From Interesting to Inspiring: This Is OUR Adoption Story

Interesting to Inspiring

And on the last day of November—National Adoption Month—I decided to write about adoption.

It’s not that I haven’t written about it this month. I’ve put pen to paper a number of times to journal experiences and feelings surrounding adoption and our family unit. But I come here and the words disappear. In fact, I wrote a bunch of words after that previous sentence…

…and I deleted them. Let’s start again.

I’ve allowed others who aren’t participants in our adoption story to dictate how I share my experiences, feelings, fears, joys, and all the in between about adoption. I’ve censored, deleted, and otherwise silenced myself. Some people didn’t want to hear about grief and loss or anything hard. Others didn’t want us to share joys.

Truthful sharing is not the enemy of adoption.

Silence is.

I’ve had to live our adoption in a much more public way this year. I’ve told our story more times with my mouth, as opposed to just writing it, more times this year than I have in all the previous years. I’ve stood in front of a room. I’ve stood on a stage—twice—and told my story. Our story. The story that started and continues and changes us regularly. The story we didn’t know would be like this, would affect people—like our children not yet born or considered—in so many ways, both wonderful and awful.

As all of our children continue to grow, I’ve also learned what parts of the story are mine to tell and which parts belong to others. That’s part of the silence on the topic here, on the blog, as of late. But not all of it.

It comes from comments like one my daughter’s mom received lately when she told another woman she is in business with her daughter’s birth mom (being me).

“That’s interesting.”
“Isn’t it great?”
“I would never do that. My kids are adopted, too, but they’ll never know their birth mothers. I mean, they’re Asian anyway.”

First: It is great. We’re kind of awesome. And it is interesting. We’re unique. We’ve always been unique in this sphere.

Second: Okay, lady. That’s fine. Your story doesn’t have to be our story. But there’s no need to be rude, no need to write off, no need to basically tell us that we’re doing it wrong.

Third: I’m totally over comments like this. Which is why I’m writing this on the last day of National Adoption Month. So here it goes.

Our adoption story is our own.

It doesn’t have to look like yours. Yours doesn’t have to look like ours. We don’t have to be unkind to each other on the in between.

I’m over deleting words in my own space. I’m over not sharing because those in certain camps won’t like it or me or might even launch a campaign of hate against me. I’m over caring whether we make you feel uncomfortable, because I’m not here for your comfort. I’m here to raise children who make this world a better place. If you want to feel comfortable, if you don’t want to think about the reforms that adoption desperately needs, if you don’t want to think about race and adoption, if you don’t want to think about mental health and the way it affects adoption, if you don’t want to think about more than shiny Gotcha Day photos, I’m not here for you.

I can’t control strangers on the Internet. Or ones I meet when I share our story in public. I can control my space, my reaction, who I let in my life, in my childrens’ lives.

I say all this in-your-face, I don’t have to take your crap soliloquy to end with this story.

After my daughter’s mom and I stood on a stage earlier this month and shared our story, no less than a dozen people came up to us throughout the day and used the same statement: “Your story is so inspiring.”

We didn’t choose this path and create this family unit to be inspiring. We don’t wake up in the morning and think, “How can I inspire others today?” Mostly because we’re tired in the morning. We just live our lives. Out loud nowadays, together more than we ever have been, and let me tell you, it feels good.

It feels right.

There’s a lot of hard stuff going on behind the scenes that outsiders to our story don’t need to know. But the work we’re doing together as a family unit feels right. Focusing on our issues instead of what others think about our issues feels right. And if that ends up inspiring others, we’ll take it. And if it ends up offending others, well, there’s the door. I’m not concerned. Because we also don’t wake up and think, “How can I offend others today?”

If we’ve inspired you to think differently about adoption in some way, great. If we haven’t, that’s okay. We’re still gonna do our thing.

And I’m finally gonna write it.

Interesting to Inspiring

 

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Taco Salad

I'm Not Pregnant

I'm Not Pregnant

For the record, I am not pregnant.

I will never be pregnant again.

But I like taco salad. And despite having an ablation which fried the hell out of my uterine lining, I’m a special snowflake and I still get my monthly cycle. This month, partially thanks to the extra swelling of cross-country travel, I bloated even more than usual with my cycle. It is what it is. I no longer bleed for upwards of 17 days per month, so I’ll take a little monthly bloating over being bed-ridden and vomitting repeatedly.

But no, I cannot get pregnant. Neither with my husband, by myself, or in any variation thereof. This stuff doesn’t work anymore.

Before it didn’t work anymore, my OBGYN and other doctors told me it would “be in my best interest” to “stop having the babies.” In short, if I wanted to continue living and parenting the children I already brought into this world, I couldn’t conceive, carry, and push more babies out of my vagina.

The end.

It happened at a LuLaRoe party two months ago and again at the library this week.

“When are you due?”
“Is it a boy or a girl?

Eight years ago. Almost nine.
It’s a taco salad.

It’s a weighted question that springs tears to my eyes.

Not about my body shape. I’m fit. I run marathons. I have some leftover tummy pooch after three live births and one miscarriage. I gain and lose weight based on a number of things, ranging from anxiety and depression to holidays to training seasons to life. And buffalo chicken dip. And wine. I kind of like my shape. I feel okay in my own skin.

I love my children. All three. I’d have three more. If I could. I cannot.

And so I hold my friends’ babies. I walk into rooms, sweep them away from their mothers, and snuggle the heck out of them. I tell them they are loved. I tell them they have amazing mommies. I smell the tops of their heads; I breathe their innocence and their peace and I take just a little bit with me when I hand them back to their mommies, go home, and sleep the sleep of a mom whose children sleep all night and make their own dang breakfasts.

But sometimes. Sometimes. I look at a baby or I read another pregnancy announcement or I think about everything I missed with my daughter or I make my sons try on pants and they’ve grown a whole bunch since the spring and my breath catches. I blink. I breathe. I wonder why. I feel a bit cheated. I question. I cry.

So please, people, unless there is a baby’s head or even foot protruding from a woman’s vagina, do not ask her if she’s expecting. It’s probably written in all of the etiquette books ever, but it’s also just common freaking sense. I understand we’re all human and that we all make mistakes, which is why I’ve never responded unkindly to such a question, but know that it throws me—and others—off our games for a day. Or two. Or going on three now.

It is what it is. I will forever feel thankful for the children who bless my life. I will forever feel thankful for those in my life who support me through the thick of it all. But honestly, people. Think before you speak.