1st Christmas together!

This Christmas was the first Christmas I’ve had my son with me, and my heart was so full it was about to burst!

He moved in with us back in June.  His adoptive parents had kicked him out, not because they were mean or heartless but because he decided not to hold in how he felt about them and the way they were trying to have a relationship with him – and sometimes, actually most likely, he didn’t hold anything back, which came across to them as hurtful and abusive.

If he’s learned anything over the past few months, my hope is that one of the bigger things to stand out is that most people don’t get a perfect family, or even a perfect family for themselves.  After he’d been here about a month, my brother lost his ever-living mind, drove to my house and beat me up pretty badly – in front of our 91-year-old mother.  The black eye he gave me stayed for 5 months, and the shoulder I landed on when he knocked me out and I hit the floor still bothers me a little.  It’s a long, hard-to-tell story, and I don’t want to waste any more words on my brother or the incident – except to say this: After some time had passed after placing my son in his adoptive parents’ arms, my brother asked me in anguish why I didn’t let him have my baby to raise until I could get it together.  I just looked at him in horror thinking, Are you freaking kidding me?  Thank goodness my son didn’t actually see my brother pounding on me with his fists.  He had his earbuds in and was back in his room.  It was bad enough seeing me all bruised up and crippled in wake of the mess.

After a few months had passed, I told my son, ‘I feel badly that you have had to see me and get to know me at one of the lowest points of my life.’  I completely shut down after that happened.  Before that, we were talking, like really talking and getting to know one another.

I regret that the majority of his time with us has been spent with me checked out then in recovery.  Recovery, in my experience, no matter what one is recovering from, is pretty much always painful and all-consuming.  But he’s still here, and as long as he’s still here there is still time to get to know one another and figure out what kind of family we choose to be to each other.

I asked him if he’d ever carved a turkey.  He had not.  I asked if he’d like to do the honors.  He did.  He did great!  I love so much that I got to share that rite of passage with him.



We met, face to face, yesterday!!  There have been many happy occasions in life since the birth of my son, but nothing quite like the moment of his birth and the reuniting after so many years apart.  No matter the cause of the loss, nothing can fill the hole of a lost child like having that child back in one’s presence once again.  Nothing.  And every happy occasion until that reconnection is established always has the shadow of awareness that a beloved family member is absent.  That never, ever goes away.

It’s a very rare gift indeed to have the possibility of seeing one’s child again after any kind of separation, and an indescribable gift when that possibility becomes a reality.  That is something that many parents do not get, and I do not take that fact lightly or in any way for granted.  My baby is back, and the broken pieces of that part of me are already starting to mend.  It’s beyond astounding and compare!

We spent several hours in each others’ company, starting with lunch and ending with parting company from my mother’s little apartment in her independent living facility.  It was so amazing getting to say to someone, this is my son, (name omitted, for now).  After doing that for the first time, I said to him, ‘I hope that’s okay to say,’ and he said, “It’s the truth.”

His thoughtfulness and maturity stun me – in the best possible way!  I couldn’t be happier and prouder of who he is, not to one little nth of a degree.

The one thing that I have always wanted him to know, from day one of the knowledge of his existence, is that he was absolutely, without any exceptions, wanted.  It has been my biggest source of anguish for the entirety of his life that he would ever, for one moment, have to grapple with that.  I finally got to tell him, and I hope like everything in the entirety of universes that he knows how real that is.  Every moment of every part of my existence since he came to be has been consumed with how real that is for me.

This morning when I woke up, I didn’t feel that empty place, for the first time in over 24 years.  It was next to impossible not to grieve for all of the pain and difficulty he has experienced in his life and for all of the years I missed being there with and for him.  But this grieving is different.  There is at least a sense of wholeness and hope that comes with this kind of grieving.  I have missed him so!!  He’s a grown man, with a full beard, but he will always be my baby, and I simply cannot help that.  Neither can he.  And I really hope that it’s okay for him, and, if it’s not, I hope he gets there someday.

