Wednesday, January 31, 2007

Adoption Poems Make Me Ungrateful

Update 05/20/2010. I don't remember when I originally wrote this one. This is one of the posts imported over from my old private adoption blog, the one I wrote when the only other adoption bloggers I could find were either adoptive parents, or your happy adoptive cousin.

Usually my old posts, I just let them be. But when I heard that Grown in My Heart was having an adoption poetry carnival, well, I couldn't deny the world my prose. I'm a giver like that.

Enjoy and remember, the best adoption poem, is one that starts with: "There once was a girl from Nantucket..."


God I hate adoption poems.

You know the ones. These are the ones the most clueless of friends and family members will send to your inbox. You see the subject line (Usually it begins with something like Fw: Fw: Fw: FWD: OMG Read this it’s sooooo beautiful!!!!!!!”) and your heart drops.

We have spam guard on our mailboxes. Why can’t we have glurge guard. You roll your eyes and open the email. There in the midst of a zillion


and the email addresses of a minimum of at least 20 other glurge victims, because those who forward these are too freaking stupid/careless/whatever to edit out the extraneous internet brine, is something like this gem:

Once there were two women who never knew each other.
One you do not remember, the other you call Mother.

Two different lives shaped to make you one.
One became your guiding star, the other became your sun.

The first one gave you life, and the second taught you to live it.
The first gave you a need for love. The second was there to give it.

One gave you a nationality. The other gave you a name.
One gave you a talent. The other gave you aim.

One gave you emotions. The other calmed your fears.
One saw your first sweet smile. The other dried your tears.

One sought for you a home that she could not provide.
The other prayed for a child and her hope was not denied.

And now you ask me, through your tears,
the age-old question unanswered through the years.
Heredity or environment, which are you a product of?
Neither, my darling. Neither. Just two different kinds of Love.

© Author Unknown

Are you fucking kidding me?

Author Unknown indeed. Should be © Author With Head Up Her Un-Cadence Using Ass

If I happen to receive these 24-48 hours prior to the start of my monthly period, this is usually what I send back:


Once there were two women who never knew each other.
One you do not remember, the other you call Mother.

Both got screwed, in their own special way.
And that is why, you’re neurotic today!

Over and over, both were lied to
‘Cause it’s all about
SEX, and that is taboo!

Imposed on both were standards and heartache.
But there you were, you cute little mistake!

Be a good girl. Don’t ask any questions.
Tow the party line of adoption doctrines!

And now you ask me, through your tears,
the age-old question unanswered through the years.
Heredity or environment, which are you a product of?
And I’ll tell you to wipe those tears away what are you crying about you whiny little thing will you just get over it already?
Oh my GOD do you know how boring all this adoption talk is? Jesus Christ enough already.

I know it sucks, but it works. I never get another adoption poem from them again.



Tuesday, January 30, 2007

We interrupt this bitterness to bring you tidings of great joy

My cool husband finally got his Administrator's License from the State today. He's in the middle of a grueling doctoral program to get his Ph.D. in Education. He finished his Administator's Course almost 8 months ago, but the State has been so backlogged with new teacher certifications (go teachers!) that it took this long for him to get it. Now he can finally start applying for Vice Principal and Principal jobs. He's been a teacher for over 15 years, and wants to make a change. Just wanted to post that happy bit.

And now we return you to our regularly scheduled bitterness.


Monday, January 29, 2007

Your politics and insecurities do not concern me

Dear Adamantly Pro-Choice or Pro-Life Friend, Family Member, Acquaintance, Co-worker or Blog Commenter:

Would you please keep your politics to yourself when it comes to matters of my adoption? I honestly don’t care. I don’t force you to listen to my views on abortion, so why is the fact that I’m adopted raison d'être for you to bore me with yours?

I don’t wish to hear how lucky I am that I wasn’t “aborted and thrown in a dumpster” (actual comment). Nor do I wish to hear you drone on about the restrictions women lived in before Roe vs. Wade. I’m living proof of that, thank you.

Please keep these things to yourself. By all means post your own opinions on your own blog. That is your right and I support you with all of my heart.

