Chasing A Child

Progress, progress, everywhere.

Uh-oh!

Those two white bumps in the center of our boy's drooly lower jaw popped up yesterday and are they ever causing a ruckus. Squeaker's upset because, well, there are sharp pieces of calcium busting through his gums. The Mister is upset because he got up with Squeaker about 15 times last night. I'm upset because, well, TEETH? Big Kids have teeth. This is my baby we're talking about. How can he be a Big Kid already?!

In other news, I've forgot to mention that they've been building a house next door to us for the past month. And when I say next door, I mean within arm's reach.

We used to look out on a lovely grassy empty lot. Then one day, the big earth mover came.

Are You My Mother?

They brought in the porta-potty.

We took this picture after moving the damn thing away from the side of our house -- for the second time! For some reason, the various contractors thought that it looked best either sitting in our front yard or tipped up against our side wall. We begged to differ ...

They started pouring the foundation right away:

And the floor:

Walls went up quickly:

And the second story:

Windows and doors went in yesterday. Today, they're adding siding:

Honestly, at this exact second, I prefer the construction noise to the "hey, Mama, I'm cutting teeth!" noise. It's less ... persistent. And the construction guys go home at night. Teeth are a 24-hour-per-day endeavor!

Six months

July 1st marked Squeaker's half-year birthday.

We had a lovely 4th of July weekend in one of those old-fashioned small towns where Independence Day is the biggest day of the year -- they have a pancake feed, fireworks, parade, the whole works. Squeaker got to meet about 30 of his relatives on my dad's side of the family (although not my dad, alas -- more on that another day). My mom stayed in our rental house, which was a great help to us, although probably not all that restful for her. The car ride there and back was ... tricky ... but not intolerable. Let's just say that by the last 2 hours on the return trip, we were all ready for Squeaker to be free of his car seat.

My sister-in-law (we'll call her Aunt J), in particular, took a special liking to our boy, stealing him away for hugs and kisses whenever she could. As Squeaker is going through a shy phase about strangers right now, she couldn't exactly spirit him out of our sight without risking a major tear-fest. But I can tell that once he's older, Aunt J and he are going to be big buddies. The really sweet thing is that Aunt J was also adopted as a baby, so she and Squeaker will always have a special bond.

Of course, you can't go on vacation without bringing home a souvenir or two. Squeaker and I came back with a nasty cold -- coughing and a fever. Our boy's temp got up to 101.6 yesterday -- he was clingy and clearly not feeling well all day, poor guy. Today, he's bounced back to his cheery energetic self, after sleeping nearly 13 hours last night (with two quick wakings for a bottle). Mama, on the other hand, is still coughing up a storm and my nose has begun to peel from too much blowing. Ah, for the resiliency of youth! We're very lucky (and more than a bit amazed) that Squeaker's first 6 months were illness-free.

Six months old. Already.

He can sit up quite well by himself, only rarely toppling over backwards. From his back, he rolls over to his stomach, does a pushup, gets one leg up under him, and then leans back and reaches one arm up, doing a very nice modified triangle pose, with his front knee on the floor. Sometimes he'll leave both hands on the floor and rock back and forth, but hasn't figured out what to do from there. We're thinking that he may skip crawling entirely and go directly to walking. His legs are strong as tree trunks from all the bouncing he does, and his upper body is starting to catch up. He uses his arms to pull himself across my lap, and you can tell that, if he had his way, he'd be getting up to go across the room to see whatever it is that's caught his attention.

We're still going slow on introducing solid food -- he doesn't seem to be in a huge hurry in this area. We're feeding him one meal (usually cereal and strained fruit) at dinner time. He's still spitting up quite a bit, although I guess it's slowed up a little in the last few weeks. He's figured out what the spoon is about and is able to keep most of the food in his mouth now, blowing raspberries at us (and spraying us with applesauce or whatever) when he's had enough.

And have I mentioned his lungs? This boy has some serious vocal capacity. He pitched a complete fit when we arrived at my brother's house mid-way through our drive. He was tired of riding in the car and upset to be in a strange house at bedtime with a bunch of (in his view) complete strangers ogling him. His outrage was so loud that his cousins covered their ears and retreated to the back of the house until we were able to calm him down. And then he was Mr. Lovely Wonder Child, all giggles and smiles for the rest of the visit. When he's happy, he's very very happy. But if he's cranky ... watch out!