My baby is back!  And he’s okay!  I so want him to be okay!  He handled everything so well.  Everything about everything about yesterday with him amazes me.  I wish that he could see through my eyes how much in awe of him I am.

I could gush on and on… and maybe I will.  Just for now, I’ll leave it here.

Wow.  Just, wow!


Mother, 36, and son, 19, say they’ll do anything to defend their love

I’m going to try very hard to not be dismissively pat and pootyheadedly judgmental about this situation, even though everything within me recoils as I read and think about this.

As a mother who has yet to reunite with my son in person (but we do correspond), I have had ample warning that compelling attraction has been known to happen between reuniting parents and children after being separated by means of adoption. For that matter, it’s not uncommon for sons to fantasize about their moms when they begin experienicng the mysterious phenomena of their budding sexuality. People don’t talk about it much, at all, but it does happen. No shame in it. It’s just biological processes. And often the mom will not ever know, but if it does become apparent, it doesn’t have to even cause a hickup in the relationship. It’s a matter of perspective and how it’s handled. Obviously, it is up to the parent to be the parent if something does become apparent along those lines. I say it’s obvious, but, apparently, it’s not as obvious to this mother as our society, as a rule, would prefer.

The very first thing I thought of when I thought of my own son was how I feel about the thought of my son falling in love. This New Mexico mother is actually taking away that normal process for her son, and, in the process, leaving him wide open to cruel being viciously reviled and bringing legal troubles on him just as he’s starting out on his odyssey into adulthood and learning about living life. I would become absolutely unglued, unhinged, all that, if someone put my son in that position! Just don’t even! To me, her approaching her son to tell him of “these feelings” is just plain selfish and it tells me that something interfered – big time – with her developing a sense of what it is to be a healthy and thriving adult. Something happened. Something got very, very broken and robbed her of the chance to develop and grow in that way. When I think of it in those terms, I can extend a certain, albeit reserved, sense of compassion for her. Something went terribly, terribly wrong with the functionality of her mother compass – not only with how she’s choosing to form a relationship with her firstborn child but also what she’s putting on the other children who were still living with her before the law stepped in. Clearly, she cannot or will not see past her own impulses to consider how it must feel to her other kids for them to find out that she would cast them aside, without hesitation, in order to carry on with this highly inappropriate affair with her son and their brother….all I can really say to thay is: broken mother compass – all over the place!! I can have compassion for her in that too, even if I find her choices to be incredibly wrong and her priorities to be horribly misplaced.

I do understand that a broken mother compass can and does occur when a woman’s baby is taken from her – even of she believes herself to be a willing participant in it in order to make an adoption happen for another family. I’ve seen it, over and over, broken mother compass, broken all over the place. It’s always painful and troubling to witness, but I completely get how and why it happens.

So i think about all that then come back around to the hopes and dreams I have for my own son. There is nothing more wondrous than falling in love – especially for the first time. My son is as deserving as anyone of that experience. It does my heart a world of good to think of that happening for him, and I already love the lucky lady who captures his heart and imagination… just so many things for him to look forward to, so many things my heart loves to think about happening for him, so much of life to be lived. I want every good thing for him – I guess even more than I want to finally see him again, for real, and not just in pictures. And I want that, to see him, pretty much every second, of every minute, of every hour, of every day, more than anything else I have ever wanted in my entire life. But if I wanted it more than I wanted for him to experience life in the usual but unique way that he will, I’d have made that happen by now, fallout be damned. The thing is, his life is just that: his. He gets to decide what and who he wants included in it. It’s the dichotomy that is motherhood, in every form that it takes on: wanting desperately for one’s kids to be with her, like, all the time, while simultaniously rejoicing and feeling her heart swell with such immense pride at seeing them try out their wings and learn to fly.

Then I come back around to Clovis, New Mexico. I do not see that ending well.

the gift that keeps on giving…Mother’s Day edition

Mother’s Day is a day that one either gets to enjoy the fruits of one’s labors or wallow in the misery of one’s failures.  On the path where mother and child were not separated but walked the course together, the wallowing does not come until decades later, usually. For the mother who chose adoption for her child, the failures get to eat away at her the very first year and then every year thereafter, life without end, etc.

