Read these first (or just scroll down ) Clicking the links will open new windows:
Adoption Part 1
Adoption Part 2
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One of the things that pisses me off most about being adopted is the comments I get. (Not blogging comments — people say these things TO MY FACE!)

One comment that is consistently in the top ten:

“You must be so GRATEFUL to your adopted parents for taking you in!”

Translation: You’re a charity case, and a burden, and I’m superior to you because my parents wanted me.

I’m as grateful to my parents as any child should be to their parents for the time and money it takes, and general pain-in-the-ass it is to raise a child.

But this expectation of society (and of some adoptive parents) that adopted children should be MORE APPRECIATIVE than other children is just one big, gigantic crock of steaming horseshit.

For God’s sake, I was a 9 day old baby! And there was a 2-4 year waiting list for babies at that time. So don’t canonize my parents for taking in this “unwanted” baby. They were blessed with a new member of their family; they did not volunteer for a lifelong case of charity work. They do not deserve the admiration and awe of others who say, “How wonderful of you! I know I couldn’t take in someone else’s bastard child and raise it as my own!”

Sorry, but I don’t care if society, or even my own parents, see me as some sort of “second quality” person who should be eternally grateful for everything that everyone else gets as a matter of course. Like I’m some horrid person that was a huge burden that mooched 18 years of handouts from my parents, yet my brothers were gifts from God to my parents.

I’m grateful I had parents and a home. I’m grateful I’ve never known abject poverty or physical abuse from my parents. I’m grateful for the exact same things that everyone who was raised in a decent home should be grateful for.

But do I owe a bigger debt than those who were raised by their biological parents? No, and fuck anyone who thinks so.

Second most popular quotes (a tie, boys and girls! How exciting!) :

“You went looking for your biological family? How UNGRATEFUL of you!”

“So, your parents loved you and raised you your whole life, and this is how you show your APPRECIATION?! Searching for your *gasp* ‘real’ family?”

AGAIN with the “grateful” and the “appreciation”! Jesus, but people love to point fingers and tell you that you’re not deserving of what you have, and should make amends immediately.

I found (what’s left of) my biological family (maternal side) in 2001. (My biomom was killed by the church of $cientology in 1995. I found two half-brothers, an aunt, a step-aunt, and a second cousin).

When I told my mother that I had found my biofamily, she began with the theatrics and hurt feelings. I stopped her cold.

You see, my mother is way into genealogy. Around that time, she had discovered in HER family heritage an uncle that had fought in the Civil War. She found his gravesite and some stories about his life and everything. It was interesting to me, and she was incredibly excited about it.

So when she started her pouting about my seeking out my relatives, I explained it to her this way:

“You know when you found that Civil War uncle, and all the genealogy stuff you’ve dug up over the years, the stories and the pictures and how interesting that is?”

Mom replied, “Yes?”

I explained, “Well, that man is someone you never met. In fact, most of the relatives you’ve found information on are people you’ve never met. But it’s INTERESTING and important to you, right?”

“Well, of course it is.”

“So, why are adopted people not allowed to have the same curiosity? Why are WE not allowed to have an interest in our blood heritage?”

It shut her up, because she realized she was being hypocritical. She dropped the hurt martyr thing immediately.

A select few in this society truly believe that adopted people have less rights and more obligations than other people. I don’t know if it’s because they think only horrible people would be rejected by their own parents, or maybe they think only horrible parents would “reject” their child (and since we are related to these irresponsible people, we as adopted children are guilty by genetic association). I really can’t say for sure what it is. And the bad attitudes are certainly the exception, not the rule.

Know this:

I’m grateful and appreciative for all my life’s blessings. But, despite being adopted, my debt to the world is no more and no less than any other person on the face of this beautiful earth.

If you haven’t already, read Adoption, Part 1

The concept of “home” has always been my Holy Grail. I have spent my whole existence focused on obtaining a home, even though I technically had one. Why did I feel this way?

