the good stuff

I have a friend who is in her early 60s. She's a brilliant, interesting woman and I gather she may have been a bit of a wild flower child back in the day. I also happen to know that she placed a child for adoption when she was a teenager. She shared this very personal story with me when she found out we were adopting our daughter and as much as I appreciated it then, I really treasure it now. Why? 

Sometimes it's hard being so open with your birth parents. There's a lot of anxiety, paranoia and fear that comes along as part of the package. Some of it's justified, most is completely fabricated from dark, icky places in your head and weird stuff people say to you. There are days when you don't want to share the title of "mom," or when you vividly see a day in the future when your dramatic teenager will crush you in the heat of a stupid argument about curfew by saying they want to go live with their "real" parents, or when you tell someone you had lunch with your baby mama and they look at you like you said you sent your baby to the zoo with a kidnapper, or a Catholic priest. There are days when you wonder if you've shared too much, or not enough. And, the worst of all, what if they try to get your baby back. Sure, not realistic, but in crazy-brain town you still worry about it. And bear in mind, our birth families are AMAZING people. Like unbelievably cool, normal, awesome people. And I still play out these internal soap opera moments in my head more often than I care to admit. 

So that's where my friend and her story serve as a beacon of light. AKA, a virtual bitch-slap to the face. I see my relationship with my birth parents fast-forwarded 40 years. I see our relationship from their point of view, with a veneer of wisdom and life experience to boot. I hear her talk about how much she struggled with her adoption decision back then. A decision that didn't feel like a choice based on the circumstances and pressures at the time. A choice that opened up a future full of adventure, love and success. But I can tell she still has traces of regret. I see how much she loves the child she gave up all those years ago, and how much she cherishes the precious little time she is able to spend with him and her grandchildren now. She calls him "my son" and speaks about him with an ease so natural that most people never know that of her two sons, she raised one and watched one grow up from afar. My heart aches to hear how hurt she is by his adopted mother's territorial nature which keeps her so very distant and removed from her son and his family. I "ooh" and "ahh" over the family photos she proudly shares and the stories of her grandkids' triumphs in school and sports. All proof that a mother's love doesn't require a formal title, or a typical family tree, or daily conversations. It just is. And when someone asks her how many kids she has, she doesn't hesitate when she answers, "I have two children." 

Seeing that love and conviction, and the joy and pride she has as a mom, reminds me why it's important to invest in this relationship with love, trust, hope and, maybe most importantly, with open hearts and open minds. Because the more you open up, the more room there is for the good stuff. And it's really all about the good stuff.

crap

Welcome to my life. I hit "publish" too soon on this blog post, among many other "dammit"-worthy errors I make every day. I have to stop swearing in front of my kid (hi, I'm dammit girl). I don't know who made this necklace, but I want one.

dammit

I have officially taught my son to swear. We were driving to family dinner and I hear this sweet little soprano chirp from the back seat — DAMMIT! Scott and I look at each other...Acknowledge? Ignore? Flip out?

"DAMMIT!" - again from the back seat.

Me: Tagg, what did you say? (thinking, hopefully, that he said jammin or, well, anything else.)

Tagg: Dammit, dammit, dammit. I can't get my shoes on.

Me and Scott: Choking down laughs, exchanging eyes and faces to figure out how to handle while driving 70 mph down the highway.

Me: Tagg, that's an adult word and it's not a nice one. Please don't say that any more. Just say "shoot" or "dang it" or something if you're that frustrated about your shoes. (I realize now that this was, perhaps, not the best response but it was all I had at the time)

Tagg: DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT...

Me: (quietly under my breath in the front seat of the car) DAMMIT!!!!

Tagg: DAMmit damMIT dammit damMIT DAMmit damMIT DAMmit damMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT...

Me and Scott: Trying REALLY hard not to bust up in hysterical laughter. So we ignore him and try to think about starving kids in Africa and abused puppies to stifle the guffaws. During which Scott gives me the silent, mouthed "this is your fault. You are the dammit girl." Totally true. I am the Dammit Girl. Acknowledged. But then I mouth back, "Yeah, but the future f-bombs? All you." And we both know it's true.