On Father's Day, a look back

Last year at this time, we were very very sad. I still get very sad from time to time, when I think back to that summer.

But what a difference a year can make ...

In January, we found our hands full:

 

Since then, we've gone from this:

 

To this:

 

From the beginning, our boy was a chip off the old block:

 

He wasn't too sure about the Dog at first:

 

Now they're the best of friends:

What's ahead? We can't wait to find out!

The things people say (part 2)

After I wrote my first post on this topic, I had a feeling it was going to become an ongoing series. And the world did not disappoint!

I'm going to continue the numbering of the questions as a single list so that some day I can pull them all out into the grand master list of Things That Come Out of Random Strangers' Mouths When A Child Doesn't Look Like His/Her Parents.

8(a).    Whose baby is that?

This gem came to us from the young female clerk at the grocery store this morning. She was pretty clearly an airhead who spoke whatever came into her mind without any editing whatsoever, but the shock of her question nearly knocked me over.

What I thought: "Holy crap! You did NOT seriously just say that!! Did your mother teach you any manners at all?!?"

What I said instead: (Nothing.) The Mister jumped right in before I could open my mouth: "He's OURS."

8(b).    But he's so dark!!

At this point, Miss Airhead was obviously trying to figure out how two white people managed to produce a black baby. You could see the gears turning: Recessive genes, perhaps? Obviously, the word "adoption" never entered her thought process.

What I thought: "You're really digging yourself into a hole here, Missy."

What I said instead: Nothing. There was really no response to this. Unfortunately, that gave her room to continue ...

8(c).    That's what I want -- a baby with some color!

What I thought: "Oh good lord. You really mean 'a colored baby,' don't you?"

What I said instead: Nothing. Again, there was really no response to this, and no point in engaging in any conversation with this rather pathetic specimen of the human race. I couldn't look at the Mister, because I wasn't sure I could contain myself, but I'm pretty sure he was just staring at her with his jaw dropped to the floor. Luckily, as we waited for Miss Airhead to finish ringing us up, the very nice gay guy behind us quickly began chatting with me about how much he loves spoiling his niece ...

As soon as we got away from the checkstand, the Mister and I doubled over laughing. It was like something out of a bad sitcom! But what if Squeaker had been old enough to understand her? What would I have done? I would have had to do something, and that could have gotten really ugly really fast.

9.    He looks so healthy!

I suppose this comment could be perfectly innocent, but even if that were so, it's a weird thing to say. I would never tell parents how healthy their child looked unless there had been a time when the child was unhealthy. It came from a conservative family member who we see only occasionally, and who has not spent much time with Squeaker. This person generally assumes that all black people are criminals or on welfare. I have heard him go on lengthy rants about those evil welfare queens who are taking all of his tax money. You know the type. Which meant that the comment was anything but innocent.

What I thought: "Why wouldn't he look healthy? Do you think he's a crack baby or something?"

What I said instead: "Yes, he's very healthy."

10.    Oh, of course, you were too busy having a baby!

This one requires some explanation. A salesman from our local phone company came to the door the other day to try to sell me high-speed internet. One wonders how much success they'll have with selling DSL door-to-door, but nevermind that. In the course of our conversation, he asked how fast our current DSL is, and I told him that when I placed our order, I was too busy to pay much attention to the exact speed that we ordered beyond knowing that it was fast enough. It was at that point that our friendly salesman said what he said, with a big smile on his face. The main reason I'm listing this statement here is that he is the first stranger to assume (to my face) that Squeaker came from my womb.

The. First. One. Everyone else who says anything about our little guy always -- and I mean always -- assumes he's adopted.

What I thought: "Bless you, you wonderful non-judgmental, human being, for not assuming that because I'm white my husband must also be white and that Squeaker could be my birthchild! And you know, I did have a baby once, except the baby I had wasn't this exact baby ..."

What I said instead: "(Laughter.) Yes, exactly! He keeps us busy!"

What the Mister said when I told him later: "Cool, I'm black."

Re-thinking openness

Heather has convened the first Open Adoption Roundtable and asked us to write on this question:

What one thing about open adoption would you tell your past self, if you could?

Quick answer: Just because you want an open adoption doesn't mean that your child's first mom will want the same thing.

