me to know my birth parents, then I wouldn't have found them. But find them I did, and they love me and accept me and welcome me with open arms.

The last thing is, I never wrote that comment/status update to offend you specifically. However, you took it personally, and directly attacked me instead of explaining your position and asking me for a clarification of mine. If you wish to continue a conversation in a civilized manner, I welcome the chance. But I will not allow myself to be directly attacked in this manner again, especially over a comment that was a very sweeping generalization in a forum that is my "safe place". I do apologize if my comment invaded your "safe place" because that was not my intention, but I do not apologize for my comment. If Xxxxx wishes to block me from his friends list, that is his prerogative, and I won't argue with it. I have fond memories of Xxxxx from high school. He was one of the few people I knew during high school that was always nice to everyone, never had a harsh word, and was fun to be around. Nothing can change my memory of him that way. But I'm a grown woman that doesn't need to hang on to old high school memories in order to fulfill my life now.

I wish your family all the happiness, blessings and joys that life can bring.

Warm Regards, "

And I signed my full name.

Due to the nature of the people who are on my list of friends on Facebook, the comments to my original status update were overwhelmingly supportive of my statement. However, I will only post my replies to my friends comments in an effort to maintain my friend's privacy. The reason I am re-posting these are to illustrate the seeming fact that the original letter writer chose not to further read, and thus making the mistake of achieving full understanding of my true position regarding the place of infertile couples in the role of adoption. On four separate occasions during the time that status update was there, not only did I state I was venting, but also that there ARE terrific adoptive parents in the world; and I posted at least twice that I was NOT specifically speaking to any one single person or couple.

comment 1)
"Even if my group of friends is a closed group, I had to say this at least once, publicly, "out loud" if you will. I really don't want to offend anyone, and I know this could be considered really, really rude, but it is honestly how I feel. I won't apologize for how I feel, but I will apologize if this hurt "your" (anyone who thought it was rude) feelings. That's not my intentions. I just felt I had to get it out."

comment 2)
"I know there are terrific adoptive parents "out there", and I completely understand their desire to have children any way they can. I just can't help but feel there's a reason why they're infertile."

comment 3)
"SVA:
I've always said: "you have to have a license to drive a car... you should have to have one to raise a child."

Me:
I won't argue that some people wouldn't benefit from that! And that there are some people who have children that just shouldn't have ever become parents. That's not my decision to make, tho. I'm just venting a bit right now."

comment 4)
"I hope you read my subsequent posts (and it looks like you and I posted at the same time, but I'll restate it here; I am mostly just venting). I KNOW it is offensive, and I DO feel sorry for people that struggle with infertility. And I DO know that there are terrific, wonderful adoptive parents out there and horrible, awful natural parents out there.

And ultimately, it isn't MY decision one way or the other. Plus, I cannot dictate to people how to live their lives. I KNOW that.

MY anger comes in where couples that want to adopt begin to take on this attitude that they're ENTITLED to someone elses child simply because that person is poor and single. And as they go along in this suffering through infertility, all they begin to see is all these horrible unwed mother's who abuse their children...and they see NOTHING ELSE.

Mostly, what I needed to do was to "vomit" this out; get it out of my system. While this wasn't a "knee jerk" reaction to those types of people, it IS the other extreme to those couples who see young, poor pregnant women as incubators.

I'm not aiming that comment to any one specific person, so I hope you can step back from this and see it in how I explained. As I said previously, I won't apologize for how I feel, but I am sorry if I hurt someone else's feelings. My intent wasn't to offend, merely to vent."

I've Come A Long Way, Baby

2010-01-29T23:13:00.000-08:00

Below is something I wrote just two short years ago. I still have some of the same feelings about my son's adoptive mother. I think it is obvious that I was moving through the adoption fog, but I was still deeply ensconced closer to the other side of things than I am now.

Enjoy, and please don't laugh too hard. ;)

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

January 22, 2008

I recently contacted my son that I gave up for adoption 19 years ago and have yet to receive a reply. I'm good with this. The entire situation is overwhelming, to say the least. I can wait.

But that's not what this blog is for; it's only the catalyst that has spurred my musings. I've read and seen and heard a lot about "birth mothers" and all the other terms that are given to women who have signed papers to relinquish their parental rights.

I recently came across this quote that I can't get out of my head. It's not that I embrace this view point, but there are some very specific points it makes that have made me think.

"Exiled mother: A natural mother who has lost her child to adoption solely because of her age and/or lack of support, information or resources. An unrecognized mother, she has been thrown away, banished and discarded by her parents, the adoption industry and society, who deemed her unworthy to raise her own child. "

First, I don't consider the woman who adopted my son to be "unnatural". I met her. She was as human as I am. What makes ME natural and HER unnatural? I'm perhaps the FIRST mother, but that doesn't make me MORE natural. If it did, would that mean that I'm SUPERNATURAL?

Second, "lost her child"...hmmmm...I knew where my son was after we were released from the hospital, prior to signing the papers. Up until then, I had every right (by law, until I signed papers saying I was no longer legally a parent) to see my son. I didn't misplace him. And while I may not have known exactly where he was his entire life, I didn't LOSE him.

Third, yeah, I was placed into a position by my family, my son's father's family and what seemed to be society in general to put my son up for adoption. I felt maneuvered. Not by this supposedly all powerful "Adoption Industry", but by those around me whom I needed support from the most, and who abandoned me in my biggest time of need.
Fourth, “An unrecognized mother”: Ok, this is right on the money. I spent years without my son, and if I ever talked about him (and when I made friends, or even just chatting it up with someone, I talked A LOT about him), it was difficult to explain what happened. It’s different than it was when I was adopted. In 1969 people still had some of the “unwed mother” prejudice in place. It is suspected that my birth mother more than likely was made to move to the Sacramento area to have me. So, there must have been a lot of shame in her family concerning me. But in 1989, “things were different”, I had other options. Heh, see the third explanation. Some options. Back to the point; I WAS unrecognized! One thing I will agree with is that adoption has made me a first class liar. When asked how many children I have, my knee jerk reaction is 2. But I don’t have just 2 children. I have 3 children.

Fifth; ...and society, who deemed her unworthy to raise her own child.” Yeah, got a lot of issues here, too. I was unworthy on so many levels. Unworthy to be a wife to my son’s father (after the adoption we were married; however, his family strongly disapproved of me for getting Mark “into trouble”. That marriage was doomed.) I was unworthy of being my son’s mother by so many people. In short, it left me feeling like a totally unworthy human being. Within the three months of relinquishing Andrew/Timothy for adoption I sunk into an abject misery. Looking back at it now, I was clinically depressed. I eventually yanked myself up by my boot straps and got myself out of it, but I did just about everything known to man to self destruct. I wasn’t worthy to be a human, so why should I remain in this life? I’ve always felt that suicide was wrong (that’s a different blog), but I sure did one hell of a job to get there anyway. Just not consciously, that’s all.

While I don’t agree with the extreme group that claims the “Adoption Industry” is just waiting on baited breath to snatch single, pregnant women off the streets just to give privileged white infertile couples babies, there is an interesting, prevailing attitude in this society that I think very few people are aware of; and that pregnancy is a disease that we need to cure women of. This attitude is so prevalent on so many levels its sickening! There’s a strong push to separate mothers and children, even when the pregnancy is planned! (I have a whole other soap box dedicated to that particular subject). This attitude is subtle, but everywhere and most people don’t even realize they embrace it whole heartedly.

I guess we can thank our Puritan beginnings. I think they’d be proud of the influence they still wield even after 400 years.

Tim's First Visit (And Now For The Rest of the Story)

2010-01-29T17:28:00.000-08:00

I had worked all night Friday and arrived home about 7:30 in the morning. I was still too wired up to go to bed. I took something to help me sleep, checked e-mail, and puttered around for a bit; my usual routine. I really did want to try to get some sleep before Tim called to tell us he was on his way, but I’d had a bit of a brainstorm the day before while giving Tim the directions to our house. We live in a fairly isolated spot, and everyone misses the turn to our house. So, on my lunch break, I went to Wal-Mart to buy a foam poster board and some new markers. I originally left a message for my two children to start/make the “This way” sign, but I wanted to help a little with it, too. Besides, the last thing I needed was to hear them bicker over what to write, who was going to write it, what the entire thing should look like overall. So the best course of action, in my opinion, was to just cut that particular argument off at the pass. I started the poster myself.

By the time I gathered all my supplies and set up my work station in front of one of the full length windows in our entry way, it was after 9:00 and Beth had just gotten up. I had already drawn the words and outlined them different colors. Beth, naturally, asked what I was doing. I explained it to her and told her that I wanted her and her brother to help decorate it with me. We decorated the words all different colors, with eye catching doodles and drew figures and bursts of colors almost all over the poster board.

I was trying to keep track of the time. I still planned on getting a little bit of sleep, at least, perhaps an hour or so; something.

An hour later, Zach got up and asked what we were doing. This time, Beth did the explaining. After some waking up, Zach added his own flare to the poster.

Overall, it looked wonderful; cheerful, and made with a lot of love.

Shortly after Zach got up, Ron joined us. We all made the mistake of “pulling” him “in a thousand different directions” before he was fully awake (we really DO know better, but today was so special, that we sorta forgot to take into consideration). The kids were asking Ron all sorts of questions, and I requested Ron put up the poster when I suggested going to bed soon. Well, that earned a glare full of venom; he later explained that he wasn’t awake yet, and didn’t mean to shoot me such a dirty look. Not being a “morning” person myself, I easily forgave his silent anger. It wasn’t real, just Mr. Grumpy Pants in the morning. So, instead of going to bed, I loaded the kids in the van and toddled down the lane to put our poster up for Tim. After a trip back to the house to get more nails, we finally had it about as perfect as we were going to get on a slightly windy day.

Back at the house, I made note that it was just about 11:00 AM. Tim was supposed to leave home soon and call us to tell us he was on his way. Knowing it’s only about a 2 hour drive, I started to fret. Shortly after 11:00, Tim called; he was leaving Target, which was just on the outskirts of town. All he had to do was shake off the friends that had jumped on his truck. I had to laugh at that. It is gratifying to know that my first born has good friends, and can mess around just when he’s out and about town. With a, “I’ll see you soon,” to one another, we rang off and I waffled between trying to get maybe an hour’s nap or just take a shower and try to shake off the effects of the Benedryl. So, shower it was.

First, though, was some tidying up, and directing Beth and Zach around to get the house in order, or at least a bit more presentable. After grabbing a quick bite to eat, I hopped into the shower and killed about another 20 minutes. All the while, my head was spinning with the thoughts of Tim’s arrival. Throughout the morning, I kept having these compulsive thoughts of, “what if he can’t make it? What if he’s changed his mind? What’ll I do then?”

I worked hard to try to contain those thoughts, but until he called, they kept creeping into my head, unwanted, unwarranted, but insidious and pervasive nonetheless.

Time was slipping away so fast. I wanted to have everything about as perfect as it could be. I knew my house wasn’t spotless; I’m not a great housekeeper. But it was presentable and I wanted to be presentable, too. I don’t usually wear make-up. For the most part, I’m either too busy or too unconcerned about such things. But today was different. While I knew that Tim would see me during the weekend without make-up, I just couldn’t see not putting my best foot, or face so to speak, forward. So I killed some more time putting on my best face and playing around a bit with my hair.

I’d killed so much time that I was shocked and amazed when Beth brought me the phone (I had actually brought the other cordless phone in the bathroom with me, hoping to hear it over the sound of the hair dryer and radio. HA! Yeah, right!); Tim had left the directions to the hotel at home and could I give him directions? I did so happily and told him to call when he was on his way since the directions from the hotel to our house would likely land him in a traffic jam.

Just prior to this, I’d asked Ron to do all the picture taking. I’d seen enough reunion photos to know that I would treasure the first hug pictures along with all the other firsts. Ron agreed, but then said that he was going to Wal-Mart to pick up some cat food. I tried not to worry too much about him getting back in time, but since he has a habit of taking a lot longer than anticipated, I knew my concerns weren’t unfounded. So, as I was finishing up drying my hair, Tim called yet again to let us know he was at the hotel, settled in, for the most part, and ready to get the new directions. I gave them, noticed what time it was, and also noticed that Ron wasn’t back yet. Fear and worry didn’t exactly have me by the throat, but the first stages of panic were beginning to set in. What if Ron didn’t get back in time? Would the kids be able to take the pictures? Would the pictures turn out alright? OH GOD!

