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Archive for December, 2007

How many times have you heard it said, seen it written, written yourself perhaps, that adoption is as much about loss as it is about gain? In admonitions to potential adoptive parents, it’s a litany I’ve used, even putting the words in bold type in the introduction to the book I wrote on US infant adoption. (Don’t bother buying the book, as the money goes to Adoption.com, the company that has already screwed me badly. Just about the whole thing is available online, so you can read it for free if you’re interested.)

It is vital that people coming to adoption understand this simple truth and acknowledge the loss even while their focus may be on what they, themselves are gaining.

It’s that “and” that seems to be a sticking point in discussions on any stage in the adoption community, and while LOSS is so often shouted loud and clear and repeatedly to assure its being heard in all corners and way up into the third balcony, “gain” often barely rates a stage whisper.

Does this mean, then, that the ratio of loss to gain is so much higher than the other way around? Some, most certainly, would insist that is exactly the case; that adoption is founded in loss and that loss overrides any gains that may drift along in its wake.

For many, this is true … for birth mothers, for example. Lifelong suffering from adoption loss is rarely even remotely compensated by gains in many cases, and those who relinquished in the days of secrecy and lies are some of the most vociferous voices on loss as the most important aspect.

Some adoptees, but most certainly not all, focus almost exclusively on what adoption cost them, as well, going as far in a few cases to insist that anyone would be better off dead than adopted.

Adoptive parents are often set out as the big gainers, the reapers of the little that can be right about adoption, the most likely to put the positive spin on the story, and in some circumstances, that’s accurate.

That assessment, however, ignores a big part of the picture.

Adoption does not only happen in middle-class America where expectant women are making choices between parenting and going off to college and infertile couples are praying for a newborn they can catch on its way into the world. Even in that scenario, however, there can be gain all the way around. The gains may not outweigh the losses for everyone involved, but that does not negate those gains.

Contrary to much of what is conveyed in blogs and forums, there are birth mothers who are glad they are not parenting, who feel comfortable with their decisions and who go on to lead rich, full lives with no more regrets than the usual adult human carries around on a daily basis. They’re not found lingering on adoption-related websites, but they do exist, and in some numbers.

Adoptees by the thousands … by the hundreds of thousands … not only accept the circumstances of their upbringing, but rejoice in their families, and revel in the lives that found them.

Somewhere between 50 – 200 million children in the world have been orphaned by AIDS alone. Very few of these kids are available for adoption due to politics, geography, religion, custom and other reasons not always having anything at all to do with the welfare of children, and some cite that as a good thing, but those that do find safe and loving families experience gain.

As I said in a reply on a recent post:

When a child who needs a family gets one, that’s a gain. Yes, the loss of family in the first place is a factor, but that being the reality for millions puts it in the “way things are” category, not filed under adoption. Adoption is a correction, a remedy. (Not the only one possible, certainly, but a darned good one, nonetheless.)

There are more than half a million children in foster care in the US, and for many of them adoption is a hopeful dream. Kids coming out of abusive families and in serial placements long for family … real, permanent family … and for them adoption is a solution — it is gain.

Loss and gain may not equal out in every case or for every person involved, but in the big picture … the one that believes that every child is entitled to a family and the more that find one, the better … adoption is as much about loss as it is about gain, and vise versa.

Anticipating some of the fallout that is sure to come, I’ll add that by family in the above paragraph I don’t mean a desperately poor grandmother trying to raise 18 orphaned grandchildren on less than a dollar a day. Yes, I understand that many feel those sorts of blood ties trump everything and that only elitist thinking would suggest a child is better off in a rich, Western country, but when the reality is that the grandmother will often have to make ends meet by selling her grandchildren into slavery and prostitution I do see the gain side of adoption quite clearly.

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Some interesting conversations are going on at the moment, and rather than attempt to summarize, interpret or spin, I’ll just give the links and let everyone decide for themselves.