When I wrote about meeting our little Squeaker, I was purposely short on the details of his birthmom's situation. I'll flesh that out just a bit more here, although I'm trying not to invade her privacy any more than absolutely necessary to answer the question. For a variety of very compelling reasons, Squeaker's first mom made the difficult choice to place her child for adoption. But she made that choice in a relative vacuum. She kept her pregnancy a secret from her friends and family. In her mind, she reached the conclusion that she would pursue adoption. And that's as far as her planning went.

She went to the hospital, she gave birth to her child by c-section, and 3 days later, when the hospital was ready for her to check out, she told them that the baby wouldn't be leaving the hospital with her. It was only then that the hospital called the adoption agency. The agency sent a social worker to meet with her, and the social worker gave her a handful of potential adoptive families to choose from. She selected us as her first choice and another family as a backup in case we didn't work out. Six hours later, we reached the hospital -- late at night, in the middle of a snowstorm.

During that time, the social worker spoke with her about open adoption, and explained that we would be signing an agreement in which we would promise to send photos, letters, arrange for visits, etc. All of this was a surprise to this young woman. She'd never heard of open adoption. We think that she was probably expecting that she'd have the baby, the hospital would handle everything, and she'd never see him again. She had mentally prepared herself for that scenario. Suddenly, she had to adjust to an entirely new concept -- openness. It was the middle of the night, she was in pain and exhausted, not to mention hopped up on hormones from the pregnancy and birth. It must have been an incredible amount of difficult information to process, under unthinkable circumstances.

We saw quite clearly at the time that she was struggling to grasp what "open" might mean. We, on the other hand, had been thoroughly educated and counseled by our agency. We were all over the open adoption concept -- we could proselytize about openness with the best of them. We had all the theory and the phrases and the philosophy memorized. We were ready, and we were excited.

And yet, we totally sympathized with this young mother. Openness wasn't what she was expecting when she started the adoption process. It's a relatively radical concept for those who have never heard of it. And who are we to demand it from her if she's not ready? We have done our best. We send photos and emails on a regular basis. We called her once in the beginning, but her life situation makes phone calls risky, and it was pretty clear that she was more comfortable with expressing herself in writing. We don't want to harass her or push her into a situation she's not ready for. It's a very fine line to walk between respecting her right to privacy and letting her know that we're here when and if she's ready. All we can do is keep the door open, let her know where we are, tell her when we'll be in her city and that we'd love to see her, and then leave it up to her to let us know if she'd like to meet us for a visit. I think it may take some time, perhaps years, before she reaches that point. And that's okay.

What's important is that she knows that the door is open, and that we remind her on a regular basis that we fully intend to keep it open. From there, we can only be patient and hope that one day, she'll decide to walk through it, or at least poke her head around the corner and say hi.

Yessir, that's my baby!

In my last post, I said:

We don't think about this as raising somebody else's child. Squeaker is our child just as much as if I'd given birth to him.

Mei Ling added this excellent comment:

The problem with that sort of comeback is that it expands the myth that adoption is "as if" one gave birth to a child, which can get rather misleading. I know what the original intention is, and some people will absolutely insist that adoption IS - in fact - just like giving birth, as IF they have indeed been yours since infancy (sans the womb). But I believe it's misleading and can be miscontrued accordingly....

And, of course, she's absolutely right. To clarify: I love Squeaker just as much as I would have loved a child that I carried in my womb. There is no question about that. I'd kill for him, just as any mama bear would kill for her child. But he is not my child in exactly the same way as if I'd given birth to him. Someone else gave birth to him, and he was her child first. I get the pleasure of raising him, of being covered in his puke, of drowning him in kisses, and of doing what I can to keep his first mother present in his life, to whatever extent she is able. He's our child, we two mothers, and what that means to each of us is not the same thing because the way that he came into each of our lives is not the same. That's not a good thing or a bad thing --- it's just the way it is.