Dear Newly Adoptive Parents or Loving Couple in Search of Baby to Adopt:

I am so glad you’ve taken the time to read endless books and take endless seminars on how to raise an adopted child. But please keep the crap about my own adopted parents to yourself. I don’t want to listen to you try to ward off your own insecurities by comparing yourself to them. I don’t want to hear about how you’ve “educated” yourself so that your precious little vanity accessory won’t be angry like me.

Here’s what you’re afraid of, and here is where I’m going to make all your wildest fears come true. Deep down, you are honestly a very good person. And you are terrified that you are going to have a child you love experience pain. As a parent, I’m here to tell you the sorry truth: your child will hurt, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. Your child will hurt, not only from the adoption, but from the million and one other things that can and do happen during the course of a lifetime. You can’t keep them safe, no matter how many books you read. And no matter if your adoption is open or closed, local or international, your child will hurt for his or her first mom for the rest of their natural life.

Deal with it.


Sunday, January 28, 2007

How to Piss Off an Ungrateful Bastard

When people hear that you are adopted, they don’t know what to say. Thankfully for them there is a pre-defined list of inanities to blurt out. Here’s my top ten list of things I hate to hear:

The statement: “You’re special. You were chosen”
What I reply: “Uh-huh”
What I’m thinking: Actually no, I wasn’t chosen. My adoptive parents were chosen because they were white and upwardly middle class. They faced a battery of tests and interviews, paid $8,000 in 1963 dollars, and were chosen from a list of likely candidates. I wasn’t the chosen one; I was their luck of the draw.

The statement: “Your birthmother loved you enough to want you to have a better life.”
What I reply: “Uh-huh”
What I’m thinking: That my mother loved me I have no doubt. But give me a break with that better life crap. She had no choice. In 1963 the options for an unmarried pregnant teenaged girl were: a) give the baby up for adoption, b) give the baby up for adoption, c) give the baby up for adoption.

The statement: “I’ve heard people who are adopted have a lot of issues.”
What I reply: Silence
What I’m thinking: Yeah, we have issues with the anger and frustration at the secrecy and lies that surround our beginning. Live with that crazy-maker for a while. And yeah, some of us do have abandonment issues. Walk a mile in our baby booties. But our biggest issue: morons like you.

The statement: “At least you weren’t aborted.”
What I reply: Silence
What I’m thinking: If only you had been.

The statement: “I adopted a homeless pet.”
What I reply: Silence
What I’m thinking: Arf-arf!

The statement: “Why are you trying to invade your birthmother’s life?”
What I reply: “It’s private.”
What I’m thinking: You self-righteous pompous little toad. I’m not trying to invade her life. I’m trying to get my medical history and family background. If my first mother wants to contact me, she can, but I’m not going to pound on her door forcing a reunion. All I want is the same things you have.

The statement: “There is more to being a mother than giving birth. The woman who raised you is your mom”
What I reply: "Uh-huh."
What I’m thinking: Wow! Really? You’re sooooo insightful. The woman who raised me is my Mother. But she can’t give me any of the history that I’m entitled to.

The statement: “You’re so lucky.”
What I reply: “Uh-huh.”
What I’m thinking: I am so lucky that every time I go to the doctor, I get to write UNKNOWN on the medical history section. I am so lucky that I got to have my first mammogram ten years earlier than other women because I don’t have any breast cancer history. I am so lucky I got to have my first colonoscopy ten years earlier too. What fun! I’m so lucky that when people ask me my nationality, I need to decide between saying “I don’t know” or making up something on the spot.

The statement: “The past doesn’t matter.”
What I reply: “Uh-huh”
What I’m thinking: Tell that to my first mother.

The statement: “I’m sure your adopted mother loved you as if you were her own.”
What I reply: “Uh-huh”
What I’m thinking: Go away.

So after all of that, what is the one and only thing I want to hear from someone who isn’t adopted?

The statement: “I have no idea what that must feel like.”
What I reply: Smile
What I’m thinking: I love you


Friday, January 26, 2007

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