Calm down! I ordered myself, and figured that if push came to shove, both Beth and Zach were equipped enough to handle the picture taking. They were familiar enough with my camera that I forcibly shoved the worry away. And just as I was able to do that, Ron arrived home. RELIEF! I gave Ron the update; Tim was on his way here. So, Ron grabbed the camera while I fussed with my hair for the last time and forced myself to NOT have that one last cigarette. It wouldn’t do to smell too much like cigarette smoke when meeting my first son for the first time. But, boy! Did I want one!

(looking toward the road from our lane; it’s just over the rise)

And then Ron did something totally unexpected. He jumped BACK into the van and drove out of the drive way. He was backing up along our lane as I’m scurrying out of the house trying to figure out what the hell he’s doing. The view of our lane is obscured by some trees fronting a pond, and I didn’t see the van (which is a very bright blue and very obvious, even to a blind person) back out beyond those. Ron had stopped! Ok? I was incredibly puzzled, and so were Beth and Zach, who were hovering around me like two little busy bees. Finally, I allowed Zach to run down the driveway and look down our lane to see where Ron was. The lane being a bit “over the river and through the woods”, Zach couldn’t see the van. So, he skirted through the nursery property beyond the pond and spotted the van; just about the same time Tim drove up. Zachary charged back to the house, but neither Tim nor Ron was in sight. Well, not really; I could only just make out their movement around the vehicles. Have you ever gnashed your teeth? Like in the story, “Where the Wild Things Are”? Well, I WAS! Cause there was Ron, my devoted, loving and all too clever husband MEETING MY SON FIRST!!! Now I had to order myself to calm down again. Being my devoted and loving husband, I knew Ron’s sneaky little plan was something for me, and that in the end I would probably appreciate it, however, I couldn’t keep the thought that HE WAS MEETING MY SON FIRST out of my head. Gnash! GNASH!

(that little dark smudge on the far left portion of the road is Tim’s truck)

(He’s getting closer)

(…and closer)

(Ron must have been standing on the bumper for this one)

(Ron got to meet my son first! GNASH! But he’s a cutie, huh?)

After many agonizing moments, which in reality were probably only a few minutes, I see Ron driving back up the drive, but, to my dismay, NO TIM. GNASH!

Ron pops out of the van as I’m walking over. I must have looked like a thundercloud about to rain on someone’s parade. Ron just smiled at me and laughed, telling me, “You said you wanted me in charge of taking pictures. So, I’m taking care of pictures.” Not very mollified, Ron went about taking some pictures of the kids and I waiting.

(waiting)

(Still waiting…in front of the ugly pink house. Love the house, hate the pink! And LOOK, Zach even brushed his hair! It’s a miracle!)

I have to say that I’m incredibly grateful (yeah, he knew I would be! *LOL*) for the pictures. Everything that I’m feeling, all I’m thinking is really plastered on my face in these pictures, and I can’t remember a thing of it! Well, that’s not entirely true. Obviously, I was incredibly anxious, excited, mildly irritated at Ron for his over cleverness, mildly irritated at the kids for…well, just doing kid stuff. Beth and Zach’s excitement was rubbing off on me, obviously, but they were asking those typical kid questions. Beth, my little mirror, was giving voice to my frustration, asking over and over again, before Ron got back to take these pictures, “Where is he? What is he doing?” There’s only so much of that I can take on a GOOD day. Eventually, I had to ask her to stop talking (I think the implied threat of a good throttling was obvious in my tense voice). I know we were all excited, but it was pouring out of the kids in waves.

And then HE was there!

My eyes were glued onto his truck (which is really a Suburban, but who’s counting?) and the figure inside driving. Tim pulled up and got out as I started to walk across the driveway. Here was the child that I’d nurtured in my womb for over nine months, had given birth to 19 years and 2 months ago, relinquished for adoption three weeks later. Here he was in my driveway, a grown man, a young boy, looking to me so much like his father, sounding so much like him from our phone conversations. Hell! I’d even said that he sounded exactly like Mark in the first few minutes of our first phone call. I was so blown away! Blown away by the first phone call, and his voice, now seeing this PERSON that was a part of me and a boy I once loved. The reality of SEEING TIM shook me, and shifted something inside of me that I’d forgotten was lodged there, had been lodged there from the first moment I suspected I was pregnant. (Which, dear reader, was the very day he was conceived. I had a VERY regular period, and Mark’s 21st birthday was on my day 15! Oh BOY! What a birthday present, huh?)

I think what shifted was the dam that I’d built up to keep all the love I’d had for that child blocked up, locked away so that I could continue my life without the crushing grief I experienced that first year of his life, that oh so important first year of a baby’s life that I could never be a part of. Occasionally, usually on Tim’s birthday, a small crack would appear in that dam and I would cry torrents, needing to allow that grief and love come out of me for just a little bit. Like all dams, the gates need to be let down every once in a while so that the structure isn’t overwhelmed by the titanic pressure behind them.

And then I was hugging my child for the first time, again, in over 19 years.

(With a kitty, Smokey, in the background, as my kids later pointed out. And something that Tim told me later; that black ‘wrist band’ he’s wearing was something that his football team wore in honor in memory of his mother. So, we were both there hugging our son!)

My son’s strong arms around me, holding me close for the first time is something I will never forget and love my darling husband Ron for so much for capturing. I’m tearing up right now, relating it. And realize that I haven’t allowed myself those tears yet. Perhaps later.

What followed after, the words, don’t come to mind. Perhaps my children or Ron or even Tim, will remember, but I don’t. I was too lost in looking at HIM; too lost in seeing myself and Mark in this wonderful, spectacular, miraculous person standing before me.

(disbelief)

(My eldest meet)

Tim had asked me a few days prior what things Beth was interested in. He’d already gotten a bead on Zach (heck, he was once a 10 year old boy too!), so had an idea of what to get Zachary, but 13 year old girls are a mystery to him. Since Beth isn’t a mystery (well, not too much) to her mother, I was able to give Tim some solid ideas for a small gift.

(God only knows how Ron managed to get a picture of Beth with all her hair up like in a cartoon, but I think it’s an awesome and funny picture. Somehow, very appropriate. The beanie baby frog’s name is Smooches. Tim managed to get two of Beth’s loves in one gift; frogs and stuffed animals.)

(Mr. Smooches)

At one point, Ron came over to me and I hugged him and as we watched Tim and Beth and Zach talking, I told him that I felt like I was in a dream. I pinched myself and then I pinched him. Yep, we were awake! It was real. A part of me still has to pinch myself; I’m afraid that I’ll wake up in June and this is just some chocolate induced coma.

We moved into the house, talking, chatting, nothing really in depth, but breaking the ice. After only a few minutes into the house, though, I finally broke down and said, “I’m going out for a smoke! I’ve been good enough and I need a bit of a stress reliever”. Fortunately, no condemnation, but concern about the smoking. Tim said something about how he’s not going to start, but for some reason, his brother smokes. I told him I’m glad he’s not going to start. I KNOW (I AM a nurse) it’s a bad habit, but I enjoy smoking. We talked more outside. We talked all weekend, really. I think I’ll never stop talking to him. I have 19 years to catch up on. And while I understand, I know that I can’t “catch up”, that doesn’t mean that I’m going to stop trying.

Soon, my rchildren were bugging about being hungry. And even though I know eating was important, I could have gone for a very long time without it at that point. However, we packed up into the van and drove to one of our favorite, local Mexican restaurants. We spent a couple of hours there, though with Zach getting more and more edgy. He was supposed to go to a birthday party at 5:00. We didn’t get home until about 5:30. Zach then quickly packed up and Ron dropped my youngest son off at sleepover birthday party. The one thing I asked Ron was to take Beth with him. I knew they wouldn’t be gone long, but I wanted a chance to be alone with Tim, for a little while at least. Earlier, Beth had pointed out to Tim the photo album that I’ve kept of him from when he was born. Actually, there’s my ultrasound picture of him in there, too, so I guess you could say from before he was born! So, not one to lollygag or beat around the bush, Tim reaches for the photo album and we sit down on the couch to go through our pictures. I had to prepare Tim a little before opening the cover. I let him know that a document with his “first name” was in there. He nodded and proceeded with opening the picture book.

I took him on a tour, so to speak, of the photo album; explained the individual items and pictures. He liked his “first name” Andrew Morgan (for clarification/privacy I’m leaving out Mark’s last name; however, I DID give my son his father’s last name. We might not have been married, but I know who the father of my child was and I did love him. The least I could do is honor Mark with giving our son his name. And I did tell Tim that he was conceived in love. Tim was very pleased with that). I told him that a friend of mine once said to me that if I’d named my son Andrew, he would forever be known as “Andy”. As I don’t like the name Andy much, I told my friend that he would have been known as Drew. Tim was blown away by most of the pictures. Obviously the ones that I have, he’d never seen before. And some of the ones that Carol and John sent to me he’d never seen before, either. He gave me a bit of a tour himself, thought his life with the pictures. He told me about this and that, and filled me in on some of his childhood. It was a joy to hear, my heart was so full of abundance just having him sit next to me, relaying these experiences, connecting them to images I’d looked at thousands of times.

Eventually, sooner than I wanted, Beth and Ron arrived back at home. So much of that evening is a blur. Again, there was lots of talking, lots of goofing around.

(And now Tim gets the benefits of being the big brother!)

Beth was the first to mention that she was getting hungry again. I looked at the clock and noticed that it was nearly 9:00 Beth suggested ice cream and I suggested the Leatherby's Ice Cream Parlor and so, we were off to Leatherby’s. All through the day, Tim and I went back and forth about our likes and dislikes, comparing, contrasting. And through out the day, I was continually amazed at how much he is LIKE me. I didn’t think such things could be genetic! How could a preference for a certain dessert be genetic? But it seems to be. We were all looking through the menu, and then ordered. With a small twist, Tim and I ordered the exact same thing, without even being aware of what the other was going to order!

And that’s not all that we have in common; modes of thought, lines of thinking, senses of humor! Being adopted, I’d never had anyone around me growing up who thought like me. And after I had my rchildren, I just figured they thought like me because I AM raising them. And then I met Tim! Now I look at my rchildren and realize that perhaps the smart mouth my daughter spouts off with occasionally IS genetic, or the way my youngest son’s words tumble over each other as his mouth tries to keep up with his brain IS genetic! I know that Beth is a normal 13 year old girl, so the smart mouth is normal. I know that Zach is a smart young man, so his words coming out one on top of the other is normal. I know that I am comparing and contrasting Tim and Beth and Zach. Perhaps that’s not fair to any of them, and perhaps when I’m around Tim more, I’ll stop doing it so much, but I in awe and amazed at these individual people that came from my body. And I know that most humans have this ability, to give life, and that perhaps there’s nothing quite that special about it, but I can’t believe that these children belong to ME. And, as Ron likes to say, not even God can change the fact that I am their mother. These three people amaze me, fill my heart, and make my life a joy worth living in a way that I can’t describe adequately. I can die happy now. I have so much more living to do, I understand that, but if I were to die tomorrow, I would be happy.

We arrived back at home sometime after 10:30. Beth got her pajamas on and we let her stay up til 11:00. This isn’t unusual in our household, the late nights, but considering all the excitement and nerves, I wanted her to get a bit more sleep than usual. She was seriously bent out of shape at having to go to bed “so soon”, but is wise enough not to argue too much.

I’m sure I must have been beaming when Beth gave Tim her first good night kiss. I went in and said prayers with my daughter, and gave her my good night kisses.

The rest of the night was spent in a bit more adult conversation, but nothing deep. Before Tim left for the night, I told him that I wanted to take some time either tomorrow or Monday and just spend time alone with him. He whole heartedly agreed, almost as eager as I was for that time to connect.