Lest anyone take this the wrong way, I'll explain a little more. A child I had carried inside my womb (particularly one that was genetically related to me and the Mister) would be familiar to me outside the womb in a variety of ways. It might be that the child would look like my grandmother or have the Mister's smile, or a gesture would put us in mind of one of my rabidly right-wing uncles. There would be the usual surprising developments that any child springs on its parents, but many of them would be ones we had seen before, or variations thereof. Which could be great and amazing, but it could also be very bad. I've posted before about my hesitation at passing along certain of my family's genetic traits. In all honesty, it's an enormous relief not to have to worry about those exact traits plaguing my little Squeaker. When he pitches a fit, I'm not going to be wondering "Uh-oh, is this the first sign of clinical depression? Does he need medication?" If he were my genetic child, that possibility would always be in the back of my mind. Sure, it's possible that he inherited something similar from his first family. But we know almost nothing about that, so there are no preconceived notions, no instant leaps to the worst conclusion. Everything is new. We're just going to have to go with the flow. (And wonder about epigenomes, which is another post entirely.)

The most beautiful thing about Squeaker right now (besides his belly laugh, which brings waiters running across restaurants to see what's so funny) is that he is a constant surprise. I have no idea what to expect from him, because we have very little knowledge of, or contact with, the people who gave him his genetic makeup. We have some simple health history about his birth mom and her immediate relatives, but nothing about his birth father or his family. We know almost nothing about the way that he spent the first 9 months of his life, pre-birth. It's not as if he were abandoned on the street -- we do know the basics, and we have had contact with his first mom. But the information we have is minimal at best, not nearly as much as other families have in open adoptions, and it means that, for the most part, we're seeing Squeaker grow without knowing whether the trait of the day is from his great-aunt Sally or whether it's specifically new to him.

The changes he is going through now are enormous and evolve daily -- he can roll over whenever he chooses, he gets up on all fours for brief milliseconds before toppling over, he thinks applesauce is manna from heaven, he blows raspberries with his face all screwed up like Dizzy Gillespie, he has discovered his voice and roars with triumph as loudly as he can for long periods of time (sometimes so loudly that even he can't take the volume and buries his face in my shoulder as he roars), his cradle cap is finally flaking off and along with it his baby hair (helped along by the fact that he's discovered how fun pulling on his fuzzy topknot can be). He grabs a fistful of my hair on each side of my head so that he can pull my face to his and gnaw on my chin. (Those sloppy droolfests are kisses, right?) And I have no idea whatsoever whether these developments are happening in the same way that they did for his birth family members. It's all a mystery and it's all a surprise. We're pretty sure he got his beautiful eyes and his strong personality from his first mom. Otherwise, it's all new. And I love that. Each day is something different, and I have absolutely no idea what might come next. How lucky is that?

The things people say ...

1.    Is he from Ethiopia?

We get asked this pretty much any time we take Squeaker out in public. It seems that Ethiopia is the trendyplace to adopt from all of a sudden, which is probably why people name that country rather than another African country. Anyway, for whatever reasons, when white people in the PNW see a black baby with a white couple (this question only comes from white folks, so far), they think "Aha! Ethiopia!" -- as if white folks only raise black babies when the black babies come from another country. Maybe they don't realize that there are black babies being adopted domestically? I know they're just curious, but honestly, what does it matter where he's from? And how is it that a stranger on the street thinks they have the right to ask that question and get an answer? And why is it that we heard this question more in the large PNW city we went to last weekend than we do in our own smaller PNW city? Aren't big city dwellers supposed to be more hip to these things?

A grandmotherly woman who asked the question last weekend also blurted out that she'd just returned from Ethiopia. In her case, I think she was trying to show some familiarity with our child's assumed origins and perhaps exhibit support for our adopting transracially (and, she thought, internationally). The funny thing about that is that Squeaker really doesn't look a bit like an Ethiopian baby, except perhaps around the eyes. But he's a black baby with white parents, therefore ...

I get this question when Squeaker and I are out without the Mister too. What if I were Squeaker's biological mom and my husband was black? Is it really possible that mothers of mixed-race kids get asked on a regular basis whether their kids are from Ethiopia?

What I usually think: "What makes you ask that?"

What I say instead: "No, he's local."

The universal response to this is a pause, followed by ... "oh" ... and then a change of topic, often to the next question ...

2.    How long have you had him?

Why does this matter to a perfect stranger? I guess people are perhaps hoping that we just got back (from Ethiopia, of course!) and they can be among the first to congratulate us. Or perhaps they're curious about how we were able to adopt an infant. Or ... ??

What I usually think: "How is that any of your business?"

What I say instead: "He's been with us since he was 3 days old."