My mother says that I was told I was adopted “all along.” But this is not true. I remember the first time I heard it. I remember the day because it was also the first day I realized that my mother could lie to me.

I remember I was in kindergarten. My younger brothers weren’t in school yet. I looked like my brothers, except for the eyes. Mine were brown, theirs were blue-gray; a good blend for my mothers’ hazel eyes. My father had brown eyes, but we were all brunette. I blended.

One afternoon, my mother had our baby books and was showing us pictures and locks of hair from our infanthood. The cover of my baby book had writing on it, and I asked my mom to read it to me. She read: “Our Adopted Baby.” I remember the sensation of all the blood draining out of my head, and asking her, “I was adopted?!” She was incredulous. “Yes, we’ve always told you that you were adopted!” she snapped at me angrily. I was unprepared for this sudden anger and it scared me. Then she got even more pissed and said some stuff in a snotty tone. Then she dismissed any questions I had and changed the subject.

I may have only been six years old, but I knew bullshit when I heard it, even if I didn’t have the vocabulary to articulate it. I knew that my parents had never told me I was adopted.

But yet, mom just said they had told me “all along”.

Either she was lying, or I was mistaken and had “forgotten” I was adopted. Parents don’t lie, so it had to be my fault, my mistake. That was my first lesson. Tis’ far better to accept responsibility for situations for which you are not culpable, than it is to admit that you can rely on no one. I decided I must have forgotten. But, how does a child “forget” they were adopted?

Even at that young age, as my mother sat in her tacky green ’70s chair surrounded by three children hanging on her every word and dying to have their sticky fingers touch the black and white photographs — even then, as I made the decision to accept her hint that I was somehow feeble-minded for forgetting such a fact, I knew somewhere deep down that I had never heard that I was adopted until that day.

That has always been my family’s way of handling things. Or one of the top five ways:

• Deny, deny, deny
• Find a way to shake any responsibility
• Quickly change the subject
• Refuse to admit anything is “wrong”
• When caught in a lie, stick with it and accuse the other person of needing “psychological help” (that one rang big in my teenage years)

I came out of the proverbial adoption closet on the playground the next day, telling all my friends about me being adopted as I swung on the swingset. I remember one kid saying, “that means your real parents didn’t want you!” but comments didn’t phase me. I just said, “Get off my case, toilet face!” and kept swinging.

I was happy and full of hope. I felt special. At that young age I couldn’t understand why, but I felt like it explained everything.

Just an aside question from the adult Mary: What kind of attention-seeking fuck buys a baby album with the title “Our ADOPTED Baby”? Danger, danger, Will Robinson!

Say the word “adoption” to people and you get a very interesting array of reactions.

Adoption is portrayed in the media in one of two ways: Either the adopted child is embraced wholeheartedly and lives an idyllic life, for which they are expected to be eternally grateful to the parents who were kind enough to take their charity-case ass in, or the opposite extreme — the noble and saintly parents who adopt a kid and get a “bad apple” and suffer the rest of their lives.

No matter how you view adoption or adoptive children, for some reason, there is still a stigma about it.

Although I’ve written my adoption tales, experiences, and opinions elsewhere, RisibleGirl’s recent reunion tales were so touching, candid, and revealing that I’ve decided to re-post my stories and experiences here for some of you who may be new. I’ll break them up a bit because there’s a lot to read in one chunk.

:deep breath: Here we go.

Does Windy’s bunny Captain Murphy like his new leash and harness set?

Why, no. I don’t think that he does.

So the dearhearted Dave at Buzzstuff added my personal favorite studmuffin and fellow Revovering Catholic® , Denis Leary to his Eye Candy Friday feature, just for lil’ old me!