Privilege, Choice, Entitlement, and Minority Rule

http://afamilyaffair.wordpress.com/2007/12/12/adoption-ramble/#comments

http://paragraphein.wordpress.com/2007/12/16/cant-get-through/

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In a post the other day, I was blathering on about modifications I would make to the development processes children go through on their terrifyingly rapid trip to to adulthood, mentioning how handy a pause button would be and that I’d be happy for a rewind option.

For a little lighter fare today … since my moods and circumstances have been all heavy and glum lately, and because it’s Saturday and I need a break … I thought I’d offer up some thoughts on another annoying miscalculation in the blueprint of little humans: teeth.

Whose idea was it to give little kids teeth?

Just think of the idiocy of this plan …

Take a pumpkin-headed, noodle-necked, stumble-footed creature, wrap it in tender, fragile tissue; then stick a few razor-sharp protuberances right in the middle of a pulpy mass of surface blood vessels that scars easily, hurts like mad and takes ages to heal. It’s a recipe for disaster! Or at the very least, for sliced lips and a perforated tongue.

I mean, really! What the heck do little kids need teeth for, anyway? When was the last time you tossed your 18-month-old a raw T-bone and told him to go to town? And hasn’t anyone heard of appleSAUCE?

And what about keeping those pearly whites white? It’s easier to clean the molars on my Rottweiler than it is to brush a baby’s teeth properly … and if you don’t do it properly you’re a rotten parent and your kid will have rotten teeth that won’t fall out until they’re well into school so everyone will know just how you badly you neglected your duty to the poor child.

Wouldn’t it make more sense for the chompers to stay nice and clean and safe inside the gums until a kid is old enough to get the fact that toothpaste doesn’t come with a skull and crossbones on the tube and that keeping the mouth open for more than 30 seconds is not a punishment equal to the Chinese Water Torture, no dessert, kissing smelly old Uncle Leo, or all of the above?

Teeth in little kids are a design flaw, pure and simple, and someone should step up, claim the fault and make sure that from now on they don’t appear until walking is an accomplished feat and a hankering for corn on the cob presents itself.

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Our almost-daily power cut today went on for hours, so the long and heartfelt post I was planning won’t get done. Although candlelight is soft, gentle and romantic, I’ve come to rely on juice and an Internet fruit bat with a pulse and feel my day incomplete without.

Today is Friday, the day T was scheduled to leave the country. Unless something very unexpected happened, he’s gone by now.

Do I need to talk about how grateful I am for the time we had with him last weekend? No. But I will post a few more photos.

I’m trying very hard not to focus on the wrongs this boy has suffered, but it’s hard when I know that his mother left him for the month since she and her boyfriend left the country in the “care” of people who call him “ass hole” instead of his name and encourage him to lock himself in the guest room with a GameBoy for days on end.

She so easily could have made different arrangements. What a whole month with him would have meant to all of us.

What’s ahead for him is frightening, and I have no faith at all that anyone will be putting him even near the top of any agenda. I have seen it all before, and have no doubt that nothing has changed.

Can I mention here that this experience, like others, has a lot to do with coloring my views on the sanctity of motherhood? Far too often in real life there ain’t no such thing.

T and S swm
Sam and T in the sea … like brothers

Cheeky
Cheeky monkey!

Discussion T & Mark
A discussion, Mark and T, while Sam plays

Dinner at HOME
Dinner at HOME

TV time
Relaxing with Scoobie, 4 kids!

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Writing yesterday, as I was, about how young my kids were when we brought them home from Cambodia had me waxing all nostalgically over their babyhoods … that isn’t really as messy as it sounds … and how fast the time has flown and they have grown.

Sam is now five, and Cj is well on her way to three, and although I appreciate that driving and shaving are still some time off it will feel like less than an eye-blink before Sam apologizes for a bristly kiss and Cj is asking for the car keys.

The fact that I’ve been here before prevents me from ducking under any cover of illusion that childhood is a long process. With my oldest now 38, and all 38 of those years feeling as here and gone as my youngest’s most recent Tuesday, fooling myself into thinking that I can in any way drag out the days of diapers and drool is simply not possible.

