I love the blogging world and how it brings me in touch with people I would otherwise never meet. Just like the adoption community does. So, my friends who’ve adopted, I’m reblogging a post from a military family looking to adopt a special needs child internationally. You all know how dreadfully expensive this can be. For just $10, you can help them out and get a pretty Christmas ornament. There’s a really sweet story behind the ornament, too; it’s in the same vein as the hundred good wishes quilts.
So, people, read this touching blog post and pony up for the ornament. You help a military family in a more tangible way than posting to your Facebook wall. Like I said, what’s not to love?
Giving a boy with ADHD responsibility for the family’s laundry probably wasn’t our best call. All too often we found ourselves with nothing but air in our underwear drawers. One night, my husband wondered when he would see his tidy whities again.
“Son,” he said. “Are you planning to do the laundry soon?”
“No, Dad. Why?”
“Well, because tomorrow morning I will have no underwear to wear to work.”
Our son considered his dad’s dilemma and said, “No problem. Just borrow some of mine. We can be Boxer Buddies.”
First, let me say this: you are one of my favorite rock stars.
You’re talented. With that guitar/drum/piano playing thing, hell, you could record an album all by yourself. Oh, wait, you did. See what I mean. Tal. En. Ted.
I love your music. No, let me rephrase. I freaking love your music. I don’t have a single running playlist that doesn’t include at least one Foo Fighters song. Your tempos and my cadence are a match made in heaven. That I run to “Walk” puts an “I’ve got a secret” smile on my face that makes the other runners jealous. Ok, they aren’t jealous. They look at me and think I’m nuts.
You would probably get my little inside joke, though, ‘cause you’re hilarious! Most of your videos have me laughing out loud. I love a guy who isn’t afraid to put on some braces, a wig with ponytails, and a dress for his art.
You’re resilient. That whole Kurt Cobain thing could have really messed you up, but you got on with your life. And Nirvana? Hello! Way to entirely change the face of music in your own time. Good job, dude!
You are practically a rock god. And that’s my problem.
My son adores you. In fact, my son is the reason I know who you are at all. Because I don’t want to be listening to Jackson Brown and the Beatles in the nursing home, I’m up for hearing anything my son brings my way. And he brought you.
In addition to loving your music, my son sees himself in you. You play drums; my son plays drums. You play guitar; my son plays guitar. You care more about the music than the rock star trappings. My son cares more about the music than being a rock star.
You are, in short, my son’s hero, so I’d like you to do something for me. I know I’m about to sound like a narrow-minded suburban mom with a stick up my ass. Well, let me set you straight right now. I am a very broad-minded suburban mom with a stick up my ass. So here goes.
Please stop making jokes about how you dropped out of high school.
My son and I saw you on Chelsea Lately the other night. You were, in fact, the only reason we watched at all. The conversation went like this:
Chelsea: (after some preliminary chat) And you dropped out of high school!
You: Yeah! (that’s when you and Chelsea high-fived, even though Chelsea graduated from Livingston High School in 1993.)
Then you addressed the audience, saying, “Stay in school and don’t do drugs or you’ll end up like me!”
Dave, that is exactly what my son wants to do . . .end up like you. Never mind that you started playing in bands at 13. Never mind that you quit school to join Scream on their European tour at 17. Never mind that my son hasn’t played in a band yet. All he wants to do is play music; he has no interest in homework when he can pass the tests without studying or doing the “stupid busy work.” He has no interest in high school at all.
Dropping out of high school was the right thing for you to do. Your mom told you so. Dropping out of high school is not the right thing for my son.
When my son was younger, he wouldn’t eat vegetables. I told him, “I bet if Dave Grohl told you to eat your vegetables, you would.” “Mom,” he said, “I would eat my plate if Dave Grohl told me to.”
So, Dave, back off the drop out jokes. Whether you want to be or not, you are a role model.