Now, far be it from me to gush on and on about men. I’m 37 for chrissakes! Also, I abhor Hollywood hero worship (except for Trey Parker and Matt Stone, who — oh migawd I love them so much, if they started I cult I’d join it). But this week I have now blogged twice about celebrity hunks. So what? I’m old and lonely, get off me!

And for those of you who read about my first marriage to a firefighter will be glad to know that I’ve overcome my 12-year aversion to the Uniform of Horrid Memories because of Denis’ new show on FX, Rescue Me. Don’t let the shitty, melodramatic name fool you. It’s a must-see, chicklets!

And here is a song that illustrates just how much Denis and I are soulmates.

… it’s the SYSTEM!

Yep, the stab wounds on the little girl haven’t even stopped bleeding, and the press is already implying that the poor criminal didn’t get good sex offender counseling treatment in jail!

Because Lord knows that going to counseling sure takes the urge to stab (and very likely rape) your own daughter right out of ya! But without the counseling, the poor, POOR sex offender had no choice but to brutally attack his daughter! He’s NOT an adult and does NOT have free will, don’t ya know.

Oh, and as a reporter, why not jump at every opportunity to misconstrue a comment made by a law enforcement officer and make it sound like they’re making fun of the victim’s mother. Go ahead! After all, you’re already doing active casework in helping with the sex offender’s defense at trial. Go all the way to malign the justice system. Pissing off the family of the victim is just icing on the journalism ethics cake!

The sound of his fist striking her face made a dull thud, which surprised her. She had known for months this moment was coming; it was just a matter of time. She had thought about how it would feel, but never did she wonder about how it would sound.

Really, it didn’t hurt. In fact, she didn’t feel anything at all. It was like it wasn’t even happening to her – she was just an observer, watching. She viewed the action from above as the man told the woman she deserved it, because she was a selfish, spoiled bitch. She watched the woman crying, asking “Why?” over and over. She – the observer — wanted to help the woman, but what could she do? She didn’t have a job, no family to turn to, so how could she help the woman?

The man had the woman on the floor next and was crushing her face into the carpet. He was telling the woman what hell it was for him to live with such a self-centered, know-it-all cunt. She wondered why the woman didn’t fight him, why all she did was sob.

If only she had done better, then the woman wouldn’t have to be treated this way. She should have thought more carefully before she spoke. She should have made sure dinner was ready on time last week. She should have done his laundry before hers. It was her fault that the woman she was observing was going through this.

The counselor had explained that she was suffering from depression caused by “battered women’s syndrome”. She couldn’t accept that; everyone knows that a woman isn’t abused until her husband leaves a mark on her: black eye, broken bones. And even then, that’s only her side of the story.

“What did you do to provoke him?” her mother had asked when she finally had enough courage to tell. It was after the fourth or fifth time he had thrown her around the house. That time he had held her down to repeatedly spit in her face. “Well, he didn’t hit you or anything. Don’t you think you’re being just a bit melodramatic? After all, you’re not that easy to live with…”

The counselor told her to be careful if she decided to stay with him. “You’re just going to have to go along with everything he says and does. Watch what you say, and don’t talk back. If you’re going to stay, it will be a real effort to keep him from going into a rage and seriously hurting you someday.” But she knew she could do it.

She was wrong. She continued to watch as the woman laid cowering on the floor where she had been thrown. The man grabbed the crying woman’s hair and started dragging her towards the bedroom. “I hate you! You’ve ruined my life! I’m going to get my gun and blow my brains out, and you’re going to watch because YOU are responsible for it! My brains will be splattered all over you, and you’ll know it was all your fault!”

Suddenly, she wasn’t the observer anymore. She had again become the woman being dragged towards the bedroom she had shared with her husband for only seven months. She was appalled to find herself actually praying for him to go through with his threat, thinking, “Just please do it and leave me alone!”

(more…)

There are two types of mommy blogs.

The first type consist of the cool moms who blog about funny kid stories and all aspects of their lives. These women are more than just a uterus and working eggs. They’re people with brains.