Speaking of drool, it is partially development I’m contemplating this afternoon … the stages my children have approached, mastered, passed through, then left behind. Each in their own time and their own fashion has crawled and sat and walked and gurgled and talked and sang. Reading, writing, juggling, skating, calculating, creating, skiing, driving, diving are accomplishments some claim and others can anticipate, and as smooth little bodies morph into bumpy big ones, Mom stands amazed by the process and overawed by the people my children become.

Now … if I were in charge of the program, it would happen a bit differently.

For starters, I would slow down the process and install pause buttons, and possibly a rewind.

Having Cj mangle “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” so adorably one day, but spout the whole thing with barely a “wittel” to be heard the next doesn’t give nearly enough time to commit the baby version for posterity, and it’s not fair that she grows out of that stage so fast when I’m so busy.

Now that Sam is a real boy without a shred of the baby or toddler he was left in him, I’m having trouble remembering what method of crawl he used and what he looked like when he ran down the beach on chubby little legs. A brief rewind would bring it all back and let me focus on all the details I missed at the time.

I clearly remember an evening in 1971 when I made a point of branding an image of my son Jaren, now 36 but then about 5 months old, onto my brain. I noticed every detail, dwelled upon every feature, took in as much as I possibly could and fixed it all in my mind’s eye. To this day, I can bring it back, even recalling the pattern on the overalls he wore.

But I didn’t do that with all the minutes, all the scenes … not nearly often enough and certainly not with as much attention as each deserved … and so much is now beyond the reach of my memory.

If it had gone slower, if I’d been able to pause from time to time, I’d have more now. The kids might not appreciate the rewind feature, though.

Sam 5 months
Sam at five months. Time has flown!

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As long as I’ve been writing about adoption, I have occasionally suffered pangs of … well, not guilt, per se, but an almost guilty relief for the fact that my kids came to me undamaged.

Following blogs of parents whose children live with an alphabet soup of lifelong and often life-shattering issues — RAD, FAS, FAE, PTSD — flings me to my knees in gratitude for the circumstances that allowed my children to be born reasonably healthy and pass the thirteen weeks between that miracle and the one that put them in my arms without any horrors.

It’s those 13 weeks I’m thinking of today, and although I will always regret and resent every minute I didn’t have with Sam and Cj, it seems amazing now that they had only a little more than three months of orphanage life.

That three-month time period is dictated by law in Cambodia to allow birth parents to reclaim children if they changed their minds about surrender. Fair enough for the birth parents, but does that sort of consideration for adults justify the setting of a term a child must serve? And if the time allowed would be six months? A year? Longer?

Aside from some in domestic private infant adoptions, adopted children are all sentenced to some duration in what is at best limbo, and at worst hell. As the focus on adoption skews ever more toward concerns about birth families and processes, the length of the sentences stretches out, and with the increase, now often years in the case of international adoptions from many countries, the children are ever more likely to be negatively impacted. Some countries forbid even referral before a child is six-months-old which all but guarantees a year or more of interim, stopgap living.

I am always surprised by the fact that there has not been a huge uproar over increased wait times, not because of the torture months of anticipation, stress and worry bring to hopeful adoptive parents, but on behalf of the children … our children … that are forced to pass month after month in temporary care.

If the care is top notch, safe and loving, the longer the child spends in those caring arms, the more wrenching and damaging the loss will be when the parents claim the child, and the more difficult the adjustment. If it is not wonderful … well, we know what can happen to children neglected and abused as infants.

It seems parents, agencies and governments are so concerned about the process, and so careful to thoroughly and precisely navigate an ever-growing list of ins and outs, that the fact the children are languishing, often dangerously, is chalked up to an inevitability that can’t even be mentioned, much less addressed.

Of course, precautions must be taken and checks made, but it seems there must be a way to alter the process so that children can come home before enough time passes for wounds to be created and scars to form.

It is, after all, all about the children. Right?

