I don't really know what to say.

I feel like I've been away so long it might not even be worth coming back.

But I miss blogging.

I know, same song, twentieth verse. I keep saying that, and then disappearing for a while.

Today I teared up while holding my little boy so tightly.

I looked at my DH and asked him how we can live in this country and try to raise two African American kids? When do I start teaching them about the horrors of racism? Right now we just talk about the beauty of their skin and hair--because believe me, it is beyond beautiful--but I know, I KNOW, others don't see it that way. And to deny that is just stupid.

I still get looks and weird questions when we're out and about. I try to assume people ask questions out of ignorance and not malice but you know what? Maybe I'll just quit making that assumption. Why do I need to give anyone else the benefit of the doubt?

I shouldn't blog angry. I know that. But here I am.

I am going to try to blog more. I have--as always--a million topics about which I want to write. But then I just never seem to make the time. Some of them involve race. Many of them involve our ongoing conflict of where to live, what to do with our lives. How to balance the love of a career with the love of a family. How to balance everything, all the time. Maybe a few posts about baking (hooray!). And some topics are just me needing to reach out and find out if anyone else has any tips for some of the tribulations of parenting two preschoolers (but yet...I so didn't want to be a Mommy blogger).

My next post will most definitely about having-or not having-- a tribe. Which means it will be mommyish with a sprinkle of infertility pain and a whole lot of other stuff. Wow, what a teaser.

But right now, I'm just going to hold my son (and my daughter too) a little closer and shake my head at the world in which we are living.

I want to, but I can't seem to.

Write, that is.

Here, in this space that for so long had been so comfortable and so necessary.

I have so, so many things that I want to say but then I find myself pulling back and wondering why? Why do I need to say it here, in public? I'm not sure anymore.

I have been processing grief, over losing my father. He is dead and while I know this, some days I still cannot quite get my brain around it. And yet most people--everyone--assumes I'm over it, and because he suffered for so long that it was a very good thing that he passed. And yes, it was a very good thing that he is no longer suffering but I'm still sad. I had breakfast with a friend in NYC (yes, we took a trip!) who had recently lost her mother. We were suddenly in that Fun song, talking and talking about how our parents will die (except they already died) and I didn't feel so alone, or weird.

NYC, ahhh how we had missed thee. It was grand. We happened to be there for the big blizzard, which was lovely. We took long runs in Central Park while the snow fell. Heaven on earth for this runner, who loves a very cold run but doesn't get many. We stayed at the same hotel where we received our adoption referrals December 2010 and it was surreal to be back in that space, to remember those moments where everything changed. We thoroughly enjoyed our trip. We ate (Indian food on Curry Row is just divine, and has anyone discovered Otarian? OMG--why is there not one where I live?) We shopped. We slept late. We ran.

Did I mention our children were not with us? Two two-year olds in NYC a vacation would not make.

Below I talk about some of the angst of motherhood. I apologize to those who are still the trenches and woud like nothing more than to have this angst.



I am reading a book called Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety.

It's really interesting.

I mean really interesting.

The author talks about how many of today's mothers don't really seem happy, as they worry endlessly about the possibility of not having the perfect child, panicking as each developmental benchmark approaches. She asks why are so many moms so stressed out and so out of balance.

This sentence in a review by the New Yorker sums it up (if you're interested):
Warner argues that the gains of feminism are no match for the frenzied perfectionism of American parenting. In the absence of any meaningful health, child-care, or educational provisions, martyrdom appears to be the only feasible model for successful maternity—with destructive consequences for both mothers and children.

I think there's a whole other layer if you are parenting after infertility, because let's face it--if you waited a very very long time to become a mother you might not be as forgiving of yourself if you're not perfect. And no one is perfect. And there are endless ways to feel like a failure. And I completely agree that for some people, martyrdom seems to be the only way some people know how to parent, and that's a little much wouldn't you say?

Anyone? Anyone?

It's been a crazy two weeks lately--our refrigerator broke, our car broke, our nanny gave notice, we chose a Montessori, our car broke again (only this time, after three hours on the road and while we were being re-routed around a massive wreck that had shut down the freeway--good times, let me tell you!), our internet went kaput but through it all we just kept saying "first world problems, first world problems."

If you're still out there, let me know what you think. About anything. About nothing. About Perfect Madness, if you've read it, or about the ideas it bring ups.

I miss this space.

To Anonymous--Yes! Exactly! (edited)

Ok so there were several anonymous comments but a couple of them were particularly spot on.

I should have chosen different words when I say biology isn't better.

Yes, in terms of adoption, biology is better. And I realize that sentence makes no sense at face value.

No one should ever have to be adopted. Adoption starts with loss. I get that completely. Not in the sense that I have been through it, but I understand the concept.

Please, please, please refer to my previous post where I talked about how the mister and I are the fourth choice for parenting our children. Biological parents are always the choice if that is possible.