I enjoy reading these blogs, and I respect these types of parents. You GO, awesome moms!

Then there’s the second type. The type of mommy blog that I can’t fucking STAND. I call them the “martyr mommy” blogs.

Somewhere in their blog title, tagline, or header graphic is something to the effect of “The daily stresses of an overworked and overtired mommy-wommy!” Their entire identity is wrapped up in one aspect of their life: the fact they reproduced. They have globbed onto the fact that their eggs work and have made it the only basis of their self-worth. So that’s all they blog about. Ever. And most of the mommy martyr bloggers consider themselves to be the first person to reproduce ever, because surely no one knows of the stress and strain they go through every day! NO ONE has ever worked as hard as they do, even other parents! To hear them tell it, every day is stress, stress, stress and they are frazzled! They are so busy, they don’t know whether they’re coming or going! They’re losing their minds!

You could have the most stressful job on the planet. You could dismantle bombs for a living as your full-time job, perform kidney transplants for orphans on the weekends, and work a third job at night, but that’s NOTHING compared to the work and stress martyr mom has looking after little Johnny.

Every day they sacrifice tirelessly for their husband and children, and by God they’re not going to let you forget about it for a second! But then, at the very last minute, their child gives them a kiss or looks like an angel while sleeping, and it’s moments like those that make all of the mommy martyrs’ saintly sacrifices worth while.

These people only want to talk about their kids and their workload in attending to said kids. They don’t want to talk about their own feelings (unless it’s resentment over being overworked), their hopes and dreams, their hobbies. Their personality or any other aspect of life is unimportant now.

They’re not only doing their kids a favor by raising them (excuse me, these kids didn’t ask to be born), but they’re doing the WORLD a favor because their DNA is so superior that they had the duty to reproduce, and we should all be in awe over their sacrifices, and thankful that their superior genetics are being propagated.

(more…)

I knew I shouldn’t have told my mother that I was working evenings at my new job. And that I often wouldn’t be home before 11:30 pm, which means I don’t go to sleep before 1 am.

Yep, you guessed it: The 6:30 am calls have started already.

Really, do you need to call me at 6:30 am from 500 miles away to tell me you found one of my old college notebooks? Eleven years after I graduated?

Aw fuck it I’m pissed! So here’s Moose and Bungee to help ease my mood:

It seems like every pic of Moose that I have is him on the couch. Lazy couch tater!

Yesterday, I was talking to another nurse at the jail, and I asked her about treating inmates that have committed crimes that she found particularly reprehensible. She of course said that treating child molesters, especially incestuous child molesters, was difficult for her.

I started trying to think about what my limit would be. Of course, nobody likes a child molester, but I can distance myself from the reality of such a heinous crime since I was neither a victim as a child, nor do I have children now.

Would it be rapists? Because goddam I hate me some motherfucking rapists! Wifebeaters? As a former receiver of emotional and physical domestic abuse, I would think that would be it, but half of the guys in there have restraining orders against them and it hasn’t bothered me so far.

Then later, I was talking to another nurse who told of working a prison riot in a different state. I never realized how many times the most horrible details of crimes are not released to the public, and this prison riot was no exception. She told of what the inmates did to other prisoners. Horribly tragic. But then she told of what the rioting inmates did to the guards, and it was then I felt it. That overwhelming hate and anger towards a perpetrator of a crime that I couldn’t squelch or control.

That one thing I don’t think I could look past, even long enough to be professional for 30 seconds, is a crime against a law enforcement officer.

So I’ve discovered my own personal “hot button”, and it’s up to me to figure out how to get over it before I actually have to face an inmate who has raped, shot, or killed someone in law enforcement.

Don’t get me wrong… I would never withhold appropriate medical care from anybody.

But how do you treat an inmate professionally when the whole time you just want to scream at them: “I HOPE YOU ROT IN HELL, YOU MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF SHIT THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ABORTED!”