Let me start here by saying that I am weary of people telling me to quit being so hard on myself.  This is not me being hard on myself but, rather, the mere facts.  The path I chose sucks for me and will probably pretty much always suck on more levels than is fair, but you know what they say about life being fair, so….

All I can say is that I hope it’s all turned out better for him.

myth busters, keep on debunking!

I don’t always deal with my adoption issues, but when I do “go there” my heart skips with glee when I see things like THIS(!!!):      ↓   ↓

   ↓   ↓   ↓   ↓   ↓   ↓   ↓      ↓   ↓   ↓   ↓   ↓   ↓   ↓      ↓   ↓   ↓

→  →  →   the real myths about birth mothers   ←  ←  ←

↑   ↑   ↑   ↑   ↑   ↑   ↑   ↑   ↑   ↑   ↑   ↑   ↑   ↑   ↑   ↑   ↑   ↑   ↑   ↑

Let the truth breathe, friends…let her breathe and take in the sunlight.  She’s been hidden in the back lower corner of the closet for far too long.

why you don’t see my picture or name – much

I thought I was ready to step out of the adoption closet about a year or so ago.  And I am still out of the closet, sort of.  But then something happened that I’d sort of resigned myself to not seeing happen.  About the time I decided I couldn’t take being in the closet anymore, I’d reached out to my son.  He’d been the legal age to establish contact for 3 years.  When he came of age, the real battle for me began, a war within myself of whether to disrupt the reality that he’d known up to that time and insert myself into his present reality.  I fought arduously with my own conscience about whether or not I had the right to do that or not.  Eventually, it just came down to recognizing that, whether he or anybody else ever acknowledged me as such, I was the parent in the situation, and therefore, the responsibility for establishing whatever relationship was to be was up to me.  I had the history of knowing my child more than he had of knowing me.

So I reached out.  And didn’t hear anything back for months.  It was a long 21 years getting to that point.  It was even longer knowing I was one step closer yet with the possibility I was even farther away from actual contact.  I was facing that he may well choose not to want to know.  And I live with the possibility that at any time he could shut it all down.  And I live in fear of that, if I’m being honest.

Since the moment he walked out of my life by means of his adoptive mother’s arms, having him back was all I ever wanted.  The letters, the pictures that the adoptive parents sent me up to his 18th birthday were my lifeline, the only thing I was really living for, if I’m being honest.  For 18 years I lived, holding my breath from update to update, wondering if they would choose to withdraw from the agreement.

I have not been able to put my finger on why I keep a low profile in my public social media life.  It’s because my son is linked to me there.  That much I do know.  And my adoption closet does not contain just me.  I don’t know how he feels about being adopted.  I don’t know how open he is with his peers about being adopted.  I don’t know if he’s ready to have a face and a name put on his adoption experience.  I don’t know how ready or not ready he is to come out in the open about his own life living with adoption.  And so, out of as much respect for him as I can possibly show for him while, at the same time, fighting for the rights of those with whom adoption will affect in the future, which is something I believe in so strongly my bones actually quake with it, I walk a delicate balance with putting my own face on adoption.  I’m even struggling with the picture on my “About” page.  I want it there because it’s the last place on earth where my life, for once, made sense…my child was with me there, and I was with him, and we were together, in a safe place.  But, again, he is part of my adoption story, and he has a right to his privacy.  Yet it’s my truth…that’s MY baby!  He will always be my baby, my child.  I have not asked him for permission to post our story.  I have not come out of the closet as an activist with him.  I have asked him about so many things, how he’d feel about this and how he’d feel about that.  But I haven’t asked him about this.  I must.  I know it.  But I haven’t.

Before he contacted me, it was just me, needing to come out of my closet and reveal the truth of my experience while I was in my prison of suffering in silence.  But then when he contacted me, it all became real that he has a say in this too.  For some time after he contacted me, I didn’t post much about the current state of adoption because I became aware of the dilemma that I’d been in all along.  Did I have a right to be out of the closet when he may not be a willing participant?  These are the things I now struggle with.  It’s a new set of moral dilemmas I now face.