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It’s the 11th of December … ack! … and it might as well be July for all the festive, criscringle, deck-dos-halls-itis I don’t have even a touch of.

Just the thought of digging out my three-foot-tall, rotating, fake Christmas tree sends my mood south and pins me to my office chair while visions of “later, maybe” dance in my head.

With the month starting off with a nasty cow canning my ass from my blog job, refusing to give any reason whatsoever, and then scurrying into her dim little hidey-hole to keep from having to account for her actions, then learning that my darling of a foster son will soon be moving far beyond any observable distance, my mood isn’t exactly in sync with any jingling bells on bob tails ringing.

(And, yes, I’m still bitter and angry over the treatment I got from Brandy and her masters at Adoption.com. If you miss reading me there … or if you’d simply like to annoy her … here’s an email address where you can mention my name, and call her a few if you like: 4802865086@cingularme.com)

Not that I have really been overcome with Christmas cheer since moving to the tropics; temperatures in the upper 80s just aren’t conducive to conjuring a feeling of walking in a winter wonderland.

It’s amazingly hard to build happy holiday traditions and memories in this heat and glaring sunshine for Sam and Cj … I have to accept that their ho-ho-hos will be all about barefoot Santas and tinsel on coconut trees … when the holiday is so loaded with me missing my other kids and the rest of my family.

I can almost capture the smell of freshly cut pine, my mother’s kitchen and the smoky frigid air of the Northern California December … well, right up until the time that I need to crank up the aircon in my office to keep the sweat pouring from my fingers from freezing up my laptop.

Like most holidays in Seychelles, for a big part of the population this one is about drinking to excess and hanging around. Attempts at wrangling up Christmas spirit are weak, at best, and I can’t help but think I’d handle the holiday a bit better with fewer stabs at decking the halls. (See photos.)

I have twelve days to pump myself up for the holiday, but quite a few less to begin, middle and finish the prep that needs doing.

Yikes! What am I doing sitting here kvetching. I need to get in gear, order some gifts for family in the US, break out the tree, find some wrapping paper somewhere on this island, put together a menu for our obligatory Christmas Eve open house, and on and on and on.

This will be a great time for Sam and Cj, and I will enjoy the holiday through their eyes. I will, however, still be glad when it’s over.

Sam with the village Christmas decor … sigh
The village Christmas decor

A local shop in full Christmas mode. Yep. That’s it. Isn’t the razor wire a nice touch?
A shop decorated for the holidays … sigh, again

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Through an interesting set of circumstances, it came to pass that we had the wonderful opportunity to spend a lot of time this weekend with our former foster son, T.

He doesn’t like that designation, actually, and suggests that there is no “former” about our relationship and that he will always be our foster son, with the emphasis on “son”.

He no longer calls me Mom … I’m Sandra now … but my title is most definitely “Foster Mom”.

I’m still processing two days and one night with a mix of kids that felt so normal, so right, that the thought of it not happening again is almost more than all of us can bear, so I’ll not yet be writing a lot about weekend. Photos will have to do, for the most part.

Mark’s sister’s daughter, Emilie, was with us at the beach … that’s her peeking out from behind T and me in one shot and walking along the beach with T and Cj. At one point, she and T spend a good deal of time in deep conversation. Another little girl you’ll see more of tomorrow, a bit miffed at being left out, began teasing them about “liking each other”, but the taunt had no impact.

Eventually, it was time for dinner, so T and Emilie joined the group again, but T took me aside.

“Is Emilie really Mark’s niece?” he asked.

I answered to the affirmative and explained the familial relationship.

“Wow!” T said as a huge grin broke out across his darling face. “That means she’s my foster cousin!”

The next morning, he approached Mark’s mother, explained the connection and asked if he could call her “Grandma”.

Family is very important to this boy, and with his bio relations leaving much to be desired I am so happy he continues to take whatever he can from the tenuous, fragile and far too easily manipulated connection to ours.