(This one’s titled, “Go away Mom, I’m trying to sleep!” taken at 2:00 AM. Notice Mr. Smooches? )

Ron and I spent another hour unwinding from the momentous day. I’d been up for 32 ½ hours by the time I went to bed! I was supposed to work that night, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, let alone concentrate on work, so I called in with a little fib. (For some reason, the nursing profession frowns on “personal” days. *shrugs*). As it was, I didn’t get a lot of sleep either. I think I was awake by 9:00 though had been woken up off and on by spring crazed cats! I lounged around in bed til nearly 11:00, sending Ron off to pick up Zachary from the sleep over. The night before we’d told Tim that he could walk right in, that he was welcome to our home anytime, and didn’t need to knock. He was feeling a big sheepish about this, and I can understand, but that’s how we were feeling and we wanted him to know that. I was in lying in bed with Beth sitting next to me and we were just having a nice mother/daughter talk when suddenly I saw Tim standing in the doorway to my bedroom, looking distinctly embarrassed. He said he’d run into Ron on the way in; Ron apparently gave him the idea that we were up and about. So, Tim HAD knocked, but when no one answered, he let himself in.

I let him know that we’d be out, sent Beth on her way, grabbed a robe and joined him in the living room, chuckling to myself the whole way. After waking up a bit more, though trying to plan on some more sleep before work that night, Ron and Zach got home. The day was spent playing around, me taking pictures, the kids playing football, just a lot of goofing around. There were huge protests of hunger around noon by my daughter. Tim agreed that he was hungry too. So mom got to go into the kitchen and get creative.

(Hangin’ out in the front yard)

(No really! This is how the ball’s punted!)

A couple hours later, and some interesting mistakes in the kitchen, I had a rather late brunch served. Scrambled eggs, homemade waffles and bacon for most of the family, a BLT for me and we were all seated around the dinning room table for the first meal I’d made for my entire family. I was in heaven, bliss, nirvana. I saw a birth mother write recently that she felt the need and joy of cooking for her child she was in reunion with; I was thinking of that the entire time I was making brunch and really understanding what she meant. I’m not the “home maker” I used to be; I don’t do the working mom routine well, but I do enjoy getting in the kitchen still and cooking for my family. When I was able to do that for my first son for the first time…well, there aren’t enough words to describe that sort of uniquely female joy.

After much coercion, and a bit of encouragement from their brother, my rchildren finally assented to doing a little bit of kitchen clean up. After, I jumped on the computer for a few minutes and left my sons to play Yu-Gi-Oh. Really, Tim was great with Zach. He didn’t have to play a game that he’d put away some years ago as a childhood pastime, but he sat down with Zach, exchanging your typical male banter (“I’m gonna wipe the floor with your butt”, that sorta thing) while Bethany looked on. There was talk about going to the mall; Tim was unable to get a gift for Zach, and wanted to take him out so that Zach could help him choose. I so wanted to go with them, but it was past 3:00 by this time and I desperately needed to get some sleep if I was going to function for work.

Soon, the game was finished (Zach won, with a promise of a rematch and a butt whoopin’ from Tim) and the 4 loves of my life were heading towards the door to do their shopping and I was tucking myself in bed for a few more hours of sleep.

I awoke to a rather quiet house. Strange since it was getting late and usually there’s a bit more noise and sound greeting me when I wake up. I stumbled into the kitchen to find Ron cooking dinner, with Tim and Beth exchanging jokes with Ron; all very quiet, even the laughter was muffled, all in respect for my sleep. My heart melted a little bit more. Zach, I found out, was happily enjoying his new Gameboy game that his big brother got him in his room. I started my routine of getting ready for work, scrambling around for something clean to wear and the necessary items needed for a quick night working.

All too soon I was at work, but with a big smile on my face that I couldn’t hide or would want to even if I could. That night passed quickly. I was happy with the thoughts that my first son could fit so comfortably in my home with my rchildren and husband. They had spent a great deal of time together without me there (which, I’ll admit, wounded me a tad. Not begrudging my family spending time alone without me, but just that I had to miss time with them. Necessary, I know, but a bit of a sting nonetheless).

And then the day I was waiting for finally arrived! Tim and I were going to spend a day together without anyone else to worry about. Telling my rchildren wasn’t exactly the easiest since they obviously wanted to spend time with us as well, but in the end they understood the need both Tim and I felt to be alone together. Again, it was a day that I didn’t get any sleep, and so needed vast amounts of caffeine to keep me sustained. Pepsi to the rescue! We went out to lunch (again, ordering nearly the identical items from the menu without consulting about it). After, I took Tim to a park that I frequently take the kids to. It’s one of my favorites; an older park with huge shade trees, keeping the play areas nice and cool in the summer. It’s been refurbished since I’d grown up, and the play equipment was dotted with all sorts of children of all ages. The basketball courts and tennis courts were filled with players and Tim and I walked, strolled, sat, and talked for hours. We talked of mundane things, we talked of intimate things, we talked of his birth and my pregnancy with him, and we talked of religion and politics. He gave me his first spontaneous hug and I love you there during a walk.

Something I’d realized during the days preceding his arrival is that reunion is something akin to a love affair. Take away the hormones and you find the anticipation, anxiety, the excitement, the joy and fear are all the same. I shared this with Tim, and while he was baffled by the idea at first, he gave it some serious thought and quickly agreed with me. Another thing that Tim gave me, not even realizing it, was being able to fall in love with again my children. To revel in the love affair that parents have with their children. He was able to help me look into myself and renew that wonderful sense of awe and amazement we have for our children when they’re first born. I felt as if I could see my younger children through new eyes again, perhaps sharing in the newness Tim saw them in.

It was nearly 6:30 when we arrived back at home. Ron was beginning to fix dinner and Beth and Zach pounced us for the love and attention that we so heartlessly withheld from them earlier. ;)

(Watching Clue)

We settled into the evening routine, eventually scooting the kids off to bed with hugs and kisses all around and prayers once tucked into bed. And again, Tim stayed until about 1:00 in the morning. I drug myself off to bed, having spent another nearly 30 hour day busy with my family. My body and brain were beginning to feel the effects of lack of sleep, buy my heart was soaring! Tim had suggested the day before going ice skating; taking the kids and making a day of it before he headed back home. And yet again, I was floored by another similarity between my first son and myself. I’ve loved to ice skate ever since I was a child. I’d even had the Dorothy Hamil hair cut as a child. Didn’t exactly look good on my since my hair is naturally curly, and Dorothy’s isn’t! But Tim had learned to ice skate in winter camp and since his home town didn’t have an ice rink, he was eager to get some blades on and have some fun.

So, keeping it a surprise for the kids, I looked up the info on line, and printed up the information we needed. Ron had a break between work and we all went out to lunch one last time together that long weekend. This time it was Moroccan food. Very similar to Greek and Greek is one of my favorite types of food. By this time, Tim had realized that we have a very similar taste in food, and deliberately ordered the same thing I did.

Soon, Ron had to get back to work, and Tim wanted to get to the skating rink so he could leave at a descent time. Very quickly we were booted up and skating. I teased Tim that one of the young ladies that came over to help us with our skates was flirting with him. I forgot how much fun it is to make a 19 year old boy blush! Of course, there was more talking, goofing around, playing, picking Beth and Zach up off of the ice, just having a plain ole good time. I’m not a huge fan of Country music, but I am familiar with the music that crosses over or is popular enough to catch the top 40 eye. When Lone Star’s Amazed came on, I just got shivers! I know it’s a love song, but there are enough lyrics that can apply to my children that I had to keep the tears from pouring down my face. I really AM amazed by my first son. I can’t say that he can do no wrong, I don’t have blinders on, but I am fully enjoying the honeymoon phase right now. I figure after 19 years, I’m entitled to a bit of glowing.

And all too soon, we were back home, Tim dropping us off and saying our good-byes so he could hit the road and head home himself. There were no tears, no sadness in our farewells. We’d already made plans for Tim to come back up in two weeks for Zachary’s birthday. And from the success of the long weekend, I knew that Tim would be in our lives to stay. So much was said, so much was done; and there’s still so much left. As I said, I know there is no “making up for lost time”, it’s not possible, but that doesn’t mean that we can’t pack in as much love and laughter in as possible. That’s what life’s all about, isn’t it? Life isn’t misery, life is love. I told Tim that he was a testament to his parents and his upbringing. I told him that I wanted him to have a life that at that time in my life I couldn’t give him and it seems as if that’s what’s happened. He’s a wonderful, funny, intelligent, handsome young man who has a life ahead of him that is full of possibility. I don’t know if I would have been able to give him that; I wanted to, but no matter how much I wanted to keep him, and I told him that I wanted to keep him very badly; it wouldn’t have been fair to him. I can’t begrudge the good life he’s had. To me, while my own adoption was the success story birth mothers were lied to about, I think his was. No, his wasn’t a perfect life. There’s no such thing. But it has been a good life, a blessed life, a life I wouldn’t have been able to give him unless circumstances were radically different for me. And now I’m blessed to have him back in my life.

One last side note; I entitled this document, “And now for the rest of the story” in homage to Paul Harvey and his daily radio article. Something I realized is that the rest of our lives IS the rest of the story and it’s still being written. So much more has happened since this magical weekend and it’s all been wonderful. Tim spontaneously asked to join us for Easter. I was able to make him an Easter basket and he did Easter egg hunting with his brother and sister. He didn’t have to do it. He’s obviously beyond an age to even want to do it, but he did anyway. I know that some of the reasons he did it were for his younger brother and sister, but I’m sure there were personal reasons too. I didn’t ask. I just took pictures and enjoyed watching something I never imagined I’d ever see. We’re constantly living the rest of our story and I while I can’t wait for the future, I’m reveling in the present and living for today!

A Question Posed

2010-01-28T23:46:00.000-08:00

Recently, on Facebook, a friend asked me if I'm anti-adoption. Below is the rather lengthy, long winded reply I sent to her in a private message. I think it delineates my feelings succinctly.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I just wanted to reply in this forum to your "personal question". Most of my FB friends have a good bead on my feelings about adoption, so it's not a "hiding my opinion" from them. I just didn't want any post to get lost in the shuffle, so to speak.

Yes, I am anti-adoption. Let me explain further before I go into why I am anti-adoption.

I am both an adopted person and a birth mother. I use the term, "birth mother" for those that aren't as familiar with other terms. Many preferences are first mom, natural mom or just mom. However, considering the nature of adoption, labels become necessary. The vast majority of "birth mothers" I know simply would prefer to call themselves what nature made us, moms. It took a long time for me to come around to this point of view, and I'm not nearly as offended by the term birth mother as others are. The reasons for this are due to my passion for midwifery, and the term birth doesn't have nearly the negative meaning for me as it does many other women. For many women that lost children to adoption, the term birth mother is derogatory, nearly as much as saying the "N" word to a person of African/American descent. The term itself was created by an adoptive mother, made to replace the term "natural mother" in adoption lingo. It made adoptive mothers feel bad. For many women who lost children to adoption, the feelings of the adoptive mother don't mean a whole lot to them. Using the term "birth mother" tends to make "us" feel as if we were only breeders, incubators, and that's simply not the case. In any other circumstance, the vast majority of first moms would have parented their children instead.

Now, as to why I'm anti-adoption.

Adoption is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Adoption in this country used to be for placing children into a warm, loving, secure environment when their families no longer existed. In other words, adoption was originally meant for orphan children. It has changed since World War 2 into providing infertile couples with children. Basically, the focus changed, shifted from the child to the adults. And this being a strong capitalist society where if there's enough of a demand, someone, somewhere will find a supply. (Just as a side, I believe in our capitalist society; I didn't want that coming out like I'm anti-American. I'm NOT! I've very patriotic.) To further illustrate the supply and demand theory of infertile couple based adoptions, it is important to point out that only the people who could afford to pay for the home studies, attorney fees and/or agency fees would be able to adopt. If the infertile couple were poor, well then, they wouldn't be raising children.

Because of this, an industry popped up around adoption that today spends on the order of $3 Billion a year to keep going. In an effort to supply the huge demand for babies, a great deal of study, time, effort and money have been put into figuring out how best to make adoption palatable to poor, single women. Since our society has turned away from the shame based adoption (telling single young women that they're not good enough to parent), adoptions have gone down in drastic numbers, domestically at least. That's why you see so many people turn to international adoption. Now, poverty is the key to making young mothers hand their children over. However, the adoption industry has made concerted efforts into ensuring the young mom that she isn't shamed into the decision (at least on the surface), but instead telling her that her child will be so proud of her when she "makes something of herself" (gets that high school diploma or college degree and gets a good job).