Nicole Kidman, Edie Falco and Sharon Stone did it. Sandra Bullock, Charlize Theron and Katherine Heigl did it. Barbara Walters and Diane Keaton did it. I know someone who was with Meg Ryan when she did it.
It isn’t only women who do it. Tony Shaloub and even Ozzy Osbourne did it.
And I did it, too.
Nine years ago, on September 15, I, with my husband, adopted a baby girl from China. I’ve written about adoption before; it was an angry—some might say “snide”—response to the idiocy many people express about adoption and to those on all sides of the adoption triangle.
But adoption hasn’t only exposed me to idiocy. It has brought me an overabundance of joy. My daughter is beautiful, smart, funny, loving, generous, and kind. We adoptive parents like to joke that it’s ok for us to brag about our children ‘cause it’s not like we’re patting our own genetic code on the back. But I will gladly tell you that my son, who came from my womb, is handsome, smart, funny, loving (in a teenage boy kind of way), generous and kind.
Adoption has changed my vocabulary. My daughter isn’t adopted, she was adopted. As soon as the papers were signed, she became my daughter. I don’t usually say my son come from my womb, as I did above, though I prefer that description. I refer to him as my “biological son” if anyone asks and people frequently ask when they see him and his sister together. He has some smart-ass comments he keeps for people who ask if she was adopted, but he has a smart-ass comment for just about everything. Calling my son “biological” seems to imply, to me at least, that my daughter is somehow not made of the same stuff. Calling him my “natural” child is equally strange for me. Is my daughter then “unnatural?”
Adoption has changed the way many people see me. Because I’ve adopted, many people think I’m brave. They consider the things I’ve done—traveling to China, adopting “someone else’s child”—to be scary things.
Becoming a parent was scary. Deciding to try to get pregnant was scary, in a jumping off a cliff and hoping for a soft landing sort of way.
With adoption, there was no fear. We took one red-tape filled step at a time, confident that there was a child for us at the end of the journey. Traveling to China? With an eight-year old boy? Immediately following lifting of the SARS travel ban? Didn’t faze me. Trying to get pregnant is a tentative sort of venture. Who knows how it will end? Adoption is a deliberate process. Every form filled out, every interview, every trip to a consulate, state or county official says, “We will have a child.”
Adoption has brought me close to people I might never have bothered to know. I don’t usually go out of my way to befriend people whose politics and principles are so different from my own. My adoption community includes people with dramatically different politics and principles.
When I was pregnant with my son, a good friend was as well. We had a bump bonding moment in the ladies’ room at a restaurant in Bloomington, Indiana. She showed me her distended belly button and I showed her mine. I can’t imagine showing my belly button to my adoption community friends. Most of them have never met me in person.
But though our world is mainly virtual, our friendship is very real. We’ve been through the typical things long time friends weather like divorces, illnesses, teenagers. But only my adoption friends can provide comfort when I’ve just held my daughter while she sobs for her real mother. Only they can assure me that I’ve handled it well, that I’ve done what a real mother does.
People tell me they couldn’t do what I’ve done; that they could never love a child that wasn’t their own. There’s a witty reply: I love her as my own because she is my own, just as her brother is my own.
When my son was born, he was placed in my arms and I had no idea what to do with him. I fell in love with him but it wasn’t an overnight thing.
On September 14, a Chinese woman placed Lin Chun Mei in my arms. On September 15, she became my daughter, Abigail Mei. The next day, pushing her stroller toward the elevator at the White Swan Hotel in Guangdong Province, I knew she was my own, that my love for her was no different than my love for my son.
Before I went to China, I learned a single phrase in Mandarin. When I met my daughter, I told her, “Wo shi ni de mama. Wo shi yung yuan ni de mama.”
Recently, I gave away the cat. Don’t judge me harshly; the cat is really better off in a home where the children play with him, the adults can afford to keep him and the other pets like him.
The children were prepared. They did not protest. In fact, they asked how soon they could get a hamster/pug/poodle to replace Oliver.
