Revenge of the Meanies

I don't usually write this sort of thing because I hate drama. I hate drama and I inherently shrink away from people who perpetuate it by giving it attention. But I want to address something that has recently become an issue for me. I'm going to address it and then I'm going to leave it be because I don't want this to be the sort of blog that's all whining or drama or negativity.

I just deleted the nastiest, vilest, most hate-filled comment I have ever received. I am trying not to cry right now. Never in a million years would I have believed that anyone would say something so horrible, so evil to me.

The person who left this comment can't possibly have thought I'd actually publish the horrible things she said to me. I've made my opinions on meanies quite clear. So I can only assume that her purpose in leaving the comment was to hurt me.

Well, jerkface, mission accomplished. You hurt me. You almost made me cry. You made me feel like total crap. Why? Why did you do that? Why say such horrible things to me? You don't even know me! Clearly, you think I am a horrible, evil person and that adoption is an abomination. I get that. Then why read my blog? Why bother? You've insulted me. To what end?

I want to make something abundantly clear: I LOVE adoption. I do! And I chose adoption because of love. Love love love. There is NOTHING in heaven or earth that anyone can say or do to change my mind. No amount of vile filth, anger, or nastiness that is flung my way is ever going to change that. If you want to be a rage-filled hatemonger, go right ahead. But that kind of abominable cruelty has no place on my blog. I'm not going to publish it and I'm not even going to mention specifics because I'm not going to promote that kind of attitude or behavior.

I'm not going to stoop to that level of anger. I'm just going to say this: If you are a meanie, leave me and my blog alone. Please. I'm asking you nicely. If you can't play nice, if you're only going to spew hatred, go elsewhere. Please. Please go away.


And now I'll return you to your regularly scheduled, mostly-optimistic blogging.

"Quick Niles, pull up the ladder, she's found our clubhouse!"

Last night I thought of that quote from the TV show Frasier. It felt appropriate, given the circumstances.

I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later. I've had this blog for nearly a year now. I should be surprised it didn't happen sooner. But it didn't happen sooner, and I was lulled into a false sense of security. I felt like my blog was one of the last safe little corners of the Internet.

But last night, it happened - the meanies found my clubhouse. And they had a lot to say. Thank goodness for comment moderation!

So far, I have published only one of the comments I got - the commenter disagreed very agreeably, which I appreciate. I have no problem with that sort of not-so-mean meanie. But the others weren't as nice. For some reason, I can't bring myself to delete their comments on my moderation page. I can't read them all the way through - I feel angry and sick halfway through - and yet I can't bring myself to delete them. I could publish then, I suppose, and leave follow-up comments trying to refute their nastiness and explain my position. But I've seen that done on other blogs, and it never works. The angrier a person is, the less likely they are to react with anything other than more anger.

I understand that. I understand the psychology of that kind of behavior, anyway. And I know that there are meanies out there (I've discussed them at length on this very blog), and that for many women, many years ago, adoption was a bad thing.

I know all that, but that doesn't mean I want any of it anywhere near my blog. There's enough anger and bile and filth out there (I'm looking at you, Ms. I'm-going-to-liberally-sprinkle-every-comment-with-the-F-word). I can't stop any of that. But I'm sure as heck not going to give it so much as a pixel on my blog. I'm not going to entertain or encourage or even try to understand that kind of rage and hatred. It has no place here. None.

The invasion of the meanies brought to the front of my mind something that's been floating around for a while now - what is the purpose of this blog?

When I started it last year, I wrote it for P and M and for Roo when she gets bigger and can read and understand. And I wrote it for me, so I'd have a record of this significant time in my life. It honestly never occurred to me that anyone else would want to read it. My mother, maybe. Close friends, if I ever made any. Family, perhaps. But I didn't write it for any of them. It wasn't their blog. It was Roo's.