3.    You're a wonderful mother!

This is from that grandmotherly woman last weekend, the one who'd just returned from Ethiopia. I know she was just trying to be supportive, but honestly, that's a pretty big assumption to make about a stranger. I think this was her way of saying "it's so great that you adopted (transracially)!" 

What I thought: "How the hell would you know what kind of mother I am?"

What I said instead: "Thank you."

4(a).    You're so brave!

Okay, this one is not from a stranger; it's from a co-worker. She's about 50, not married, no kids. I think she probably wanted a family and just missed the window somehow. She's now in a relationship with a man who has a 13-year-old daughter, and she's struggling with those relationships. She has been very curious about our adoption, not from a "how did it happen" standpoint, but instead focusing on how I feel about everything and how our relationship with Squeaker has developed.

What I thought: "That's an incredibly presumptuous statement."

What I said instead: "Could you explain what you mean by 'brave'?"

Which led to this gem ...

4(b).    You're so brave to raise somebody else's child!

What I thought: "If this had come from a stranger, I'd be furious."

What I said instead: "We don't think about this as raising somebody else's child. Squeaker is our child just as much as if I'd given birth to him." 

His first mother was unable to parent him for a variety of very valid and difficult reasons, but she is not "somebody else" -- she is his first mother, and, accordingly, a member of the family. And we are not "raising" him -- we are parenting him, just as she would have if circumstances had been different. Saying that we're raising somebody else's child makes it sound as if we're doing some great charitable act, when in fact, we've been given a great gift. It is a privilege to be this little boy's mama, not a burden. (At least it's no more of a burden than it is for any parent to raise a child.) Hard work, yes. Burden that requires an act of bravery to take on, no.

5.    Do you love him?

This is from the same co-worker. Again, if a stranger had asked me this, my first reaction would be outrage. But I understand where my co-worker is coming from. She's suddenly living with a 13-year-old and feeling guilty that she doesn't automatically love the kid. And, although that's a tricky thing to work through, trying to bond with your boyfriend's teenager is not the same as voluntarily adopting an infant. There is a whole different basis for the relationship, and a whole different set of expectations going in. Not that she won't eventually love the child; it just might take longer and feel different than if she'd raised an infant from birth because she really really wanted a child.

What I thought: "You did not just ask me that."

My response: "Of course we love him."

ETA:

6.    You are the grandmother?

This came this morning from a possibly Somali woman who is the cashier at our local hardware store. She'd been eying us since we came into the store, clearly trying to figure out Squeaker's place in our lives.

What I thought:"Bwaaaa-ha-ha-ha!!! That's a first."

What I said instead: "Excuse me?"

Which prompted her follow-up question ...

7.    He is yours?

What I thought:"OMG, this poor woman is so confused."

What I said instead: "Yes, he's ours."

Why I needed help

It's been really interesting reading your comments and emails in response to my Mother's Day rant. It's also been interesting talking IRL with friends and family about the issues I raised in that post -- most particularly my need for help.

A long-distance relative told me she figured my close-by relatives would be helping us. My close-by relatives told me that they figured I was uber-competent and would have everything covered, or that, if I needed help, I should have asked for it in very specific ways. I'm still under the firm belief that the direness of the situation was patently obvious, and that even if they somehow didn't know I needed help, they should have at least offered to visit during those first weeks.

Several people have told me that they didn't want help when they gave birth to their babies -- that help would have been invasive or unnecessary. Nothing says that having a new baby automatically equals a need or a wish for help. I get this. But giving birth -- by definition -- gives you a wee bit of warning that a baby is on its way, and it gives you the opportunity to make the choice of whether or not you need or want help. So if you're the kind of person who, with 9 or so months to prepare for the birth of a child, is capable (like my SIL and a few other friends) of getting you and your household in order, freezing weeks' worth of dinners, managing all of the various chores, arranging your time off of work, etc. so that you feel comfortable taking those few precious first weeks as a time for your family to have private family time, then I applaud you. Hell, the truth is, I envy you.

You see, I didn't have that option. We had one hour's notice that we were going to be parents. One. Hour.

We had no chance to bake, freeze, plan, schedule or re-arrange. We had to drop everything immediately -- and of course we chose to do that -- but we also had to keep all of our balls in the air. We both had work deadlines that couldn't be moved. I had a more-than-full-time job to do, as did the Mister and those didn't go away just because we became parents.