All the while, this attitude perpetuates in our society the idea that the woman who placed a child for adoption just wanted to be loose, carefree and "go on with her life", when for the most part, nothing could be further from the truth. This continues to make "birth mothers" stigmatized. Once we were immoral sluts who couldn't keep her legs together, now we're poor immoral sluts who just want to keep having a good time.

As I said in the beginning, adoption is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. A poor, young mother isn't always going to be young and doesn't always have to be poor. We have so many options in this society, that youth and poverty are simply excuses to obtain a healthy infant to place into the awaiting arms of an infertile couple.

That said, I understand that some of those poor, young mothers do a horrible job. In this country, we are innocent until proven guilty, and we cannot simply take a child away from a mother because of her youth or economic status. That being said, the mother who allows herself to become mired in a bad situation (drugs, abusive relationships, neglect of the child), and becomes an unfit parent, placement of a child or children into a warm, loving stable home in a foster to adopt is sometimes the best solution for the children; but should only be looked at as a last option.

I don't hate that I was adopted. My first mom and dad would have never married, my first mom was 17 when I was born, and was told by her father when she was pregnant with me that she ruined his life. She was maneuvered into placing me for adoption, but I don't think she saw much option in the long run. For the most part, I love my adoptive family (though, if you read in my notes section "The Story So Far", you'll see that my life has been far from idyllic.) My adoptive parents did the best they could with what they had/knew. Even if my adoptive father was a psychologist, he really didn't have a good bead on the trauma of an adopted child and the gratitude and perfection that child unconsciously takes upon themselves. So, my adoptive parents really did do the best they could.

As for placing my son for adoption, all I can say is that for me it was the worst decision of my life at the same time, perhaps being the best decision for my son. But to be honest, I'll never know, because I too was maneuvered into placing my first born for adoption. I'm frequently praised by my noble, selfless act and that I should feel proud of myself for placing my son for adoption. All I feel like is a failure as a mother because I didn't fight to keep my son with me where he belonged and now my first born treats me with indifference because he doesn't understand how painful my life has been without him.

I hope I didn't bore you to tears. I hope I didn't make you angry, or hurt your feelings, because that wasn't my intention. These are the reasons I am anti-adoption. For many women, it is a horrible, painful scar that never goes away, even with reunion. It is for me.

Made the Change (What's in a Name)

2010-01-20T23:55:00.000-08:00

Ok...I decided that I would change my "name" on my blog to Baby Girl Williams/Morse. While that isn't what appears on my birth certificate, it does honor my true biological father. I don't think it sounds as good as Williams/Hernandez, but then again I've only known about my biological father's name for a little over a week now, so it'll take some time to get used to it. I had about 15 years to get used to the other one, so I'll give it some time.

Since I don't actually plan on legally changing my name from what my adoptive parents named me (barring my wedding, of course), there are little ways I can honor my first parents, and I think this is a good way of starting.

That being said, I really DO like the name Danielle Williams-Morse. There is a part of me that is that person, and always has been, I just didn't realize it until Jan 11, 2010. And I'm the one that puts the hyphen in the last names. I suppose that for me, especially since I don't have a "given" (by my first parents) middle name, I could even call myself Spot. But this is a way, also, to give a nod to what my first mom called me during her pregnancy with me, and to honor my first dad, too. I don't think my first mom would mind.

Though, this does put in my mind the funny nature of names. My adoptive mother wanted to name me Paige, but my adoptive father and adoptive brother kept calling me Dana (that's the way my a-mom says it anyway) :) What blows me away is just how close Dana is to Danielle. I never really liked the name Dana. I don't know if this is an adoptee thing or just a person thing. I hear off and on from my children that they don't like a portion of their name. I think perhaps, like I read on another blog recently, that a person's name has more to do with their parents than with them. I agree with that sentiment to an extent. It certainly seems to fit my circumstance, however there are just some people that seem to "fit" their names better than others. I rather envy those people that confidence. The ironic thing is that I've always loved the name Daniel and Danielle. I like to think that my nickname growing up would have been Dani. Ironically, the pet name my a-dad gave me was Dane-ee (I spelled it phonetically so as to get the right sound across). Those aren't that far apart in sound, really. And my a-dad was the only one who ever called me that, too. I don't recall my a-mom calling me that.

But to me, for me, someone who doesn't believe in coincidence, I see that my a-dad, imperfectly, mind you, managed to tap into some collective sub-conscious when he named me Dana. My a-dad has had all sorts of interesting "otherly" type experiences, and I think this is one of them.

In the end, everyone knows me as Dana, my a-parents, my kids, my fiance...everyone. I will always keep tucked safely away, deep in my heart, the name Danielle, though. And while the name isn't overly uncommon, it's still MINE; something my first mom called me in her secret heart of hearts during the nine months we shared together.

The Last Search

2010-01-19T00:14:00.000-08:00

Sometime around the middle of November I decided to take up the search for my first parents again with the help of a search angel in Hawaii. I started "at the beginning", pulling up "Williams of Unusual Names" from a California Birth Index type site. Unfortunately, this site didn't list mother's maiden names for individual births, so I was unable to match up "Williams of Unusual Names" with any birth of a female Williams between July 1951 and July 1952. So, I contacted my Hawaiian search angel, sent her the list I had created, and told her the situation.

My Hawaiian search angel, Mary, began to work on eliminating possibilities. Through a poor internet connection and some personal family drama, she continued to search diligently.

In the meantime, feeling fairly useless, I spent a few Sundays at the Sacramento City Public Library pouring over city directories. One of the assumptions I was going off of was that my birth mother, whom I knew was sent to Sacramento in order to give birth to me, lived with her brother. I was fairly convinced of this, even though my adoptive parents had commented they thought she'd come to live with her sister. So I focused on her eldest brother, who was listed as a computer programmer. I think perhaps why I chose to search in that direction is because I had no idea if her sister was married, what school her sister went to (she was listed as a student), or any useful information to help with my search. A computer programmer in 1969 would have been very unusual, and something that would stand out.

I took copious notes, and made photocopies of the pages and pages of Williams listed in the city directories. My search was further compounded by the fact that Sacramento not only had a city directory, but occasionally and city directory for the suburban areas of Sacramento. So instead of just one city directory for any given year, I had to search through or photocopy two city directories. From those notes and photocopies, I eliminated names, and came up with some more lists for Mary to winnow through.

Thanksgiving rolled around and I had to shelve the search until the end of the holiday. I knew that by that time, I was putting a lot of emotional energy into the search, and needed a break. I knew Mary needed a break, too, and was very happy to give it to her. I won't say that I wasn't frustrated with waiting, but a burned out search angel doesn't do anyone any good.

After Thanksgiving, Mary and I continued to work together on our list. She would send me the names she had eliminated, give me progress reports on what she was doing and make suggestions as to what I could do next. One of these suggestions was to try to contact someone who could do city directory searches for Ventura County. Another of my possible clues was something my parents told me. They recalled a conversation with the social worker who was handling my adoption. During this conversation she said something that made my parents think of the Santa Paula/Oxnard area. Both of my adoptive parents are from Southern California, and something about that comment made their minds turn towards that area of the state.

I had recently updated my contact information at an adoption registry site that I knew had a large group of search angels. After that update, I did get some e-mails making suggestions as to what to do next in my search. When Mary made the suggestion to find someone to go through city directories for that county, I e-mailed that adoption registry for that request. Unfortunately, I only confused people, and didn't follow up on an attempt at clarification.

One problem with the electronic medium of the internet is that it's difficult to gauge someones reaction. I perceived their reaction as negative, and dismissive.

From there, I reactivated my account with a Yahoo group of search angels and requested a city directory search for Santa Paula and Oxnard. During this time, I also contacted the genealogical group in Ventura County and the Ventura County Library, requesting any look ups they could conduct. By this time, it's nearly Christmas break. By the time I contacted a librarian at Ventura County Library; however, due to the nature of the request, and the fact that this librarian was taking a vacation to coincide with Christmas break, I was unable to make much headway there. The lady that answered my request for look ups for the Ventura Genealogical Society was very friendly, but not able to directly help me. She did point to some other members of the Society, but suggested I wait until after the holidays to contact them.

Noticing that I wasn't getting a lot of suggestions from the rest of the group, the co-owner of Soaring Angels began to ask me questions about what I'd done with my search so far and to make suggestions to me that I could do from home. One day towards the end of Christmas break, she e-mailed me with another list of "Williams of Unusual Name" that I didn't find in my psudo CBI. I promptly sent this list onto my Hawaiian search angel. However, the co-owner of Soaring Angels decided to do a little name eliminating herself. She would update me regularly with her progress, which in my opinion was simply amazing.

Then disaster struck. The first week of the new year, both of my search angels told me, on the same day, that they couldn't continue working on my search. I was devastated, but since I sincerely believe that family comes first and knowing it would be completely selfish to whine or complain, I told my angels to focus on their families. On top of that, there are so many wonderful search angels in the adoption community that I was confident that I could get my search back on track. I requested each lady send me a synopsis of what they'd done so far so that I could share that with any further search angels.

I was in limbo for a few days as to what to do next. I needed to wait until my two former search angels were able to send me the requested information, and since the family matters were so pressing, I didn't feel right about pushing my suit.

Then on January 10, I woke up from a dream that I'd made a Facebook group and named it "Please Help Me Find My Birth Family". Wondering why I hadn't done this sooner, I went to work on creating that group. Within about a day, I had over 100 members in my group. To say that I was stunned by the reception would be an understatement. I was hoping for a large reception, but I really didn't expect it. My theory was the "six degrees of separation" theory. I figured that if my friends joined the group and then invited their friends, who in turn would invite theirs, that someone somewhere would be THE ONE who would be key to unlocking the secret to finding my birth family. I also figured that someone out there had to somehow be connected to my birth family.

The next day, Monday January 11, I turn the computer on, hook up to the internet and check my e-mail and Facebook page, as well as check out my group. I noticed right away in my inbox that someone had e-mailed me with the subject line "Your 1st Mother". I was initially skeptical, believing that this person was probably a paid searcher, so I put off opening the e-mail, and focuses on my Facebook stuff. After about a half hour or so, I opened that fated e-mail.

It wasn't a paid searcher. A lady named Hanne told me that she did a search on Adoption.com and came up with a hit. She listed her phone number and asked me to call her right away. I was stunned. I had registered on Adoption.com nearly 10 years ago, and would sporadically check the status, but never found anything. I called her and she walked me through the process of pulling up the correct information. What she explained to me was that when she input a name along with my birthdate, gender and place of birth, no matches came up; which was exactly what I'd been doing for years. Instead, she went simple, and kept out a name. That's when she got the hit.

Following her directions, I got the same hit and saw for the first time my birth mother's name.

Hanne had already called the phone number listed and found it to be out of date, and recently reassigned. I was only slightly discouraged, though. I finally had a name that I could send out to the search angel groups. However, I didn't have to do that. Hanne did a search for the name listed on the post and was able to give me an address and phone number.

Now, knowing that this information could be old, too, I still went ahead and wrote to my search angel group to confirm the look up. I also posted to my Facebook group, and immediately got responses from my friends and members of the group. I anxiously waited for someone from Soaring Angels to return with some information on this name. I even made some attempts to verify her information, and continued to come up with the information Hanne originally gave me. Feeling very frustrated about this, I checked back on my group and found that one of my long time on line friends made the offer of paying for a one time search for the accurate information, and sent me his phone number.

So, I called Jeff, and we talked for about a half hour. I deeply appreciated the offer, but for some reason I didn't feel compelled to take him up on it. Through talking to him, I was able to calm down and made the decision to call the number that Hanne initially gave me. While I was still on the phone with Jeff, I mentioned that I had no idea how to proceed with the conversation. Jeff then pulled a book out that dealt with first contact and read to me the script that is suggested. I took notes, and steeled my nerves and rang off with Jeff.

In the meantime, another search angel that had been helping me on the side sent me a link to a very similar (if not the same) script. I glanced over it, but I was comfortable with what I had. I gathered a pen and a note book, the paper with the address and phone number, and my script and called.