It was difficult leaving Oliver at the Animal Care League of Oak Park or, as my son’s friends have dubbed it, The Oliver Factory. I was filled with sadness, guilt, remorse, and self-recrimination. While this is not unusual for me, I don’t normally have to work it out in front of disgustingly understanding and supportive animal-loving volunteers.
On arriving home from school, my daughter began to wail. She came running to me, put her arms around me and cried, “Oliver’s gone!” She cried in my arms for some time. Then, tears dried, she asked if she could come to work with me. “Not a problem,” I said. So, off to work we went. On the way, she said, “Mom, can we go to Staples and get some Post-its afterward? I think it would help me feel less sad if I played school.”
“So,” I said, “You’re going to milk this for all you can get?”
“Well,” she said, “You gave away the cat.”
I sighed and said, “Ok. But after today, you’re done.”
“What!?” she said, “Do you really believe a pack of Post-its will solve my broken heart?”
I have to thank the wonderful people at the Animal Care League of Oak Park. They were kind, loving and supportive of both Oliver and I. If you knew Oliver, maybe you’d like to make a donation.
Halloween in Chicago is a dicey affair. You’re as likely to have foul weather as fair, but most often, the kids are trick or treating in hat, coat and mitten weather.
My daughter has chosen a vampire costume. It’s really kind of cute, complete with cape and stand-up collar. And it is sleeveless. Mommy would have made a very nice costume with nice warm long sleeves, but Mommy is big and dumb. All of Mommy’s ideas suck.
Big Dumb Mom: You should wear a long sleeve shirt under it. I’m afraid you’ll be cold.
Daughter: That’s dumb, Big Dumb Mom. Your ideas suck. (Ok, she didn’t really say that, but I can’t remember what sass came out of her mouth.)
Big Dumb Mom: Well, what will you do about the cold?
Daughter: I’ll just have to suffer the consequences of being cute.
Note: My kids say funny stuff, too is based on the fact that many, many moms have funny kids and post the funny things they say, but I owe a debt of gratitude to crudmykidssay.wordpress.com
Hers is one of the best funny kid stuff blogs out there and I’m humbled by her hilarious offspring.
There are so many things I don’t get these days. Like people who comment on comics they view online. Go check out Arcamax comments. People actually comment on strips like Baby Blues and Zits as if the characters are real.
And, if you’ve been reading me for a while, I don’t get chubby guys doing outdoor activities topless.
But the thing that I don’t get more than any other, is how any one who wants to see fewer abortions, fewer teen pregnancies, fewer women sink into poverty because of an unplanned pregnancy can possibly support de-funding Planned Parenthood.
Planned Parenthood is the biggest preventer of unplanned pregnancy in the United States. They provide contraception, cervical cancer exams, referrals to mammography and a wealth of other services to women who couldn’t otherwise afford them.
Anti-abortion activists claim that any federal funding of Planned Parenthood enables the group to keep from using resources for abortion services. Good! The services Planned Parenthood provides that are federally funded are highly effective at preventing unplanned pregnancies and abortion.
In 2009, Planned Parenthood received $360 million in federal grants and contracts. None of that money funded abortion. In fact, it’s estimated that Planned Parenthood prevents more than 600,000 unintended pregnancies every year. And no other provider, federally funded or not, is able to provide healthcare services to clients as inexpensively.
Richard Nixon recognized the costs to the country of unintended pregnancies and said “no American woman should be denied access to family planning assistance because of her economic condition.” It was true in 1970 and it’s true now.
So, I just don’t get why anyone, pro-choice or anti-abortion, would want to cut $360 million dollars to shrink a 17 trillion dollar deficit when that cut is guaranteed to increase costs in other areas.
If things go as planned, I will be able to remove the last child proofing device remaining in our home this afternoon. Reason? Our cat, Oliver, will no longer be living with us. Oliver is on his way to a new home, one that can afford his veterinary care.