My, how things have changed! I had 89 followers when I checked this morning, and thanks to Google Analytics I know that I have plenty of regular readers beyond those who follow. It's kind of amazing. And overwhelming. And sometimes creepy and weird. I've had moments of, "Who are all you people and why are you reading my blog?"

When I first started to get blog followers, I panicked. I considered making my blog private. But I also got these amazing, kind, meaningful e-mails from people who were touched by my story and who thanked me for being willing to share. So I kept my blog public.

But as time passes, and I tell more and more, I still question that decision. I've seen people on other adoption blogs gloss over parts of their stories because they (rightly) feel that the stories have almost a sacred quality, and they don't want to cheapen them or tell them to just anyone. And I think, am I doing that? Have I cheapened Roo's beautiful story by sharing too much? Do I share too much?

I think, maybe I should stop with the story parts. Maybe I should make it not about Roo at all and more about me and things after placement. Maybe I should start a new, private blog for the Roo stuff so I can keep it special, just for her. And I have, but I worry that maybe the damage, if that's the right word, has been done. I think I'll always worry that I've said too much, things I can't take back.

Blah. My brain is a jumble of this sort of thought at the moment. I wish the jumble would settle a bit so I could sift through the rubble and try to arrive at some sort of decision or conclusion. My mother told me that my blog is important, that it has helped people and changed their minds and hearts, and that Roo will appreciate it when she's older. I'm not sure what I think.

What I do know is I don't want meanies hanging around here. I'm not saying that adoption is absolutely always a wonderful thing. But this blog isn't just about any old adoption. It is about Roo's adoption, which was a wonderful thing. Call it denial or stupidity on my part if you want, but I'd rather not hear about adoptions gone wrong. I'd rather not know why the meanies are meanies. Knowing why they're angry isn't going to make me a better, happier person. It's not going to change how I feel about the adoptions closest to my heart. I'd rather just stay away.

And I'd rather they stayed away from me, too. Nothing and no one in this world will ever convince me that placing Roo wasn't the best thing I could have done for her. Nope, sorry. No talking me out of that one. And this blog is still, at heart, a blog for Roo. So there.

So consider this my official notice. I'm posting a sign outside my treehouse. No meanies allowed! I'm not going to share or spread your anger, and I'm not going to change my mind. Play nice here or find a meanie treehouse to play in.

I'm Sure I'll Rant About This Later ...

... As a matter of fact, I know I will. But I just want to say this now, while the thought is fresh in my mind.

Having a baby out of wedlock doesn't make a woman a horrible, evil person. It just means she's made some mistakes. It doesn't mean she should be treated like crap. It doesn't mean you're better than she is just because you've never made those mistakes. Those mistakes aren't your business. They're between her and God, and they're not for you to judge.

Jesus said to love everyone. He didn't say to love only perfect people. If you read the scriptures you'll notice that He spent His time with the sick and the afflicted - with the sinners and the lepers. He wasn't mean to them. He treated them kindly, He taught them to be better, and He loved them.

So if you want to judge me and treat me rudely, fine. Just don't do it under the guise of Christianity. We both know better than that.

June 2009, Part Two

When I was a preschooler, my mom’s sister had a baby. I was excited, because I loved my baby dolls. My favorite was a bald little Cabbage Patch baby whose plastic head bore the odd scratch and streak of marker that most of my belongings had. It’s been something like twenty-three years now, but I still remember how excited I was when my aunt gave me one of her baby’s diapers to use for my Cabbage Patch baby. A real diaper! It was too big for the doll, but it was still smaller than the last diapers I’d seen (which would be my own diapers from a few years before). That real diaper is still on that Cabbage Patch baby, packed away in a box in the garage.

That diaper was nothing compared to the newborn–size Pampers I’d bought for my baby. They were the absolute tiniest diapers I’d ever seen. I can’t count how many times I’d pick one up and squeal over how tiny it was, and get excited for the tiny little person the diapers were for. Pregnancy was fun that way - I got excited about things like diapers.

