Thursday, March 24, 2011

Damn Straight


This is something I did not expect. While I am a true Florida Gator fan, I am also a realist. In my bracket, I had BYU beating Florida and passing on all the way to my final 8. I do not care for BYU, but like I said, I am a realist. Needless to say, I am ECSTATIC right now.

FLORIDA WON!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Oh it is great to be a Florida Gator :)


So recently I've been watching the show Dexter. Its characters are pretty f’d up. Anyway, the main character is a serial killer who just so happens to have been adopted from foster care.
In an episode I just watched (season 1 episode 9) Dexter receives an envelope through certified mail. Turns out, some guy has died and has listed Dexter as his son (and heir). Problem is, Dexter’s dad supposedly died decades ago, at least that’s what his foster dad told him. He goes to check things out and ends up having a DNA test done to prove once and for all if the man truly was his father (the guy hadn’t been buried yet, obviously. Oh, and the test was positive). His foster/adoptive sister finds out about it, and she FREAKS OUT. She goes on and on about how this guy (Dexter’s bio dad) isn’t even family and the fact that Dexter had the test done means that Dexter doubted their father and that Dexter, for some reason, cares about this man (his bio father) and that he shouldn’t care about him or try to find out anything about him. By trying to find out more about his biological father, Dexter, in her eyes, is betraying their family.
What a very real scenario (well, aside from the whole secret serial killer part). Too often an adoptee is discouraged and down right forbidden from seeking out their birth family. Even if they are only looking for information and not a relationship, quite often, their adoptive family feels threatened by it. While I can come up with a few possible reasons as to why this might be, none of them are very reasonable. They all seem to center on the personal feelings, doubts, and fears of the adoptive family- not what may or may not be best for the adoptee, or what the adoptee may desire.
It is completely normal for someone to ponder their roots, their origin. If it weren’t, we wouldn’t have shows like “Who Do You Think You Are?” or websites like We wouldn’t have school projects that involve making a family tree, and we  wouldn’t have to fill in the bubble next to our appropriate race when filling out a census or completing a standardized test. But the reality is that we do in fact do these things, because we all wonder about our family history. Why? Because it’s normal, and it matters. I mean dang, I wonder what my dog is mixed with, I couldn't imagine not knowing the history of my child.
So why is it such a horrible thing for an adoptee to seek out their origins? Can some one PLEASE give me just two GOOD reasons as to why this is a horrible thing- Two reasons that are centered on the adoptee and not the adoptive or birth families? Can anyone come up with two reasons? I sure as hell can’t, but I’d love to hear your reasons, if you’ve got any J

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Never Good Enough

You know some thing I am starting to hate? That line, “My baby deserves so much more than I can give him/her.” I can understand that line and the thinking that goes along with it. I understand that when you are young/uneducated/unmarried/poor/in an abusive situation/etc, you want your child to have better than you can give them. It’s natural to desire the best in everything for your child.
This line of thinking is often one of the leading forces behind a woman (and man) surrendering their child for adoption. We tell ourselves (and are told by others) that we are not good enough, that the life we can give them isn’t good enough. After relinquishing, people try to comfort us by saying things like, “He has a better life now. You did what was right. He has everything he could ever want or need.” And eventually we try to comfort ourselves with the same words, telling ourselves over and over that we did the “right” thing until we start believing it.
You don’t realize it right away, but those “comforting” words really screw you up psychologically. They sow the seeds of worthlessness deep into your soul, so that when you do have children that you parent, you struggle with the belief that you are not good enough for them. For the 3-4 weeks I parented William, I struggled constantly with feelings that I wasn’t enough. When ever I took him out in public, I had the fear that everyone around me was judging me. I felt like everyone was thinking the same thing, “That girl has no idea what she is doing. She is a horrible mother. She doesn’t even deserve the title of Mother.” Of course I know that none of those things are true. I knew very well what I was doing, and I handled the demands of parenting like a pro. I wasn’t a horrible mother at all. Even though I knew all of this, I still struggled with feelings of worthlessness. For so long I had not been “enough” for my children, how could I possibly be enough now?
Even now I struggle with these feelings. I know for a fact that if I wanted to go pick up William and take him some where by myself, I could. Yet I am terrified that if I do, something will happen that I can not handle on my own. I know this is ludicrous, because I know exactly what I am doing. I have a sh*t ton of experience with children. In addition to parenting William on my own, there’s baby sitting my 9 month old niece, volunteering with a preschool, countless baby sitting jobs, working in the church nursery, working in a day camp for young children, and being the sole caretaker of my foster nephew when he was 1-2 years old. I am completely comfortable in caring for children. Yet when it comes to Robbie and William, my own flesh and blood, I fear that I am not capable enough to care for them.
How screwed up is that? 