Later, my fiance Ron, told me that he wanted to make sure he was right there for me when I made the call. I had mentioned to Jeff that I didn't think I would break down or cry when he suggested that I be sitting when I made the call. When I had the initial phone call from my son lost to adoption, I never cried during the call. I felt confident that I wouldn't break down. I didn't the first time, why would it happen now? Of course what I failed to remember, and what Ron pointed out to me, was the time before I first called my son; I was a nervous wreck waiting for my son to respond to my e-mail.

One of the points the script makes is to remember to be polite and ask if this is a good time to talk and to give your name at the outset. Well, I remembered the first part, but forgot to give my first name. I did follow the script, however, and ask for her name, and if she was involved in an adoption in 1969. She said yes, and asked who I was. I think I apologized, and told her my name. She thought I'd said Danielle, though given my name, I can see why she thought that. However, the reason she thought I said Danielle was because that was the name she called me when she was pregnant with me. I proceeded to give her my birthdate and started to tell her where I was born, but she finished for me.

I knew in that instant that Mary Rue was my first mother.

Name Quandary

2010-01-18T19:28:00.000-08:00

For at least the last 15 or so years, I've always believed that my birth father's surname was Hernandez. After speaking with my birth mother, I now know that my birth father's surname is Morse. However, Hernandez IS what appears on my original birth certificate.

So, my quandary is this; I've put out there as my blogger name Baby Girl Williams/Hernandez, when in fact, I'm Baby Girl Williams/Morse, or Danielle Williams-Morse (no middle name).

So...what do I go by?

If I stick with Baby Girl Williams/Hernandez, it's legally accurate. However, I used that as a deliberately emotional moniker. Additionally, I'm no longer "just" Baby Girl. I have a name. But in gaining a name, have I lost a foothold on my "place" in the adoption reform movement? Probably not...at least not by the standards of those I care about in the movement, but is this something that I needed in my psyche? Is this something that I feel I should hold onto because it defines who I am?

The Search Has Come to an End

2010-01-18T18:08:00.000-08:00

Below are two posts that I made to my Facebook group "Please Help Me Find My Birth Family" and in my notes section on my personal page.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I woke up on Sunday (January 10,2010) from a dream that I should make a FB group called "Please Help Me Find My Birth Family". Well, I made it and sent out invites to all my friends, and asked they send invites to all THEIR friends. My reasoning was that, with the 6 degrees of separation theory, SOMEONE had to either know her or would have the KEY idea of finding her.

Monday when I checked my e-mail, someone who was on the group sent me an e-mail with the title "I think I found your natural mom". When I read it, she said to call her, and gave me her number. I must say that my first suspicions were that she was a paid searcher (sorry Hanne), so I put off calling her for a bit, until after I'd checked all my e-mail and messages, and checked in with my group.

When I finally called her, she said that she found a posting on Adoption.com. She walked me through what she did, and I found the same listing!!! What drives me up the wall, and there's NOTHING I can do about it, is I'm already ON Adoption.com, and have been since 1999-2000 time frame. My mom posted her's in 2005, and for some reason couldn't find my listing. VERY strange. ~I~ could still find my listing, though.

So, one thing and another, and Hanne and I are talking and she comes up with an address and phone number (the info on Adoption.com was out of date). So...I'm "running around", trying to verify that this is her, and I just finally called her.

She told me she'd been looking for me for YEARS, maybe even longer than I've been looking for her! She told me she's loved me all my life. It's been AMAZING!!

I feel like the whole world just opened up to me, and I can do anything! :)

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

So, my first mom lives in Colorado, nearly 1000 miles from me in California, so that's disappointing, but nothing I can't deal with.

I grew up believing that I was half Hispanic, but that turns out not to be the case. My first mom had been dating a young man who was Hispanic, but it was, like many teenage relationships, tempestuous. During a time that they weren't together, she partied a little, and hooked up with a lead singer to a band. He was someone that lived in the area, and was acquaintances with my first mom's elder brother or sister, so at least he wasn't a total stranger to my first mom.

However, when it came out that my first mom was pregnant with me everyone assumed I was her regular boyfriend's child. It was far easier for her to go along with this. I think it was a case of, it was bad enough she was pregnant, but she didn't want to admit that she was off having a good time without him, especially with a long haired hippie. And since she came to live in Sacramento with her sister, who knew about her Hispanic boyfriend, my first mom had to keep the charade up. And she never told my first dad about me.

That's how I ended up as Baby Girl Williams/Hernandez.

So, I am the daughter of Mary Rue Williams and Kenneth Charles Morse.

In an effort this week to find Ken Morse, I was talking with a friend of mine who happens to live in San Diego; not too far from Vista, California. I was asking him one night this week if he would be able to find out which phone number belonged to my first dad. Well, to make a long story short, instead of using a contact that Mike had, he decided to try calling the phone numbers himself.

Now, my first mom and I had a plan; she was going to call Ken this weekend and "break the news to him". Unbeknownst to me or my first mom, that plan quickly got scrapped.

I was on line Friday and my friend Mike starts to IM me what happened. While I wasn't mad at Mike, I was really worried about what my first mom would say, how she'd react.

Essentially, what happened is Mike had just planned on calling the phone numbers and finding out if Ken Morse lived at that number (so to speak) and hang up. Well, I've since found out that Mike's little scenario was doomed to begin with. Ken's a talker! Turns out that I'm not the only child Ken has fathered that was given up for adoption, but he knew about that one. He is in contact with his other daughter, but their reunion isn't what I think Ken would like it to be, even to the point of not having a terrific response to some things, so he was a bit hesitant in talking with me.

Fortunately, Mike can be very charismatic and convinced Ken to talk to me. I was trying to stick to the plan, and was edgy until my first mom got home from work. I explained everything to her, and she said to go ahead and call Ken.

I did, and told him who my first mom is, and he remembered her.

I offered a DNA test to him. All things considering, I thought it only fair.

Last night, my first parents talked for the first time in over 40 years. They both agree that I'm their daughter, but we all think a DNA test is still a good idea. When it comes down to it, since the State of California will probably never allow me my OBC, and since Ken isn't on it, to begin with, I would really like an official piece of paper that I can point to and say that these are my first parents, and I'm their daughter.

Obviously, there is more, and I don't mind sharing, but my brain is going a bit fuzzy. The one other thing I can share is that I may have a half brother along with a half sister. Ken doesn't know for sure because the mother was a bit of a game player. If she was happy with Ken, then the boy was his son, and when she wasn't happy with him, the boy was her ex-husband's son.

With me bringing up DNA testing, Ken is getting the idea that he might want to ask Kathy and David to do a DNA test, too. I think it's a good idea over all.

One other little tid bit of information; my half sister's birthday is less than 3 months before mine. I guess daddy was a player...and being lead singer in a band really does get you laid. ;)

Something To Think On This Christmas Eve

2009-12-24T22:51:00.000-08:00

Some things have been brewing in my head this holiday season concerning family and friends. Something someone once said to me was "your friends are the family you choose". And of course, when this particular little thing popped into my head tonight I thought of all the friends I've made on Facebook and the things we have in common. For those of us that are adoptees or first/natural moms we have a unique view of holidays and the difficult emotions we deal with each year; however, something else occurred to me that goes along with the friends and family and adoption.

We, as humans, do NOT have a choice in the family that we are given, whether our families are made "the old fashioned way" or provided by an adoption agency. I do not mean to negate or dismiss our unique position, but I would like to put some perspective on it. There are some great families and some totally dysfunctional families. There are some adoptees that have wonderful upbringings and some that have terrible childhoods. And the reverse is true also; there are some "natural" families that are horrible and some that make "Leave It To Beaver" look dysfunctional. No matter what, we really don't have any choice in the matter; we're babies, children, people that don't have any legal rights until we're 18 (at least in the US).

As we grow up we decide, we choose, what is important to us, what we're passionate about, and what we can shrug off. We as adopted people and natural moms that have realized the complete inequity of the adoption process have chosen to educate ourselves, to investigate this thing called adoption. I believe that the choice we have made is a good one, but I think it's good to keep in mind that no matter how our families were made or broken, in the beginning of all our lives, adopted, fostered, natural, NONE of us has any choice in how our lives begin. What matters is what we DO with our lives. Do we make our world better or do we bring others down? These are all choices we make.

What choices will you make in the year to come?

Open Adoption is a Euphemism

2009-12-12T00:51:00.000-08:00

I know this may sound like a no-brainer, but for me it's a bit of a light bulb going on over the head. There is no such thing as "open adoption". It's a lie, a fallacy, a euphemism, a trick to lure young women into an office in order to summarily plan the future of her unborn child: without her.

Let's start with an examination of just exactly what "open adoption" means. First, there is no ONE definition for the term. For some, an open adoption could simply mean looking through binders or websites of couples or families seeking to adopt and choosing a particular set to place their child with. While others see open adoption as an opportunity to remain an active part of their child's life, with the adoptive parents permission, of course. For most, open adoption is anything in between these two extremes.

In my own experience, as an adoptee born in the '60's, there was no such thing as open adoption. I doubt the term or idea had even truly been used until the mid 1980's. When I lost my first son to adoption, we were supposed to have an "open adoption". We met with my son's adoptive parents a week prior to his birth for about two hours; we were on first name basis only. The agreement was to have pictures and an update letter every 3 months in the first year, and then just twice a year until he reached 18 years old.

Unfortunately, this is not what happened. I should have known that within the first year of his life and the pictures and letters only arrived a few times what the future would hold. But there were health issues going on with my/our son; life and death matters that, until my son's adoptive parents wrote the first time, I had no idea about.

My son stabilized, though he continued to have health issues that I was not to know about until far after the fact. And being adopted myself, I had no recourse, no ability to pass along pertinent information. And except for one medical condition, which I knew for certain was directly related to his birth father which wasn't life threatening (and something that we had passed along to the adoptive parents), I had no idea why my baby was having such difficult health issues.

On the whole, I have varied responses about this. Knowing now what I know, the intellectual, perhaps more mature side of me understands why the pictures and letters stopped; eventually, there were health reasons that weren't my son's that riveted the attention of the family. And I will admit that I didn't keep the adoption agency up to date on my where abouts. But when I did, there weren't any pictures or letters awaiting me after about my son's 7th or 8th birthday. But deep down, in my heart of hearts, I am hurt beyond words.

Beyond my personal experience, I read day after day of adoptions that were supposed to be open, only to end up closed due to some reason within the adoptive, and controlling, family. The rare circumstance is the adoptive family that doesn't close adoption these days. No matter what is told to the mother or parents seeking to place their child for adoption, there's always seems to be "something" that gets in the way of keeping the adoption open. Whether it's health issues within the family, or insecurities within the adoptive parents, all the good intentions to remain open with the first family, the family of true origin, fall away with the years.

There's the old saying "the road to hell is paved with good intentions", yet adoptive parents don't seem to realize that when they close the doors to the first family the hell they create is for the person or persons who was supposed to love their child so much they were able to "give them away", to "give them to a loving family who could provide what she or they couldn't". And depending on the life of the adopted child, the adoptive parents end up creating a hell for the person they were supposed to love unconditionally, even if that child wasn't "of their bodies", but "of their heart".

For Adoptees, birthdays = deathdays

2009-12-06T22:30:00.000-08:00

Last night, I read Linda Gambino's "Birthdaze" to my fiance and daughter. For years, I didn't realize that I hated my birthday because of being adopted. I never really even realized that the anxiety that gripped me a week or so prior to my birthday wasn't about what crappy presents I might or might not get, or who would even remember my birthday. And as I write this, I'm looking back at my birthdays as a child, and I'm realizing that I really did hate my birthday early on. Nothing was ever quite right with my parties; I can remember one where I didn't win at one of the party games, and ran off crying.

I reminded Ron of the first birthday of mine that we had together; the day after we got into a fight, and Ron thought I was angry at him. My birthday is in July, and for him, work and therefore money, is tight in the summer. He was only able to do a minimal amount for my birthday, but it was really wonderful and thoughtful, and I loved him for what he was able to do. But I was still anxious and crabby and I really didn't know why. So, we fought. I wasn't angry at Ron, and I told him that at the time, but he was very confused by my emotions; heck, so was I! Here was a great guy who did his best to give me a happy birthday and we get into a fight the day after for what seems to be no reason.