But that "if" is a great big IF.

Second choice is other family members, again, IF that is possible.

Third choice is domestic adoption in ones own country and culture.

And then there's the fourth choice: us.

We get it that we weren't first, or second, or even third. But damnit we're doing the best we can and working every day to educate ourselves more on the ways we can help our children cope with their enormous, ENORMOUS losses.

I am not an adoptee so obviously I cannot speak from that position. All I can say--with great, great confidence--is that I know the opposite of losing your genetic past because I lost my genetic future.

I will never share details of my childrens' stories here but suffice it to say that they were in an orphanage and their options were to be adopted or to grow up in an orphanage, and then as tender teenagers, be on their own.

Then there was the anonymous commenter who talked about the guilt argument.

OK.

I suffer tremendously. Maybe it's just my personality but here's what swirls through my heart and head on many--most--days.

When you know better, you do better.

I have seen some horrors up close and personal. Horrors that no child should endure. Horrors that exist all the time all around us and it is so, so easy to simply just not think about them.

All of us--fertiles and infertiles alike--as human beings shouldn't tolerate the inequities that abound. But we do.

Because I have seen firsthand children suffering, going hungry, desperate to be held and loved, with little hope of a chance at a family--I can't help but contrast that to my own quest for a family.

It's like Schindler's List, at the end, when he kept thinking about how many more people he could have spared...I think about the money spent on fertility treatments. Yes, it's natural to desire a biological child. But--and let me say very clearly here that I speak only for myself and from my own heart--why did I think I had to have one so badly? There are lots of things I'd like that I don't get, simply because I'm not capable of them. I wish I could have accepted my fate sooner and simply moved on. And I don't get all squishy touchy feely and think that it is because H&H were the only children meant for me. While I cannot imagine any other children because they are the children I am entrusted to raise, I could have parented other children as well.

But really, if there was a way to have given that money and it would have somehow prevented H&H from needing to be adopted I would have, in a heartbeat. Which means I wouldn't have been able to be a parent, which then means I would still have been sad.

But maybe I just should have resolved to be childfree and moved on.

I don't know.

It's all complicated.

But reading the anonymous commenters from adoptees just breaks my heart, because I know how much my children will suffer and I can't spare them that. I know that love is not enough.

EDITED TO ADD: I almost hate having to add something BUT, let me be clear that I'm not condemning IVF, or anyone doing IVF. My God, I did it five times! I'm just saying that in perfect 20/20 hindsight I wish I hadn't done it so much. Everyone has their own path, but for what feels right to me, in my heart, now that I know what I know, I feel differently than I used to. Which is fairly normal for lots and lots of people and processes so it's not really surprising at all. OK, done.

The One Where I Get Angry

And actually, I'm writing this many, many days after the initial insult, so I've cooled off quite a bit.

Even though I have less time than ever before, I do still find myself reading blogs. I'm just too connected to too many people via the interweb to stop.

And I read something recently that was insulting. I doubt the author meant it as insulting but that's the thing, this whole concept is sneaky. And subversive. It's a feeling that I think I am picking up on, time and time again, in many different ways.

Hell, someone could have thought I felt this way when I was pursuing so much damn treatment.

It's the idea that biology is better.

(a side note: anyone who knows me from way back when knows we always said we would 'have one adopt one' because we had this idea that if we adopted first and then had the biological child our adopted child would feel they weren't enough. And then for years we got sidetracked on the having one side of things.)

The sentence in a post that wrankled me...it jumped off the screen and made my adoptive momma heart just ache a bit. Not for myself, but for my kids. For adopted kids everywhere.

I've mentioned before that of all my blogging buddies, of all my infertile peeps, there aren't too many that crossed over to adoption.

And while I get that--as it took me a long time to decide the 'having one' just wasn't going to happen for us--I still feel alone. I still feel like no one else is doing it because they might think it inferior in some way. The things we will put ourselves through to have a pregnancy, or a biological connection...it's mind blowing, even from the inside. Remember: I am an insider. I know the drill. I know how damn hard all of it is. And I put myself through a lot. And to a previous post commenter about my shame, of course I know it's all a process. But I also know that sometimes we can get so overfocused on a goal (pregnancy, biological baby, etc) that we stop thinking about living, and all that it means to be alive, and that we're all part of a bigger picture than just our own pursuits.

But that sentence, it really got to me. It was from someone I've followed for a long time. I've supported through lots and lots. But there it was and it felt like I was overhearing someone talking behind my back.

I have a feeling it's like what being the victim of racism feels like. It's subtle and many would never say it to your face, but it's still there, the attitude.

Sigh.

So I was angry angry angry for a while. Hot under the collar, hoppin' mad. All those things and maybe even more.

Now I'm just sad.

Biology isn't better and you'll never convince me otherwise. Most of the people I love most in my life don't share a single gene with me and I love them with my heart and soul and would do anything for them.