There are things I was hoping to address with him in person.  As yet, that is not an option.  This is not his fight unless he chooses to make it his fight.  But I don’t get to look him in the eye and tell him who I am, tell him the fighter I’ve become as a result of my own experience with adoption…not yet, anyway.  And so, I walk this tightrope and try to keep this delicate balance with the 2 things that rock my world and quake in my bones the most.

I wish I knew the right answer, but I lost the right answer when I lost him to adoption.  Nothing in my world has ever made sense since.

So what do I do?

why can’t adopted persons access their original birth records?


In most states, original birth certificates are replaced upon the finalization of every adoption.  The original birth information becomes filed away and sealed from all public access, and, according to the laws of the land as they stand now, those records shall remain sealed throughout the remainder of eternity.  Not even an original birth parent and/or the adopted person is allowed to have access of any kind to the original birth information of an adopted child.  That information is re-written into a brand new birth certificate, and the blanks are filled in with new parental information to match the adoptive parents with the newly-adopted baby (who may or may not retain the name recorded on the original birth certificate).  The new birth records are designed to give the appearance that the child was born to the adopting parents, as, after all, they are assuming all of the rights and responsibilities of parenting the child they are adopting as if he or she had been born to them.

This practice was put into place and “perfected” during the period we now call the Baby Scoop Era, which started largely in the early 20th century and became more refined throughout the later part of the century.  During this time period, women who were pregnant and unmarried were whisked away, usually by their families, under the cover of night and sent away to live in homes set up specifically for unwed mothers.  They were usually sent to a home in a different state from where they’d been living when the child was conceived, and the prearranged agreement was that they were to remain there throughout the entirety of their pregnancy then return promptly to their home state after the birth and relinquishment of the baby to the adoption agency and the adopters.  It has been said that these laws concerning the original birth information were put into place to protect the “privacy” of these mothers by effectively doing away with all evidence that they ever gave birth out of, shall we say, less than ideal circumstances.  It was the job of certain “concerned parties” to “counsel” an unwed mother as well as help to facilitate/mediate/carry out the adoption of her gestating child.  Such counseling largely consisted of many reassurances that as soon as her baby was whisked away from her and given to someone else to raise, she would forget all about it and go on to marry, have other children, and lead an otherwise productive life.  It was a sort this kind of, “There, there, dear, don’t you worry yourself about a thing.  We’ll arrange everything.  It’ll be as if this whole messy business had never even happened.  And, besides, since this child will belong to someone else, what would be the point of retaining any evidence that the child was ever yours?”  Of course this, “you’ll forget all about it” thing couldn’t be farther from the truth of the actual experience of most birth mothers.  It is now very well-known and well-documented that women do not forget – ever (unless they are struck with persistent amnesia). This approach was all part of the rationale behind the sealed birth records and a basic component in the history of how it all came to be.

As many advocates now head to their state legislature brances to rally in favor of adoptees’ rights to be granted access to their original birth records, many who oppose the idea use the argument of a birth parents’ right to privacy, citing the archaic Baby Scoop era line of thinking.  As a birth parent myself, I am of the opinion that once I procreate, my genetic information is no longer mine to keep under lock and key.  If I truly want to keep my name out of the mix of someone else’s entry into this world then the answer to that is simple: I refrain from procreating.  If I truly want to keep my genetic information to myself, then I do not contribute it to a newly-forming fetus that, if left to gestate in peace, will become another human being, who is not now and never will be me.  Otherwise, once I’ve participated in the procreation process, then any law that is supposed to protect my so-called privacy has become irrelevant, a moot point.  The right to that privacy was forfeited by the very real and verifiable event of having conceived, gestated, and given birth to a living human being.  For if the natural order of things prevails, my offspring will, in turn, contribute their genetic information – which also happens to include my genetic information – to other human beings, and so the cycle of the continuation of our species carries on.