We have the lock on our cabinet because Oliver loves nothing more than breaking things, especially glass and china. Before the cabinet lock was installed, a favorite Oliver activity was jumping on the kitchen counter, opening the cabinet where drinking glasses are stored and, with one swipe of his paw, dumping the contents on the floor. Hence, cabinet lock.
Astounding as Oliver’s antics appear, they are mere trifles. A blogging friend wrote recently that her baby daughter likes to gnaw on mini-blinds. I had a dog that ate one. This friend and her other baby-wrangling friend are dreading what happens when the Christmas tree goes up. I have a dog that ate a string of Christmas lights.
I think these parents worrying about mini-blinds and Christmas lights are so cute. Sure, one needs to be aware of the dangers these impose, as well as glass coffee tables, staircases, unlocked liquor cabinets and other baby magnets.
But there are so many more dangers lurking in your house, people. So many more.
There’s the oven.
My son didn’t crawl much. The first time he tried, he went backwards. Rather than repeatedly practicing to get it right, he bided his time until he had the muscle strength to walk. We installed gates at the staircases to the basement and the upstairs, of course. This, in effect, restricted our son to destroying playing on the first floor. He discovered the oven and, within moments, discovered how to open it and climb in. Fun!
The first oven lock adhered to the side of the oven and required two hands to achieve oven openage. This was defeated approximately half an hour after installation. The second lock had to be ordered. It successfully defeated all opening efforts.
There’s the toilet.
Oven opening off the tour of terror, my son discovered the toilet.
All manner of things went into the potty, none of them vaguely related to pee or pooh. Cars, toothbrushes, tub toys. Again, a lock was installed. Again, it was defeated. Then our son discovered flushing. It is very expensive to have a plumber remove a flushed washcloth.
There’s the bathroom door.
His efforts at opening things thwarted, my son began closing things. Doors, in particular, were fun to shut, providing an irresistible form of peek-a-boo. Door open? There’s Mommy! Door closed? No more Mommy! Door open, door closed, door open, door closed. Fun!
Then there was the day the door closed . . .and locked. From the inside. In an old house. Built at a time when people expected privacy, not 18-month olds on overdrive.
For a while, my husband and I tried to get our son to unlock the door, reasoning that if he could flip it one way, he could flip it the other. While he couldn’t, it was clear that talking to Mommy and Daddy through the door was a blast. Fun!
Then we tried removing the door from its hinges. Daddy wrote funny pictures on a piece of paper and passed them through the bottom of the door while Mommy tried to remove the door. Daddy is a terrible artist; every thing he draws looks like a penis. Fun!
Silly Mommy discovered that hinges are not on the outside of doors. Figuring if they can get a cat out of a tree, they can get my son out of the john, I called the fire department.
Within minutes, at least four firemen, a police squad car and a hook and ladder truck arrived at our house, along with every neighbor within a quarter mile. Daddy continued to push penis pictures under the bathroom door while a fireman, boosted to the second floor (Oh, didn’t I say this was the second floor bathroom? Silly Mommy! Of course it was!), attempted to open the window. Fun!
Then it became not fun. A child can only pass so many penis pictures back and forth under the door. And having a strange man banging at the bathroom window did nothing to calm our son. He began to cry.
“What would you like to do, Ma’am?” said the police officer. “Should they break the window?”
“No,” I said, envisioning my baby covered in broken glass. “Keeping trying to open the window.” My son kept crying.
So, they tried to open the window. And they tried to open the window. My son cried harder.
“Ma’am,” the police officer said, “Your son is hysterical.”
“Break the window!” I cried.
I heard glass break and my son stop crying, then “It’s ok, little guy. It’s ok.”
I didn’t see the ladder descend and I don’t know if my husband did. The aftermath of the escapade isn’t burned into my brain, except for the sobbing release when I knew my son was all right.
So, parents, get your cabinet locks, your coffee table cushions, the door knob-defeaters, and the staircase gates. But don’t forget to take pictures when the hook and ladder truck arrives.
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