After reading that post to him, and I reminded him of the fight, the light bulb just went on and he looked relieved that there was some explainable reason for something so strange.

It took 40 years and another adoptees' musing on her birthday to realize that it wasn't my family or even lack of funds, or even lack of friends that made my birthdays suck; it was being adopted. As I talked with my fiance a little more after my daughter went to bed, he told me that really, for adoptees birthdays are synonymous with celebrating a deathday. I asked him to explain and here is what he told me. For those of us who are adopted we are always aware that our first family, our first mother, isn't there. But on our birthdays it is a force-able reminder of our loss, and we grieve. Most of the time, we grieve for the death of someone, and in a sense the birthday for an adoptee is really the day of their first mother's symbolic death, the day that we are given life, and taken away from the life giver. That "primal wound" that is spoken of for adoptees is replayed over and over again every year; this is the day that my mother died to me.

I am grateful (in the good way) for Linda's post. That really opened up my eyes for me, and I appreciate it so very much; so, thank you Linda. I owe you. You gave a sense of relief to my fiance and daughter and with that information, have empowered them (we'll fill my youngest in later). :)

A reply to "What's in a name?"

2009-12-02T01:44:00.001-08:00

What's in a name?

Recently, I read a blog of a friend of mine who is both an adoptee and a first mother who asked just this question. And it got me thinking...again.

I'll address what could perhaps be considered the first question; what's in a name?

Once upon a time much power was attributed to a name. If you knew a persons TRUE name you held power over them, so your true name remained a secret only known to you and whoever you chose to tell, which was usually your mate; and possibly one of your parents knew. It was thought that if you knew a person's true name that you could even kill them with just a simple word.

My ex-husband is attributed for naming his sister. The story goes that his parents had a hard time coming up with a name for the new baby, and he suggested both first and middle and so to this day that's what she is called. During their childhood, and even until fairly recently, brother and sister shared a very close bond. Would they have had that bond if he had just let his parents to hash things out? Who knows? But, in my opinion, I believe that his naming his baby sister was a very significant deed; maybe even a weighty responsibility.

In the Jewish religion, children aren't named after living family members, or anyone the family knows, because it is felt that to give a baby the name of someone living takes away life force from the other person.

The questions in my friend's blog are a bit more adoption specific. The answer to the first one she asks, for me, is: well, since I haven't found my first family yet, I don't know what my first name was. Her question being if there were any adoptees that had changed their name back to their original name.

I do know that the foster family that kept me during the interim time between being relinquished and being adopted called me Margot. Since I grew up in the era that had the original Superman movie with Margot Kidder, whom I did NOT like as Lois Lane, I can't say that I'm overly fond of the name Margot. Wouldn't the irony be if that's what my first mother wanted to name me?

As for how would I feel if my first son changed his name back to what I named him, I would LOVE it! But I don't see it happening at all. No matter what, in my heart of hearts I will ALWAYS refer to my first son by the name I gave him; but TO him, I call him the name his adoptive parents gave him. I can't feel too terribly bad with the name he was given, however, because it happened to be my second choice for him.

For the record, I have ALWAYS hated my name! I doubt I'd change it "back", but you never know. Dana is who I am now, it's how my children know me, how my mate knows me. I think at this late stage in the game, it would just feel strange to be called something different now.

A Reply to "Adopted People Are Not Allowed Ancestory Because It Might Upset Someone"

2009-11-30T15:51:00.000-08:00

As always, Lorraine writes a thoughtful and incisive blog into the perilous waters we all tread if we're part of the adoption triad.

In her most recent blog,"Adopted People Are Not Allowed Ancestry Because It Might Upset Somebody" she tackles some adoptee issues spurred on by reading an article of an adoptee beginning their search for their first parents. The primary issue is how adoptees have been brainwashed by the "you should be grateful you were adopted" attitude.

I can only speak to my particular experience, but let me say that Lorraine hit the nail squarely on the head for me. I don't think that my adoptive parents ever consciously tried to imbue this upon me, but they did anyway. I was told the old rags of "you were chosen", "we chose you", "your birth mother wanted the best for you", etc. ad nauseaum. THAT'S the first layer of ingraining the adoptee into the grateful attitude. For me, the second layer was a bit more personal. My a-father would jokingly say that I was a strange looking baby; that my eyes were too close together and almost looked cross eyed. WOW! Well, gee, maybe THAT'S why my real mom didn't want me; I was too goofy looking. And then there's the third layer that the adoptee subconsciously places upon themselves that since I was chosen over all the other children that needed good homes, I need to live up to their expectations, be good, don't act out, try to be on your best behavior at all times, because you never know, they may decide they don't want you anymore and "take you back".

Many adoptees constantly lives with the sensation of never being quite good enough, never measuring up. Even after reaching adult hood over 20 years ago, I still live with this. I've made a conscious effort to try to put it aside, but the root is still there, even if the germinated flower was ripped out long ago. This feeling has lead me to destroy relationships that I cherished because I simply couldn't believe that this person saw any worth in me.

I remember when I first started my search for my first family, 20 years ago, that when I confided in my a-mom, she pointed out to me that while she couldn't stop me, that I should be considerate of my a-father's feelings; they might get hurt. I didn't want to seem disloyal, did I? (Let me say before I go any further that my a-mom is a good person, and not manipulative in any fashion. She didn't actually say the disloyal comment to me directly, but that IS how the comment came across. I KNOW she didn't mean it, but I've always been the "sensitive" child, and so took everything "too seriously".) In essence, I should make sure my a-father's feelings were considered before my own and that a grateful daughter wouldn't put him/us/me through this. They never asked me to NOT search and would tell me that they were worried for me. While they didn't have this language, they didn't want me to experience the "second rejection". I don't know how many conversations I've had with them listing the reasons why I'd rather know than not. I'd rather deal with the rejection a second time than to never know anything about where I came from. (I've always found it frustrating to try to impart this attitude to someone who isn't adopted because regardless of how eloquent I am with my words, how passionate I speak to the subject, there is NO WAY someone who isn't adopted could EVER understand. My fiance can literally trace his genealogy back to King Solomon! How blessed is THAT?!?! Yet for all his ability of being able to see both sides of an argument, this is one side he can NEVER fully comprehend.) It's only been within the last few years that my a-parents have given me their full support in my search; the clincher? Because it would be good for my mental health.

GRRRRRRR!!!!

When I got my non identifying information, I was, of course, grateful. At last, I had something more than just my imagination and vague descriptions from my a-parents of what my first family is like. But something that Lorraine mentioned in her blog struck me like a blow. In my non-id, there is a statement about my first mother; "she is described as being 'unusually pretty'". I remember staring at those words til I thought the ink would fade out. "unusually pretty". That's WONDERFUL! Maybe I wasn't the ugly duckling I'd always feared I'd continue to be! If she was pretty at 17, then at 19 I had HOPE!

Now, I look back on that and think, "ohmygod! What was I THINKING?!?!" Is THAT all they gave me?!?! The most I have ever been GIVEN was this! But I was the grateful bastard, well trained to be thankful for any drib or drab that was given to me.

Lorraine wrote, "I guess it's that last bit that would kill me if I were on the adopted side of this painful process called adoption. Upturned nose? Pretty? Engaging smile? I think I would start looking at every face in the supermarket all over again, trying to figure out if upturned noses fall with age (they do) and wonder how "pretty" looks at say, sixty, seventy, or so, to judge from the career choice of her first mother--data processing, the precursor to computers."

Oh Lorraine! You don't know how right you are! I've spent my entire LIFE looking for someone that looked like me, my mother, a sister, maybe even an effeminate brother? Do I even HAVE siblings? To this DAY I still look at strangers and wonder if I'm related to them. I can't help it. I ask random people when I find out their last names are either Williams or Hernandez if they had anyone in their family that gave a child up for adoption. How pathetic is that?

When all is said and done, adopted is who I am, a part of me that no one can ever take back or change. The damage is done, so to speak. All I can do is deal with the boat load of issues given to me by people who tried to love me the best they could.

The Story So Far

2009-11-29T23:26:00.000-08:00

My name is Baby Girl Williams/Hernandez. That’s the name that appears on the previously public California Birth Index, reflecting my original birth certificate. Actually, there are 2 separate entries for me; Baby Girl Williams AND Baby Girl Hernandez. The search angels that have helped me with this are all assuming they’re the same because the coincidence of another female child born in Sacramento County at exactly the same time and placed for adoption is slim to none.

So, I go off an assumption that’s who I am. The odds are pretty good, in my favor, so to speak, that those ARE the names of my birth/first parents, but you must admit that trying to search based solely off of an assumption is just a bit scary. However, as the odds are in my favor, that’s the assumption that I have to go off of because if I don’t, then there’s really no search at all.

I’ve also been known as Margot; the name my foster parents called me during my brief, three week stay in their home. But that’s a detail for further on in the story.

The name that my adoptive parents gave to me is Dana Marie Lowrey (my middle name would always be Marie, but my mother has told me that she wanted to call me Paige; however, my brother and father kept calling me Dana. Guess it stuck). I’ve always known I’m adopted. I can’t recall a time I didn’t know. I’m grateful to my parents for never trying to hide that fact from me. I don’t know why they chose to tell me, but I don’t think that really matters. They did and that’s what counts. I’ve known too many adoptees that have discovered the fact of their adoption late in life, and the sense of betrayal leaves an indelible mark upon them that nothing can erase.

I grew up in the Greater Sacramento area in California, and at least on the surface I had a good upbringing. Money was never a problem, and although I didn’t have the latest designer jeans, I was always well fed and clothed. My parents loved me. I knew that. But I’m not sure that they ever really understood me, as I’m not sure they understand me still. I don’t know if that’s because there was a more significant gap in age between me and them, or if it was because I wasn’t biologically their child; most likely a combination of both and more, since we are more than just the sum of our parts.

Underneath was where the turmoil lay. I had a significant lack of self confidence, and still struggle with it to this day. My parents separated when I was 3 ½. My brother and I went with my mother to live at her parent’s house for one summer in a small town north of Palm Springs called Yucca Valley. When it became apparent that my brother was too much for my mother to handle, he went to live with my father. After that summer, my mother moved us to the city of Orange. We lived there while my mother received her real estate license. During this time I recall visiting my father on at least one occasion. I recall the day care my mother had for me. I even recall the view out of my bedroom window and generally what the apartment looked like. What I don’t recall, but was later told, was that my father was making concerted efforts to win my mother back after she’d gotten fed up with his philandering. I remember, however, when they got back together and we moved back in with my father. I was barely 5 years old by this time.

I was painfully unpopular in school. I had very few friends, and the ones I did have weren’t the true blue, dyed in the wool friends you’ll have til the end of time. My friends were a temporary thing, and to this day I’m not really close to that many people. In addition, I was an easy target in school for the teasers and the bullies. I wore my emotions on my sleeve, and could cry at the drop of a hat. This wasn’t something that started in kindergarten; the day care I mentioned is my first memory of social out-casting. The details are fuzzy, but I do remember sitting alone on the play ground, in the sand box and watching everyone play. I remember feeling like I didn’t belong, I didn’t fit it, and I had no idea why. Why didn’t these kids like me? Was it because I was new? Did they somehow know I was flawed in some way because my parents weren’t together? Or did they see a flaw in me that was so fundamental that I could never fathom it? No, I wasn’t a prodigy, I didn’t think in these terms, exactly, but the feelings and sensations are still very clear to me, still very painful. I was only four years old.

And I always seemed to be more susceptible to the teasing of my peers. I never really saw other kids breaking down on the playground crying. Maybe if there was a skinned knee from the blacktop, or a bumped head from the monkey bars, sure. But I was one of the rare breeds of children that all the other children seemed to instinctively know about; this one will respond the way we want to, this one is entertaining. I liken it to sharks and the smell of blood in the water; they’ll come from vastly great distances just for that smell, and if they can get a taste, even better.