The nice thing about my crazy hormones was that if I was feeling depressed, I just had to wait it out. Sure enough, I’d be feeling something else soon. Depression this month gave way to an excited nervousness. I couldn’t wait to meet my little girl.

From my journal: “I can't believe I'm going to be a mommy to a tiny new person. I know you will be a LOT of work but you will so be worth it! I love you so much already. I can't wait to see your squishy little newborn face and count your fingers and toes (even though I know they're all good from the ultrasound). I just know you will be the cutest, smartest and cleverest baby in the world, ever. I'm going to be an unbearable braggart. I can't wait to have you to brag about.”

One night my mother and I were in the living room, talking about things, and I was getting uncomfortable so I shifted to my side to relieve the pain. Something felt amiss but it took me a few minutes to realize what it was: my baby wasn’t wiggling. She ALWAYS wiggled when I was on my side. I panicked. I spent the next hour rubbing and patting my belly, crying and praying, desperate for a flutter or a foot in the ribs. I got half a hiccup.

I drank some OJ. Baby Girl loved OJ and usually did a happy dance when I had some. Nothing. I pulled the stethoscope out of my mom’s first aid things and searched for a heartbeat but I was so nervous that all I could hear was the frantic pounding of my own heart. Then, finally, after what felt like an eternity, I felt a little outward push.

I calmed a bit, but even though the perceived danger had passed, I had a new fear. My pregnancy had been healthy and uneventful thus far and I hadn’t had to worry about that – my baby was safe and warm and happy in her watery home. Now I didn’t have that assurance. I felt helpless. Something could have been wrong and I couldn’t have done anything! I was glad I was due soon. The last thing I needed was something new to panic about.

I bought a crib and mattress on sale. I was relieved to know that I finally had everything I needed for a baby. But I was a bit nervous at the prospect of being the only one to care for my baby. I didn’t know what I was doing! I’m the youngest in my family and my experience with babies was limited to my nieces and nephews. When they cried or fussed or needed new diapers I just passed them on to their parents.

I wondered for the millionth time if keeping my baby was a selfish choice. Was it wrong to raise my little girl without a father? I hoped not. I hoped that I could find a good man soon to be her daddy. I continued to go to church every week, even as my belly got more and more conspicuous. My baby seemed to like church. She wiggled happily throughout. I’d grown accustomed to people staring at my belly and then pretending they didn’t see me. I didn’t care. God had been there for me when no one else had, and I knew I wanted my little girl to grow up going to church and learning how much her Father in Heaven loves her.

I had a little panic in church on Father’s Day, though. This was a whole new can of worms I hadn’t even thought of yet. My little girl was going to feel so left out when all the other kids got up on Father’s Day to sing to their daddies. She would have no one to sing to. She would wonder why the other kids had dads and she didn’t. What if the other kids made fun of her? Made her cry? I couldn’t bear the thought. I pushed it aside. Something could always be worked out, I thought. I just didn’t know what.

Name Calling

I have made an effort to whine less and help more on this blog. Whether I've been successful is anyone's guess, because a lot of my little rants are actually whines in disguise aren't they (cold risotto, anyone)? But I hope that my whiny rants skew towards education rather than irritation. And on that note, here's another :-)

One of the first things I noticed when I encountered adoption meanies on the interwebs was that many of the birth mom meanies consider the phrase "birth mom" to be the vilest of insults. One compared using it to using the N-word. And I thought, wow, really? Because I've never heard "birth mom" used as a put-down, an slam, an insult, a verbal weapon, or a dressing-down. Maybe that's just me and my sheltered little life of hot risotto (sorry, I really liked my cold risotto analogy and I'm probably going to use it to death here). Maybe there are circles of people and places in the world where if you want to deal someone a terrible blow, you call her a birth mother.

