You don’t care, right? You’re a big girl. You’re rubber; we’re glue, blah blah blah.
But here’s the bit that you overlooked.
Your daughter.
Who, if she’s anything like my kids were, is probably pretty darn internet savvy. And if she’s not, chances are, one of her friends is.
I made a little post a while back about
kids and ego surfing. Kids not only ego surf themselves, they surf their friends names too. Just out of idle curiosity, sometimes out of less than idol curiosity.
Way to go.
I don’t know your daughter, so I can’t speak for her. All I can speak is for me, and how I felt about my adoptive mom. I spent a lot of time being pissed at my adoptive mom at Willow’s age. Sometimes justified, sometimes not so justified.
But here’s the rub: no matter what I said about her, no one else could. If anyone said anything about her, my defenses were up. In spite of arguing, I loved her. And I also tried my hardest to identify with her, to the point of over-identifying with her, because that’s what some adoptive kids do. So if someone said boo about my adoptive mom, it hurt, it hurt so bad. Even if someone said boo about my adoptive mom about something that she said or did that was wrong.
My mom sometimes said things about adoption that hurt me. I wouldn’t call her on it. I’d act out in other passive aggressive ways, I might have saved it up and thrown out a "not my real mom" comment to her a few weeks down the road, but to expose the rawest, most vulnerable part of myself, even if I didn’t have the words to know what that even meant, would have been forbidden. And I wasn’t supposed to hurt at the things she said. If she said something, and I reacted in any way other than the way she thought I was supposed to react, then I was the one who was wrong. So I learned to react the way she expected me to.
Why? Because I loved her.
So someday, maybe it’s already happened, maybe it will happen tomorrow, or next month, or next year, Willow will read all this, and will hurt. Because you’re one of her moms, and people are calling you an asshole.
I spend a lot of time looking through old newspaper archives of the ‘60s and ‘70s. And I can say now, as a 44 year old woman, if I came across an article written by my adoptive mom saying something half as assholeish as the statement you made, and then came across oodles of letters to the editor saying my mom was a complete and total moron, it would still hurt me. Even if she wrote something outrageous. Even if I agreed 100% with what every letter to the editor said – it would tear at my heart.
Why? Because I love her. And to her face I might just defend her and dismiss her critics, while hating myself for lying.
Validating her feelings on adoption was very high on my list of priorities, even when I acted to the contrary.
Yeah even now, I’m ashamed to say, I might just lie to her and not tell her my true feelings. My feelings aren’t her feelings, and therefore they are wrong.
One of the many gifts of adoption.
So you and the New York Times can go ahead and
and refuse to publish the comments of adult adoptees. We’re used to it, especially with the condescending attitude of upper class liberals who smile when they stab us in the back, or tell us to get a sense of humor. God we’re so sensitive, can’t we take a joke?
Here are some jokes:
How many New York adopter assholes does it take to screw over their daughter for the sake of their ego and career?
Why did the clueless entitled white woman who grew up in a family of her own race, knowing her own culture and roots, cross the road?
Knock knock
Who's there?
Hero rescuer adopter in search of non-fetal-alcohol-at-risk babyHero rescuer adopter in search of non-fetal-alcohol-at-risk baby who?
I don’t have a punch line though. But that’s OK; maybe you can make one up at the expense of your daughter and her country. That’s what real moms do, right?