Some words of wisdom from this nine-year-old wonder …
As I slipped into an emotional trough on Saturday at the thought of this time being our last together, possibly forever, T put his hand on my shoulder and explained carefully, “In my experience, it’s better if you don’t think about endings. Think about middles.”

T reaching out to me …
Reaching T

T and me, and Emilie, too …
T and M, and Emilie, too

An evening stroll for Emilie, Cj, T and Jamie …
Walking the beach kids

The kids and Grandma’s mac&cheese. Note the similarity between T and Sam! Goodballs!
Kids eating Grandma’s mac & cheese

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A comment left on this post on a blog I’m contributing to these days has raised a concern I am amazed has evaded me for all this time I’ve been reading and writing on adoption. It comes from a reader named Julie who claims psychological testing for prospective adoptive parents as her agenda in the adoption world, and I must admit this is a new one on me.

I would agree with you if prospective adoptive parents were psychologically tested. Unfortunately, this is not the case except for a tiny handful of agencies across North America.

Having done my research on the psychological caliber of adoptive parents – particularly those who suffer from infertility – I have learned that your presumption is dangerous one.

Until psychological testing becomes a standard in the adoption industry, I will worry far more for adopted children than I do for those being raised by psychologically challenged biological parents.

Adoptive parenting requires far more skill and empathy than parenting one’s natural children.

Wow.

I’m temporarily at a loss.

Okay. I’m over it.

Being that I’m often accused of spewing … although most often by people for whom spew is a lifestyle … I might as well strap on that lather (or leather?) for a minute here:

RAD! FAS and FAE! ADD! PTSD! “A parent is the perpetrator in most homicides of children under the age of 5” … and that is almost ALWAYS a bio parent! therapeutic foster care!

Whew.

Oh, wait. There’s more … but don’t take it from me, check out the day-to-day of some adoptive parents who will spend their lives trying to make up for the damage done to their children by institutions and bio families.

Any yet, someone actually worries “far more for adopted children than I do for those being raised by psychologically challenged biological parents.”? Now, that’s a new planet inhabited that doesn’t look much like this one.

The “psychological caliber of adoptive parents”? Excuse me? Let’s see the research that indicates that the “psychological caliber of adoptive parents” is in question in any but the most miniscule of numbers, then compare that to the millions of children in the world in need of families.

And, do da word “homestudy” ring a bell?

Infertility hasn’t been considered an indication of insanity, a punishment for sins or a personal failing for a very long time, and I am concerned by the thought that any of those old chestnuts could be once again finding fertile soil for roots.

Break out the kindling and tie that barren woman to the stake, boys! According to our test, she’s low in the psychological caliber department, so damned well don’t deserve to live … or parent!

And the last statement: Adoptive parenting requires far more skill and empathy than parenting one’s natural children.

Does anyone really believe that parenting one’s “natural children” comes naturally to all parents? That a wondrous bounty of love and caring pours forth from some genetic fount that guarantees each child a special place in the hearts and minds of their biological connections that protects them throughout childhood and provides for everything necessary for a healthy and happy life?

That parenting biological offspring is a breeze, while being mother and father to an adopted child is a task that demands skills and empathy so much above and beyond the need of “naturals” that ever more tests must be passed and bars must be raised so that only the most perfect should be allowed to add a child to a family? And what is perfect?

Not only does any walk around the Real World block reveal that biological parents do terrible damage to their children in big numbers on a daily basis while adoptive parents tend not to, one idea of psychological perfection might scare the bejeezus out of someone else, while the quirks in a family could suit an equally quirky child to a T.

I’ll get to UNICEF, trotted out with pride in another comment, later.

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The day the music died may have been in 1959, but twenty-seven years ago today the world lost not only one of the most brilliant and creative musical minds in modern history, but a bit of its soul and a lot of its conscience.

220px-johnlennon1.jpgDecember 8, 1980 was the day Mark Chapman shot and killed John Lennon outside the Dakota building in Manhattan as he and his wife made their way home.

For more on this, check out:
A Tribute to John Lennon (October 9, 1940 – December 8, 1980)

Photo credit: Wiki commons

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