But I've never felt that way. You may have noticed that I refer to myself and others like me as birth moms. I certainly don't take offense to it and you can be sure that I don't mean it to offend anyone else. I think that a birth mother is a great thing to be!

The meanies feel that calling a woman a birth mother is insulting, akin to referring to her as an incubator or a breeder. Again I think, really? The only names that would suggest to me that a woman was an incubator or a breeder are ... well, incubator, and breeder.

The meanies would much rather be referred to as natural mothers, first mothers, or original mothers. All three of those make me a little uncomfortable. Because if I'm Roo's natural, first, original mother, what does that make Roo's mama? Unnatural? Second? Unoriginal - an impostor? Pshaw. I don't buy that for a second. Roo's mother is her real, natural, actual mother. I didn't place with a robot or a cardboard cutout.

Why is it that all of these so-called less offensive names for birth moms are inherently offensive to the parents of an adopted child? Can't we be friends, people? Can't we all have nice names? Does one person really have to demand to be called something that makes them look like the better person? I realize I'm speaking from the non-smoking section of the restaurant here, but I don't know a single adoptive mom or dad who feels like they're superior to their child's birth mom. The adoptive parents I know love and respect their children's birth moms. Doesn't that deserve love and respect in turn, rather than being called or thought of as second-best, unnatural or fake?

I'm in a different situation than a lot of birth moms, too, because I single parented for nine weeks. I think that in my situation, I certainly could make the case for being Roo's original mother, or first mother.

But I don't, and I never will. If it was that important to me to be seen as Roo's mother - to BE her mother, I wouldn't have placed her. As I've said before, Roo's parents are her parents, no qualifiers or modifiers or any other kind of adjective necessary.

Again, the meanies would object. That's not fair! Why is it that I, a quote-unquote first mother, am the one who gets an adjective and the adoptive parents get to be just plain Mom and Dad? Easy. I'm the one who placed a child for adoption. They're the ones who parent that child. It makes much more sense to me for me to be the one with an explanation attached.

But there's another difference there. The meanies never refer to placing a child for adoption. They say they "lost a child to adoption." What a horrible attitude! I certainly didn't lose Roo. I know exactly where she is. She and I both gained so much from placement! Loss is the last word I'd pin on her adoption.

I'm doing my short-story-long thing again, and I apologize. The point I want to make today, I suppose, is simply this: I am a birth mother, and I'm perfectly happy being called just that.

"Aparent"-ly

I get some interesting questions in my e-mail and I've decided to answer some of them here on my blog.

Here's one I got a few weeks ago. It was a bit meandering, so I've paraphrased.

What do you call Roo's parents? I have seen in some birthmom blogs their birth child's parents are called the adoptive parents or Aparents. Do you use either of those? I have not noticed it on your blog and I wondered how you feel about it.

You haven't noticed it on my blog because I refuse to add modifiers or qualifiers. P and M are Roo's parents, plain and simple. I call them by their names. I hate cutesy terms like Aparents. If others want to use them, that's fine, I won't judge, but I think, Roo isn't ever going to call P and M her "Aparents" so why should I? To her, they'll be Mama and Dada, Mommy and Daddy, Mom and Dad. They ARE her mom and dad. So I refer to them as her mom and dad. I don't see a need in speaking or writing to specify with an adjective that they adopted her. I'm not her mother, I'm her birth mother. So if I'm ever talking about her parents, I'm sure not talking about myself! (And I am sure as heck not talking about H, either.)

I hope that makes sense. I feel like I used a lot more words than I needed to.

I did get asked once what Roo will call her parents as she grows up. To which I can only say to the asker, what did you call your parents as you grew up? I'm betting you didn't call them Biological Mom and Biological Dad. They were just plain Mom and Dad, right? Or Mother and Father, if you grew up in that kind of family. Why would Roo call her parents anything different?

I love answering questions, even stupid ones. E-mail me at thehappiestsad AT gmail DOT com, or use the little Formspring box in my sidebar.