I realize I'll probably make some people angry when they read this post. That's certainly not the point. The point is that we should all check ourselves sometimes and examine what is in our true hearts. I guess if you really think biology is better in your true heart of hearts then that's your right. But just know that is hurts some of us, and that your attitude--no matter how well concealed you may think it is--is bound to crop up here and there in ways that others notice.

OK I'm done.
Writing makes it all better, huh?

Our Adoption Video...only seventeen months later :)

I've been thinking a lot lately about the concept of 'before' and 'after.'

Especially when dealing with bad news.

I will never forget the few moments before I got the call about my Dad suffering his stroke. I was happily packing up my stuff and getting ready to walk out the door to go to work. DH was walking up the street returning from a run.

The phone rang and it was my sister. We often talked on our respective drives into work so I hastily grabbed it and said--without saying hello--"I'm not in the car yet I'll call you right back."

No, she managed to say before I hung up.

Dad had a stroke.

And then--after.

That was the dividing line between his life and our life before and after. Nothing was the same after and it was never, ever better, only worse, slowly, slowly worse. And now he is gone.

I think about those dividing lines so often that I create them in my imagination. Example: the other day I had just finished speaking with my sister on the phone and it was only about an hour later and she was calling again. I was just stepping into the shower so I didn't answer. But the entire shower I wondered if she was calling over and over and I couldn't hear and what it if was another one of those calls diving time into before and after?

(note: she just wanted to ask me about something related to Target. Whew.)

Most of the time the big traumas of our lives are sudden and there is a before and after.

But not with infertility (in most cases).

Infertility chips away at you slowly, until you are just a pile of wood chips.
And by you, I mean me.

Somehow I found myself flying halfway across the country, twice, spending obscene amounts of money. Somehow I found myself going through five full in vitro cycles when I swore I would never even do one. Somehow I found myself lying in a dark room full of needles in my ears and scalp and stomach and toes. Somehow I found myself choking down disgusting herbs. Somehow I found myself obsessively researching and reading and researching and reading and emailing doctors and wanting to try different crazy protocols and injecting and injecting and injecting hormones hormones hormones into my sad, tired belly.

Somehow.

Because I could not see the forest for the trees.

Oh the forest--becoming a mother!--she was gone to me. All I could see were those damned trees.

I speak for myself only here, but there is a lot of shame in all that I did.

I wanted to be a mother.
There are many ways to become a mother.
None are necessarily easy, and no doubt none are better than any other.
Because all that matters in the end--all that ever, ever, ever should matter--is the love you can give to a child.

My forest, my beautiful forest, you were right there the whole time weren't you?

You Ask? I Deliver.

Photos? Did someone say photos, please?

Here you go.

 

 

In their traditional Ethiopian outfits.

My Ethiopian beauty!

 

Brotherly and sisterly love...

Sorry to interrupt the cuteness with sweat, but here I am completing loop one.
I have a weird expression, but what can you do?

And finishing the 31 miles with DH. See the look of relief on our faces?
And yes, I am in different clothes. I was THAT sweaty that I required an outfit change to avoid...
chafing.
The glamour of long-distance running in the humidity.

And to finish, fall cakeballs.
Spicecake.
Carrot cake.
Cream cheese frosting.

Yum.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

 



I'm Here.

I am alive.
I am around.
I am trying to comment and read and follow when I can. I don't know if anyone is still around this space but I promised to never just disappear into the ether so here I am.

I am still sad. While trying to straighten up a neverending pile of papers that looked innocuous enough I came across the notes I had made for the obituary I wrote for my Dad and it nearly took me to my knees.

I ran my 50K race this past weekend. I placed 10th out of 38 females. I wore my Dad's hat pre-race but it was too too hot and humid to wear it while running. I hurt--miles 26-30 were excruciating and no matter how much I wanted to run effortlessly in honor of my father my quadriceps didn't necessarily see things the same way. I sobbed for a minute when I saw the finish line and I could picture my Dad there, cheering for me. God he wanted me to be a runner so much and I know he would have been thrilled to see me run 31 miles.

My Mom met me at the finish line and wrapped me in a towel, probably the same thing she used to do for my Dad when he crossed all of his finish lines. She's doing OK, but I worry about her.

My children are beautiful, but you didn't need me to tell you that. I can't take credit for their beauty so I am allowed to brag incessantly, right? They are almost two years old and I can't keep up with their language and growth. It is an amazing thing to witness.

I have had so many complex emotions lately...I guess we all do...I'm not claiming or pretending to be different from anyone else. I just don't always know how to sort them out. Some days I hurt so much for all the hurt in the world it threatens to take me right under. When does it end? Other days I just go about my day complaining about my ridiculous first world problems and then buy a new chevron striped blanket at Target.

I guess all I can do is shake my head and wonder how the hell I got so, so lucky.

How are you doing?