Can't Let Go

Ever been surrounded by a ton of people, yet still be completely alone?
That’s how it was for me during my hospital stay with William. Every day we were in the hospital our room was crowded with R’s family members (and his b*tch). I was surrounded by this big group of people that I didn’t want to have anything to do with. I had no privacy, I wasn’t able to get any rest, and I was constantly stressed. Ever try breast feeding/working with a lactation consultant with a big a$$ group of people in the room? Yeah, not fun.
M was able to come visit once, my mom was only able to come visit in the evenings due to her work schedule, her boyfriend (who will be my stepfather eventually) was sick with the flu and therefore couldn’t come visit at all, my brother was busy with his work and family, and my sister didn’t yet know. I had no support system.
I suppose that might be part of the reason I had H and K visit so much. They were the only people who could come on a regular basis who actually supported ME. They didn’t talk shit to me or about me, they didn’t bring unwanted guests, they didn’t over stay their welcome (actually, they didn’t stay as long as I would have liked. They wanted Will and I to have time alone, which I love, but I wasn’t really getting much alone time with him), and they left me with a smile on my face instead of a need for more Tylenol.
I wish I could look back on our time in the hospital with nothing but fond memories, but I can’t. Every time I think about it I get a huge stress headache and I become so incensed with the treatment I received from R and his family that I just want to PUNCH A FREAKING WALL! (Or R, his mother, and his b*tch. Any or all three would suffice, plus I wouldn’t have to fix the dry wall. Hmm…). They completely ruined that time for me; that special time when a mother and child bond and get to know each other. They ruined it, and I don’t think that is something I will ever be able to get over. I don’t think I will ever be able to let it go and forgive them for it. Not anytime soon. 

Thursday, March 17, 2011

You must have been a beautiful baby....

The hospital at which I delivered William had a photographer come around and do the baby's first photos. However, instead of just holding the camera above the baby's head and snapping a few photos (like they did where I delivered Robbie), this hospital actually did a whole little photo shoot. H and I went 50-50 and ordered the CD with all of the photos so that we could upload them online and print as many as we like. The pictures turned out so beautifully, I had to post a few of my favorites! 

Wednesday, March 16, 2011


Back when my mother first found out I was pregnant with William (only a few weeks before he was born), she forbid me from telling my younger sister for fear that she would tell everyone else. I did not agree with this, but I went along with it anyway. I absolutely hated that she did not know. I hate that she missed out on the day he was born, the few weeks that I parented him, and the visits since. It’s been eating at me the entire time.
The other day, I took her with me to see Robbie and his family. It’s about an hour long drive, and since it was just the two of us, I decided to tell her. I told her everything; the surprise pregnancy, the drama with R and his family, that I placed with H & K, and how I had been able to parent him for a little while. She took it pretty well, but she did something that completely surprised me.
She cried.
Through her tears she told me, “I’ve never said anything about this before because I just feel so selfish saying it, but it hurts me too. I just feel so badly, because these are my nephews, and I’m not even a part of their life. I am supposed to be their aunt, and I never see them. And even worse, I feel like it’s not even my place (to be involved).”
Hearing her say this was like a knife to the heart. I know that the adoptions have affected everyone in my family (well, those who know about them). I know that everyone has had to deal with the loss. It’s just that no one has ever admitted it to me until now….
Of course, I felt horrible. I apologized to her for not involving her sooner with William, and that she could see him as often as she liked and that she would be his “Aunt C”, if that’s what she would like to be called. I also apologized for letting so much time go by without her seeing Robbie (it’s been several months). You get so busy and you always think, “Oh I can set something up for my family next month.” And before you know it six months has passed and you still haven’t done it. And most importantly, I told her that it IS her place to be involved in their lives, and from now on I (and my baby mamas) wanted her to be completely involved.
We had a wonderful visit with Robbie and his family, and when we got home that night she and I sat down together and went through every single picture I have of William (hundreds of them!), and I told her everything about him; from his slight heart murmur (and how he should grow out of it in the next six months) to how he has been holding up his head on his own from day 1. She is so excited to meet him and his family! She has been so supportive about all of this, and I am so grateful to her for being there for me when I need her to be. Sure, we might not always get along. Some times we argue, some times we throw punches (literally), but I know she always has my back. So here’s to my awesome little sister- Thank you for always being there and supporting me, and I promise to always include you in the lives of my boys from this day forward. I love you!