The friends I felt that I could count on, at least to a certain extent, were my friends who lived in my neighborhood. There weren’t that many. There was one time when I was probably 6 years old or so and my best friend, who lived across the street from me, and another friend and I were playing hide and go seek. My best friend, Kim was older than I by only a few months, but for some reason it was a point of contention between the two of us. And her friend, Julie, who lived down the hill from us, whom Kim had known longer, having lived in the neighborhood longer, was a year older than either of us. I suppose at that age, a year is a big deal, but I remember Julie lorded it over me like I was flawed or defective for being younger than she. I remember feeling a great deal of angst about this, but at least I can look back now with bemusement because it really doesn’t make much sense. Perhaps I was still the “new” kid, or she just needed something to feel superior about. If I recall correctly, she has a brand new baby brother and maybe she needed to feel important to someone, perhaps not receiving the kind of recognition at home that an older sibling sometimes feels when a new baby is brought home. Who knows? In any event, I doubt it is difficult to see who was “IT” in our little game of hide n seek; me. And this next part is probably really easy to guess. I counted to 100 dutifully (I was still playing fair at that age) and when I went to go seek they were no where to be found.

Now, in the everyday life of a child, of children, this really isn’t an extraordinary event. Being a mother, watching stupid things like that happen to my kids, I get it now. BUT, there was this…thing in me that said I was different, that I wasn’t like them, that I was flawed and defective because my real mother didn’t want me and I had to live with people that weren’t my blood relatives, people who would never really understand me. Sure, they loved me, and they told me I was chosen, that they chose me, and that I was special because of that, but I didn’t believe that for one second. Yes, I believe they loved me, but the rest was unadulterated lies. Everything in me KNEW that my real mother didn’t want me, so why would anyone else? So this episode has stuck with me my entire life, because just like the first rejection, to which they say newborns, babies can only, MAYBE be aware of, I was rejected again by someone who was supposed to stand by me, because she said she would.

Yes, I can see it for the stupid stunt that it was now, but it scarred me more deeply than I’ve ever let on to anyone else before now. And I really didn’t realize just how badly it did scar me until now, 34 years later.

By the time I was 7 years old, my brother began to repeatedly molest me. It didn’t stop until my mother walked through the door one afternoon and caught my brother touching me. After a family discussion consisting of “that’s not what family’s do to or with each other” talk, life got back to “normal” again. My brother stopped molesting me, at least until I was a teenager, and everything went on as though nothing had happened.

And when I say “normal”, I mean it was never mentioned again, never talked about again, I was never taken to any sort of therapy; it was, as Alanis Morriset put it, under rug swept. For a time I forgot about it, at least consciously. It was the only way I could deal with everything that had happened. It seemed that’s what my parents wanted, and like the dutiful child I was, I obliged. And perhaps it was the only way that I could deal with the rage that deep down was growing inside me; a rage that no child should have to experience or endure. A rage born of seeing my innocence stripped away with no seeming consequence. That this person that, until then, I adored, my brother, had taken away my innocence and nothing was done to correct this gross injustice. And only in later years did I learn that he was threatened with being sent away from the family with military school should his actions continue. I don’t really know what kind of difference this would have made to the 7 year old me; perhaps, like some victims, I would have balked at the absence of my molester, my brother. Perhaps I would have felt vindicated. There’s no way to know; however, a threat of being sent away from the family seems like such a pitiful consequence considering the action. Doesn’t Newton’s Third Law say that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction? Where is the equality in this? Where is the justice? Don’t we teach our children that every action they take, good or bad, has its consequences? Where were his consequences? Does the self loathing I imagine him to have sometimes equal to the actions he took against me when I was so helpless against him? Or should I simply be grateful that perhaps in some afterlife, he’ll be punished?

There are no easy answers to these questions. Perhaps there are simply no answers, because, perhaps, we really don’t live in a just world.

By the time I was 8 years old, in third grade, I was a victim, yet again, of another molester; this time at school. And while technically, at least in the state of California, “sexual exploration” between children of the same ages isn’t considered molestation, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t. I don’t think I would know this person if I met him on the street today, but his face is blazoned upon my memory, and I could describe him in clear detail, if so required. And yes, I remember his name, but for privacy sake, it won’t be mentioned here.

And no, the story doesn’t end here. I don’t really remember when the boy down the street started to “play with me”; I think it was in this age range, 8 to 9 years old. This lasted until his parents divorced and he wasn’t around nearly as much. I do remember having the courage to stand up to him at one point when he brought a friend along and wanted me to...perform similar favors. Though I seem to remember that after I said no to that one incident, some rumors began to float around school that I was easy and would provide entertainment to any boy who asked. Around this same time, the daughter of a coworker of my mother’s thought it would be fun to strip naked when I was 11 years old and “explore”.

I think saying no to the threesome that was proposed finally gave me some strength to stop the abuse cycle, at least for a little while.

Between the ages of 11 to 16 were relatively “normal” for me; if you can call a girl entering puberty, who is sexually hyperaware, normal. I always considered myself “boy crazy”. I liked boys. I didn’t, and still don’t, think there was anything wrong with liking boys. I was always aware of the boys in school, though, and I don’t know if that is normal. I always had a crush on someone, and can still name just about every boy I did have a crush on. I never really thought boys liked me, though. Or if they did, they only wanted one thing. And since I was so horribly screwed up, why not give it to them? I’m not sure if I understood the significance of virginity when I was 7 years old, but by the time I was 13 years old, I knew I was damaged goods, in so many ways. And by the time I was 13, I finally allowed myself to remember what my brother had done to me. I know it might sound odd that throughout the time from when I was 8 years old to the time I was 13 years old I “forgot” my brother had molested me, but I did.

I can recall clearly the moment I actually allowed myself to remember. I was sitting on the floor in the cafeteria with two friends during lunch. Lunch itself was over, and the rest of the kids were outside letting off steam when my friends and I were sitting there. I remember haltingly relating minor details to them, my mind not allowing me to dig deeper yet. From then on, I never forgot again, and I’ve never been shy about sharing that information. What was done to me was wrong, and I was in no way to be ashamed of it. I guess I think that if I tell enough people, I will finally, someday, believe that.

I never told my parents that I had forgotten, or that I’d remembered. I had a whole world to make sure didn’t come crashing down, didn’t I? My family’s happiness was paramount, and if I said anything, the family wouldn’t be happy anymore. So much responsibility for a child to bear, but I did it. I took the weight and responsibility of four people onto my shoulders, because I alone had the secret that would destroy everything and since I am adopted, and my real mother didn’t want me, where else could I go?

So? Does being adopted lend you to molestation, incestuous or otherwise? Probably not. There are far too many cases of both types to point the finger at merely being adopted. Does my father’s philandering ways have any part in my molestation? Perhaps; perhaps my brother’s witness to the significant male role model in the home having sexual contact with an inappropriate female might have had an impact on a quickly maturing young boy. (I do not believe that my brother witnessed any sexual act by my father, merely the knowledge that daddy wasn’t living with mommy anymore and was with this other woman.) I believed that particular theory for a very long time; basically blaming my father for my brother’s behavior. What I think more likely, however, is what I’ve learned though the years; that children who molest have been molested themselves and are merely acting out their own trauma in the only way they can. And while I was never truly close to my other molesters, never close enough to speculate, I can only assume that they had been similarly molested themselves.

I can happily say that, while tempted at one very specific point in my life to continue the cycle and abuse another child, I never did. I can look back in my memory and see a little boy, perhaps 7 or 8, and have the feeling of gut wrenching relief that I did nothing to spoil this child. That is probably one of the hardest things I’ve ever communicated with anyone; there’s only one other person in this world that I’ve told that particular dirty little secret to. And to this day, this very minute, I can only feel revulsion and nausea at myself for even contemplating it.

This incident happened when I was about 18. I don’t know if those horrible, molester thoughts would have occurred to me if my brother hadn’t taken up molesting me again when I was 16. I won’t go into detail what he did, but I can at least say that it wasn’t to the extreme that it was when I was 7. However, I have dealt with deep, nauseating self loathing ever since because I wasn’t strong enough to say no to what he wanted to do. The time frame is significantly smaller than when I was a small child. My brother was off to college already, and the molesting started to take place when he was home for the summer. The only thing I can say that was fortunate was that during the summer, he worked a job that kept him away from the house for 4 days out of 7. My birthday is in July, and he’d begun shortly after my 16th birthday. I don’t think most teenagers look forward to the beginning of school, but that summer, I did because that would mean that HE would be gone.

I never told anyone about it that year. I tried desperately to forget it. I had a boyfriend by the time homecoming came around. I had a best friend that was loyal and wonderful. I had a margin of freedom that I’d never experienced before. Life seemed to be looking up for me. Why ruin it with thoughts of the previous summer when there was nothing I could do about it?

To Dan, I lost my virginity; not my real virginity, because that had been stripped away from me at 7 years old. But he was my first sexual partner that I count, my first love, the first person that I wanted to have sex with. With Dan, I felt that I could be myself for the first time, no hiding, no obfuscation. I was caught up in the rush and glow of first love. I could be reckless, carefree and feel like who I always thought I should be, someone my parents didn’t understand or want me to be. For me, it seemed like I finally found someone that wanted to know ME. In reality, he was probably mostly just looking to get into my pants, but it didn’t matter at the time. Did I delude myself into thinking that I was worth something if someone wanted to have sex with me? Did I realize it at the time that that’s exactly what I was doing to myself? Resoundingly NO! But then, most teens aren’t as self aware as they profess to be, either. Did I realize that with Dan I would start a long string of boys, guys, men that I would give my body to in order to self validate? Of course not, because this was (say it with me) true love.

I can take two views of my relationship with Dan; the jaundiced and the candy coated. The jaundiced view is the older, cynical me realizing that we were just two kids playing at grown up games. We were playing with fire, and didn’t care if we got burned. Dan IS the person who introduced to me the movie Highlander, and (I think deliberately) instilled in me the belief of the line, “it’s better to burn out than fade away”.

The older, romantic me can take the long view, the candy coated view that it was a time of innocence, of exploration, of giving into those incredible hormonal urges that Mother Nature pours into us in the middle of puberty in order to procreate. That with Dan, I had no cares, I could laugh freely, and he would laugh with me. We could scorn our parents and find a confidante in one another that neither had ever had.

The reality is that my relationship with my first boyfriend was probably all this and more. While Dan wasn’t who I would have chosen as my first love, and the relationship wasn’t an after school special of romance, it was what it was, and has helped to shape who I am today.

Our anniversary was December 19th. He officially asked me to be his girlfriend the last day of school before Christmas vacation. I’m not sure I’ll ever forget that date; I was an all powerful junior, I didn’t have the responsibility of a senior, I was able to get out from under my parents watchful eye for what seemed the first time ever, and I had a boyfriend! Not only that, but it turned my prospect of a dull 2 weeks from school, with only Christmas day and sleeping in to look forward to, to something thrilling and exciting. Part of Dan’s attraction was the fact that he had older friends; yes, friends who were over 21 years old, friends with access to alcohol and parent free places, and some even had cool cars.
We were together before then, “hanging out” in today’s parlance, but it wasn’t official yet. I even still have the bracelet that he gave me that day.

Christmas was fun that year, again. We went to some parties, made out in the backseat of the car, unbuckled with me sitting across his lap as our friends drove from one event to the next. We exchanged kisses under the mistletoe and gifts and vows of undying love.

Back at school, we held hands in the halls and exchanged public kisses between periods. We were totally wrapped up in each other, oblivious to the world. We made plans for weekends, for after school, for whenever we could get a chance to get away from parents; mostly mine, though his father was, according to Dan at the time, a hardcase. I only found him to be rather stoic and self contained, but then again, I didn’t live with the man, either.

Valentine’s Day was celebrated, though I don’t remember now, how.

And then the Sadie Hawkin’s Dance rolled around.

I don’t know if I’m the best judge of popularity in this instance, but I wonder how many people knew that I was leading the committee our junior year for the Sadie Hawkin’s Dance, for both my junior and senior year. At the time, I probably would have just said the people in our journalism class (the class responsible for putting on that particular dance), but judging from recent events on an international networking site, I’m beginning to think that more and more people knew who I was in high school than I thought at the time. I would never say I was popular, however, more people remember me than I thought ever would. That’s rather gratifying, and alters how I look back on my high school years. So, I owe a thank you to those people who have spoken well of me recently. It means far more than I can say. Thank you.