This is all scientific and actual fact that is irrefutable.  Therefore, my genetic information never was and never will be exclusively mine.  It belonged to plenty of other people long before I was ever conceived.  It will belong to others long after I’m gone.  The rest is just paperwork – which, by the way, happens to be a system put in place, in part, to provide a reference to document the existence of the previous generations for the sake of posterity.  If the genetic information is not mine exclusively (nor does it, by the way, belong to the state), then neither is the accompanying paperwork.  It’s just common sense.

And that is what has gone off the rails with current adoption laws, practices, and procedures in the United States…most all of it defies COMMON M-Fing SENSE!!!

And so, if we have managed to hold onto enough sanity in the lunacy of today’s world to maintain at least some measure of common sense, then we owe it to the generations to come to re-introduce the rare and precious commodity of common sense that’s been lost to the generation of now (for it seems to have become masked by the fog of pink unicorn farts that is now the accepted average, everyday adoption story that baby brokers have so shrewdly been marketing in recent decades).

How much simpler can this @#*&%$!~ing be???  Give people their @#*&%$!~ing birth records, already!!!

nicely – and quickly – done, NPR!

Never have I been so happy to have to eat my words!  And, funny thing: they taste just like chicken!


The adoption community spoke out (the few of us not drunk on the koolaid), and they listened!  They actually listened!

NPR Takes Advice and Features Transracial Adult Adoptee

In a world where people generally don’t want to hear what we have to say, you listened anyway.  Thank you, National Pubic Radio!  Well done!

i had a plan. it stank. still stinks

As I’m sure my earlier post intimated, I am having a hard time right now.  There’s no trigger.  There’s nothing wrong in my world.  I’m in a good place in my marriage and even spiritually, I feel.  Just for the past few weeks, in spite of it all, I have had ongoing sadness and an ongoing longing for a history with my son that could lead to a present with him.  Whether it is appropriate or whether it is not is not the issue here.  I just want to, for once, be honest about it.

Even though there is need for serious reform in adoption and adoption practices, I have no wish, at this time, to crusade for it.

There is not a bad guy in my adoption story, and I have no need to blame anyone – not even myself as I’ve really just reached an exhausted end with even blaming myself.

For once, I just want to be what I am, and what I am is sad about losing my son and losing out on his childhood.  I don’t ever, even for one moment, feel that I have the right to ask or even know what is going on in my son’s life…I signed all that away.  I forfeited it.  So I go on, day after day, not asking and, therefore, not knowing.  And that just sickens me and saddens me more than my body and soul is able to even deal with.

I’m not depressed.  I’ve been depressed, so I know what depression is.  I know what mild depression is, and I know what profound depression is.  I know what to do to manage what happens to my serotonin levels this time of year, and I’m doing all the right things.

I’m just sad beyond words that I did what I did.  There is nothing else I can say.  I never could have admitted that until a year or so ago as I didn’t think I had a right to even that.  It doesn’t matter whether I’ve a right to it.  I have it.  I have the regret.  I have the sadness.  I miss my son, every day.  I miss the childhood I missed.  I miss where it would have led us to today had I just not tried to fix something that didn’t need fixing.

I will say this: I was a pregnant woman.  Why I couldn’t just allow myself to be that, for even just one day, I cannot say.  I realized a few months back that I never even let myself have a day to just be a pregnant woman, a woman with a baby on the way.  I had to, for whatever crazy reason I had going on in my head, be the woman with the plan and stay focused on that plan, without deviation, completely blinding myself to the beautiful thing that was happening inside me: a baby was living and growing…in me…my baby.  But I wouldn’t let myself think about that.  I wouldn’t let myself hear the truth.  And let me say, too (and if foul language is offensive to you, then please be advised that I am about to use it here and now), it was a shitty plan, and it’s been shitting on me since the day I followed through with it.  My adoption plan was the shitty “gift” that keeps on shitting on me, and shitting on me, and shitting, and shitting, and shitting again.  And it’s shitty.

I guess I wasn’t through blaming myself, after all…And did I say shitty?