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Live Like You Were Dying

Back in the fall of 2006, I started feeling tired all of the time. I had headaches, pain in my back and neck, and my nose would randomly bleed. I didn’t think a whole lot about it. I have an electrolyte imbalance, so if I don’t regularly drink Gatorade or Powerade, or take some kind of electrolyte supplement, I get tired very easily. I had mild scoliosis as a child that, with the exception of a slight curvature in my neck, we had pretty much resolved with horseback ridding. So we attributed the headaches and back and neck pain to the curvature in my neck. After discussing things with the doctors, we decided to move forward with physical therapy in attempts to straighten out my spine. They took a few X-rays and did an MRI to determine just how curved my spine was, but they saw something on the MRI that caused them to send me in for a bone scan.  The scan it’s self was pretty cool. They injected a hot pink radioactive dye into my arm and my mother and I went to lunch (it takes a while for it to spread through your body and seep into your bones. An hour, maybe more? I can no longer remember). A week or two after the scan, I had a crazy dream. I was in a room, and there was a doctor directly in front of me. He looked at me and said, “You have bone cancer.” And that was all. I awoke to my mother telling me the doctors had called- they found something on my right scapula (Well what the heck is a scapula? Apparently, it’s your shoulder blade!). 
We went to a doctor at Emory, where we did more X-rays, a CT Scan, etc. After all of this was done, the doctor confirmed it- I had a tumor. I remember him going over the images from the MRI with us, he kept saying, “I’ve never seen anything like this. This is crazy. I’ve never seen anything like this.” Let me tell you, hearing that made me feel GREAT! Haha! We scheduled for another MRI and a biopsy to be done the week after Christmas. If the tumor turned out to be cancerous, they would remove as much of it as possible and start chemo two weeks later- right before my 16th birthday.
The next few weeks I tried to live my life as normally as possible. I tried to ignore the probability of me having bone cancer, but it seemed as though that’s all anyone else ever thought about. Every time I turned around, some one wanted to pray about it or talk about it (the awkward silences every time I entered a room, along with the sympathetic stares, were the worst). Don’t get me wrong, I love that everyone was so supportive, but I was still in denial. I wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening.
Back then there was a Tim McGraw song that had recently come out and was VERY popular. They played it allll the time. “Live Like You Were Dying” was the title, and it talks about a guy who is diagnosed with cancer (or at least we are led to believe it’s cancer with the line "I spent most of the next days, Looking at the x-rays, An' talking 'bout the options an' talkin’ ‘bout sweet time.") and how he decides to do all of the things he’d always wanted to do, as well as live his life better (“I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter, And I gave forgiveness I'd been denying”). It’s a great song, however, it was just a little too personal for me at the time. That song was the absolute last song on earth that I wanted to hear. My mom on the other hand LOVED it, and every time it came on (which was All. The. Time.) she would crank it up and sing to it at the top of her lungs. I suppose to her the song represented hope, as the guy survived to live a nice long life. To me it was just a painful reminder that I was probably dying.
My cousins came to town for Christmas break, and their company helped to lift my spirits. I had a blast hanging out with them, and my health seemed to improve dramatically. I hadn’t had a nose bleed or a headache in a couple of weeks, and I actually had energy! I didn’t think much of it; I just figured my cousins were a good distraction from everything going on.
A few days after Christmas, I went back for my 2nd MRI. This time my aunt and siblings accompanied my mother and me to the doctors for support. After waiting forever for the doctor to look over the images from the MRI, he finally came in the room and sat down in front of me. He was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “We’ve gone over the images several times. We can’t find anything. The tumor is gone.” My aunt just about fell out of her seat! “You mean it’s just gone?!” She exclaimed. “Yes. So far, we can not find anything. It’s a….. a miracle.”  He said, with the last part barely audible. We did another CT scan and more X-rays, just in case, but it was not there. There wasn’t a single tumor to be found in my entire body. I remember running out to the waiting room and hugging my brother and sister, crying out “It’s gone! It’s gone!” with tears of joy and relief streaming down my face.
A few weeks later, I celebrated my sweet 16 and landed my first job at Six Flags, where I met R and, well, you know the rest. I haven’t made the best decisions in the four years since then, but I’m doing better. I haven’t lived life the way I wanted to, and I’m changing that. God gave me a second chance, and so far I haven’t done much with it but mess up. So from now on I’m going to take full advantage of that second chance; I am going to live like I am dying