In any event, my boyfriend and I attended the Sadie Hawkins dance that year. I can’t remember much about the dance specifically, but since I’d always loved to dance, I do remember that I had a good time. Almost too good a time. After the dance, Dan and I walked to the football field and there conceived my first child. I was young, and stupid, and immortal (aren’t we all at 16?) and nothing bad could happen to me. That wasn’t the first time I’d had sex (willingly), and I do remember that we sporadically used birth control. On this night we didn’t.

I don’t think that I knew right away I was pregnant. I always was a little concerned when we had unprotected sex, and would keep an eye on the calendar, but it really didn’t dawn on me that I could get pregnant. As I said, young and stupid.

It didn’t take me long to find out I was pregnant, though. Dan wasn’t the first person I told; that would be Melisa. I told her at my locker just before first period. I don’t remember what she said, or what I said, but I knew that I had to have an abortion. Not only did I not want to be a teenage mother, I knew that it would have been one of the largest mistakes I could make if I kept that baby. It simply wasn’t an option to me to continue the pregnancy.

Dan found out from Melisa a day or so later. She knew Dan knew my locker combination, and asked if he would open it for her because she wanted to put something in there. Dan was suspicious and wore her down to the point of telling him. It never crossed my mind to not tell him. I was fully planning to tell him, but I think I wanted some information from Planned Parenthood, and Melisa, having a driver’s license while I didn’t, was able to pick up some information; and that’s what she was dropping off in my locker.

I don’t recall the inevitable “so, you’re pregnant” conversation, but it did happen. While I did tell Dan that I acknowledged his say in the situation, I also told him that I was planning on having an abortion. He agreed with me; at 16 pending parenthood is probably one of the most frightening prospects there is.

Now, prior to this, I was a very staunch Pro-Lifer. I firmly believed that it was WRONG to have an abortion. In my heart, I KNEW that the life inside was a person, and that abortion was murder, and in no circumstance should anyone get an abortion.

And then I got pregnant at 16 years old. Suddenly, everything in my world, and in my philosophy, changed. I wasn’t so self righteous anymore. I divorced myself from the idea that THIS life in me was a human being, only something “to be taken care of”. It was a self preservation mechanism in order to do what had to be done.

That time is a blur for me; I remember going to Planned Parenthood and finding the information I needed. I was offered the option of adoption, should I wish to carry the pregnancy to term, but I was horrified by that idea. Not because of adoption, but because I was not prepared to go to term with the pregnancy. I was told much information I already knew, such as abortions in the state of California would only be done up to 12 weeks (or in the first trimester). Should a woman choose to have an abortion after that first trimester she would need to go to a clinic in Oakland in order to obtain one. I knew I could get away from my parents for a day, but had no idea if I could even get to Oakland should the need arise. I knew that I could get out of the house for the duration of a day, but that’s about it.

I never told my parents about it; at least not at the time. Looking back, I think I probably could have told them, but I simply didn’t trust them. While I didn’t really believe that my parents would kill me for getting pregnant (and yes, that phrase did pop out of my mouth on more than one occasion), I’d talked myself into the mind frame that it was my responsibility to deal with the problem at hand, and that they should never know. Looking back, I think mostly I just wanted to avoid the repercussions of my actions. In short, I didn’t want to be put on restriction. I valued my freedom too much to confide to the people who I should have told first.

I also remember that I didn’t have the money to pay for an abortion. My parents believed that school was my job, and we didn’t need the extra income, so I didn’t work. By this time I didn’t have an allowance, either. If I needed money, I usually just asked my parents. Typically, I didn’t really need money. For the most part, if I was to go out, I was on a date, and Dan paid my way. Occasionally I would ask for money so that I could get something beyond what Dan could afford. I also didn’t want to have to rely on my boyfriend solely. I won’t go into detail as to how I paid for the abortion because it’s illegal what we ended up doing. Nevertheless, it WAS paid for in full. Though it took time, and I was running out of that.

Finally, I was able to make an appointment for the procedure. It had to be on a Saturday because there was no way that I could get out of school in order to do it.

When the day arrived, there was a perfect, sad excuse to use. It was Dan’s birthday. Naturally there would be some kind of celebration. I remember using the excuse that we were going to go miniature golfing, and that a whole big party was going to go on.

But when Dan was late in picking me up, I began to worry. He had a car of his own, though it wasn’t exactly reliable. And this is why he was late. I don’t know what was wrong, but the car konked out. Eventually, Dan showed up with his father driving. It was the plan for Dan’s parents to not know either, but when his car turned belly up, he had to tell his folks. I was horrified, but there was nothing I could do. I HAD to get to the clinic, and Dan’s father ended up driving us. Yes, us. Dan stayed by my side through the whole thing. He was honorable that way.

I don’t remember when we left my house, or when we arrived at the clinic, but I do remember that I was there for 7 hours; and Dan’s father stayed in the car the entire time.

I checked in and was told that there were more women there than they originally had anticipated, and I was the last one on the list. So we waited.

The waiting room was a small affair, perhaps a dozen chairs, but I think it was less. The mood was subdued. No one addressed anyone else. No one spoke above a loud whisper. I don’t think there were any other men there, just a whole lot of resigned women and girls waiting their turn. I was very glad to have Dan’s support. I think that was the only thing that kept me sane that day. I felt so bad that it was his birthday and the most I could give him was the peace of mind that comes from not being a prospective father can give.

Occasionally someone would be called back and we wouldn’t see that person again for several hours. I do recall a few women walking out of the clinic, but not many. Not to say that they were killed or anything heinous, merely that the procedure and recovery time meant that by the time my name was called much time had passed and these other women must have left after I was called in.

Dan couldn’t come with me, so what little support I had was taken away. I was offered one last chance to change my mind before I signed the papers. Adoption was discussed, and I listened politely to the lady doing her job, but my mind was made up. There was no way I was going to have this baby. I wasn’t going to be a mother before I graduated high school.

I signed the papers authorizing the procedure, given a pregnancy test to verify that I was, indeed, pregnant, and was shown into an exam room. I was directed to remove my clothes and don the hospital gown that I was handed. I did as I was told, and sat on the examination table, and waited. And waited…and waited. There was no clock in the room, so I have no idea how long I waited. If I had to guess now, I’d say it was about an hour. When the doctor finally arrived he was cordial, introducing himself and told me what would happen.

Thinking back now, I may have been given something for the abortion to reduce pain, but I can’t recall. It would make sense, especially considering how long I ended up waiting.

I was instructed to lie back and place my feet in the stirrups. The doctor did a pelvic exam to further verify the pregnancy. A nurse was in the room and stayed with me through the procedure, the abortion. She stayed at the head of the exam table and held my hand while I stared fixedly, determinedly at the cute little rainbow decal stuck to the ceiling paneling directly above me. I can still recall the feeling of my cervix being forcibly opened and held in place. I can remember the tugging sensation inside of me, a pulling, pushing poking, and yanking feeling. And regardless of any medication I may have been given, I remember pain, horrible pain. Tears streamed out of my eyes and into my ears as I clutched the nurse’s hand. Shortly, I heard the sound of suction; it lasted what seemed an incredibly long time. Finally, the machine that made the suctioning sound stopped, the devise holding open my cervix was released and removed and a sense of relief filled my body; the pain was gone.

It was over.

I was told I could get dressed and leave when I was ready. I was told how long I should bleed, and to see a doctor if it didn’t stop in the proscribed time. Signs and symptoms of infection were provided and I was enjoined to seek medical attention should I experience any of these.

Eventually, I got dressed, slowly, painfully. I left the room and met up with Dan in the waiting room.

We walked quietly together to the car, his father still waiting. The drive was also silent. I shed no tears then, but my heart was heavy.

When we returned to Dan’s house, his mother hugged me and we both cried a little. She murmured words of understanding, making those gentle sounds women use for each other when comfort is needed, knowing that nothing could erase the pain of lost possibilities. What saddens me now, more than ever, was this was the only child that her only son would ever conceive. But there was no way to know at the time that Dan had less than 4 years of life left.

Ironically, there was cake waiting for us. It was Dan’s birthday, after all. While there was no celebration, we did eat the cake. I don’t remember now what kind it was, or if it was any good. I’m not sure why Dan’s mother had the cake ready. I think perhaps she needed some kind of reminder of the continuation of life, regardless of the day’s events. I never asked.

I think that for the most part, life went on as “normal”. I went home and lied to my parents about how good the party was, but then I’d been lying to my parents for years and was very good at it. It disconcerts my father that I can lie to him straight faced, looking him in the eye and he doesn’t know. He knows I’ve lied to him in the past, but I suspect that even to this day, he doesn’t really know what to believe from me.

I think I professed exhaustion from the birthday outing, and spent the rest of the evening in my room. Beyond that, I don’t remember much about that night.

As I said, life returned to its routine. I shoved the “incident” out of my head, for the most part, during the day at least. I even managed to blot out the memory at night during the week. I’ve always enjoyed reading, but I think that’s when I learned to read to truly escape; to read til exhaustion overtook my body, and I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore. And even if my brain was still awake a little, then I would just run over in my head what I’d just read, and spin out how the story might continue. I learned my coping mechanisms well.

But there were the nights, usually on the weekend, that I’d cry myself to sleep, quietly raging at my life, my stupidity. I grew up in a fairly conservative home where guns were available and accessible, and I knew exactly where a .45 magnum lay; an easy way out. Was the pain not enough for me to actually commit suicide? No, the pain was enough, but I believed my punishment lie in living through the agony of what I’d done. You see, my opinions of the fate of a fetus never really changed, only my opinions on the self determination of women and the reproductive rights of our bodies. In my heart I KNEW I’d killed a child, a potential and I would have to live with that for the rest of my life. Though never again would I tell a woman she was wrong for choosing abortion or pronounce judgment on someone for that difficult decision. Because while I was firm in my decision and for me it was right at the time, it was still a difficult decision to make; especially with my beliefs that human life begins at conception. I don’t think I ever actually wavered in that decision, but it tore me apart, tore at me to the point of actually considering suicide. But my death wouldn’t bring back the life I knowingly, willingly took.

So, that’s the way my life went for a while; I put on a happy face, what other’s expected, meanwhile living in a hell that I’d created for myself. The fact that I’d tossed away the only person that was related to me in a way that wasn’t a mere legality also had a huge impact on me. After years of wondering who my “real” parents were, if I had any brothers or sisters and what they were doing, if they ever thought of me, I made the mistake of thinking “it couldn’t happen to me” and got pregnant; obviously a blood tie that is undeniable.

I eventually got over the mind crippling pain, and was able to breathe again a full breath without feeling like sobbing at the end of it. Dan and I broke up in our senior year, shortly before December and our first anniversary. Considering the normal tempestuous nature of teenage relationships, nearly a year long relationship with the agonizing decision we had to make at such a young age ain’t half bad.
Looking back on it, I think I buried my pain instead of dealing with it in a healthy manner; but in my defense, we didn’t exactly have the awareness of therapy or knowledge that a “good support system” would help grief. You were just expected to “deal with it” and “get over it”. Besides, who did I have to turn to? Dan couldn’t help; he was too far into this with me to have been any real help. My best friend just didn’t understand, though she tried, and most of my few other friends didn’t know. I couldn’t turn to my parents; THEY certainly wouldn’t understand, and I really didn’t feel comfortable with going to Dan’s parents. They were good people, but it was just awkward being around them by that time.

Besides, like a good little adoptee, I learned not to complain about anything to anyone. Everything was just fine, and we don’t want anything to rock to boat, right? Right? Right. Just like everything else, ignore it and it’ll go away; you’ll be fine.

So, this is my blog

2009-11-29T19:26:00.000-08:00

Why, you ask, did she name it Script For a Jester's Tear? First, it's the name of one of my favorite Marillion songs. This stanza always hit me particularly hard;

"The fool escaped from paradise will look over his shoulder and cry
Sit and chew on daffodils and struggle to answer why?
As you grow up and leave the playground
Where you kissed your prince and found your frog
Remember the jester that showed you tears, the script for tears "

I'm not really sure why, except perhaps I think I always felt like that fool that escaped from paradise. Maybe struggling to answer why I am who I am, or why me, even.

Aside from that, the title of my blog is sort of symbolic; script = the writing part, Jester's tear = the fool I've been, and the pain I've experienced in my life, sometimes by my own hand. And so, these will be my musings, thoughts, and opinions on life, my script.