And I think I'll sing this song while doing it

Friday, March 4, 2011

Omg, shoes!

During my break from work the other day, I went to one of Atlanta’s landmark shoe stores, Walters.

They were having an awesome sale on kid’s shoes, so I got Robbie these

I have a slight obsession with Polo shoes for little kids. One pair of these usually starts at $40. I got both for $35, total! It seems a bit silly because I don’t even spend that much on my own shoes and I know he’ll grow out of them relatively quickly, but I just couldn’t help my self! I mean really, aren’t they just adorable? I can not WAIT to see him wear them! 

Wednesday, March 2, 2011


There have been quite a few blog posts lately that involve first moms saying something along the lines of “I know my birth child was meant for them (the AParents)” or “I know I was placed on this earth to bring them their child.” Every time I read something like this I roll my eyes, shake my head, and say “Seriously? What the $@#&.”  
Here’s how I feel about that.
Do I think my children were “meant” to be raised by their perspective adoptive parents? No, I do not. Not one little bit. Why would I? If God meant for my children to belong to their adoptive parents, then their adoptive mothers would have become pregnant with them, carried them for 9 months (it’s really closer to 10), and then given birth to them (Duh!). Obviously, it didn’t happen that way. God meant for ME to have those children, that’s why I became pregnant with them. God did not place me on this earth to bring some one else a child- I’m not a freaking incubator. It was not God’s plan for me to have premarital sex, get knocked up, and then give some one else my child and suffer life long grief from doing so. Just like it is not God’s plan for couples to experience infertility/sterility. Unfortunately, we live in an imperfect, sin-filled world, so these things happen. Sin is never a good thing; however, God can make something good out of it.
For instance, even though it was not God’s doing that Robbie’s adoptive parents were infertile or I engaged in premarital sex, He still made something good out of it. He brought us together, and we have helped each other out. I have given them a child, and they have given my child a life I could not give him on my own.

 Disagree with me? Read the bible. God does NOT instigate sin.
 Here are just a few examples....

Jeremiah 29:11 
"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

Romans 8:28
“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”

So there you have it. God does not plan for bad things to happen to us. Instead, when these things happen, He provides a way to make it better. Adoption is not a part of His plan, no matter what your church might tell you to think. It can be used by Him for good, but adoption is NOT how He intends families to be made. To those of you adoptive parents that disagree with this, meaning you believe “your” child was “meant” for you…. All I have to say to you is this; what in the world gives you such a feeling of entitlement? How in the world can you feel so entitled to some one else’s own flesh and blood? How dare you feel entitled to some one else’s child? Nothing gives you a right to another’s child, nothing.

"I love adoption! Giving my baby away was my ENTIRE purpose in life!"
I mean really guys, REALLY? Get real.  


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