So why weren't we ready just in case? Because no one expected us to get a baby that quickly. We'd only been in the pool 6 weeks. The agency had told us it would likely be 8 months to a year before we got a call. And because we were planning to have an open adoption, it was likely that we would get to meet the expectant mother before she had given birth -- perhaps months before. We thought we had time. We knew a last-minute placement was possible, but we didn't think it was likely. We certainly didn't think it was imminent.

(I realize in hindsight that because we said we were open to both a last-minute placement and a transracial adoption, we increased the likelihood of a last-minute placement. But we had no idea of this at the time.)

We didn't have the luxury of being able to have one or both of us caring for Squeaker and the household full-time in the first few weeks of his life. I had a board of directors and a CEO breathing down my neck, wondering when -- not if -- I'd have those documents ready for the big deal that we were negotiating. I had co-workers asking where their contracts were, because the vendor was supposed to start work next week, or the project was about to start in 2 days, and gosh they were really understanding about my situation and excited for me, but that didn't change the fact that work needed to be done, and I was the only one who could turn it around in time. My job requires me to be a semi-expert in about 8 areas of the law at once, and it would have taken weeks to train outside counsel to handle something that I could do in an hour. Of course, in order for me to have an hour, someone else had to be holding the baby. And the Mister's deadlines were worse than mine -- he was already many weeks overdue on several projects, and the very nature of his job means he was the only person who could get the work done.

Simply put, we were already completely slammed. We'd thought we'd have a chance to dig out before a baby arrived. Yeah, right.

"You need to get out and meet other new mothers," someone tosses out, as if once I talk to another new mother, I'll realize that all moms are stressed. Um, duh. I don't have to talk to anyone to know that. And I do know several other brand-new moms, but their work-life-mothering situations are very different from mine. They had 9 months' warning, or they're in their 30s, or they were able to take maternity leave while someone else handled their job, or they're full-time at-home moms. Not the same situation at all.

What I need is to meet other new mothers who are over 40, hold high-pressure professional jobs where they have no one who can step up and fill in for them -- mothers who, despite their fancy job, can't afford full-time childcare -- whose parents are older, whose husbands often work late into the night and on weekends, and who found out that they were going to be moms with less than one day's notice. I want to know how those women managed to cope, and how they're coping now.

Don't get me wrong -- the rest of y'all are simply awesome in terms of advice on diaper rash, endless crying, baby gear, general adoption issues, etc. ... but when we're talking about the first few weeks of my particular experience as a first-time mother, only folks who've walked that road are really in any place to tell me how reasonable or unreasonable my need for -- and expectation of -- help actually was. And the thing is ... I'm not sure that those women exist. And I'm getting incredibly tired of having to explain myself to well-meaning people who don't have a clue where I'm coming from.

You can't make this shit up

It's open enrollment time at work -- that time of year where the human resource people trot out their cheesiest smiles and tell you how much your health insurance will cost you this year, which of your benefits are changing or going away, and what the limit is on your pre-tax contribution plan.

This year, they're changing our dental insurance again and they've replaced our PPO provider. They're keeping my old HMO and, amazingly enough, the amount I'll pay for coverage has actually decreased.

"So what?" you ask. "Why do we care?"

Well, I spent the last 2-1/2 years at this company paying a lot for a no-frills HMO policy that didn't do me much good. It covered 1/2 of the cost of IUIs, but not if my RE did the procedure. I could get Clomid for $20, but the policy didn't cover monitoring. And those IVFs? Fuhggedaboutit. We bought those completely out-of-pocket. And they weren't cheap.

So back to open enrollment where, lo and behold, the new PPO -- and the newest version of my current HMO plan -- now cover 50% of fertility treatments!!

Fucking wonderful.

I'm almost 44 years old. I've fucking missed that fucking boat. And they fucking have to rub it in by covering this shit now when it will do me no fucking good whatsoever?!

Let's add this up. Between the IUIs, acupuncture, IVFs, drugs, monitoring, etc., that's about $15K we could have saved. Which would have meant that we wouldn't have had to to pay PMI on our new house, so our monthly mortgage payments would now be hundreds less.

Not to mention that the decreased financial stress might have made a difference in the overall outcome. If they had covered those treatments 3 years ago, we might have had a chance. A slim one, of course, but a chance.

I'd just about made my peace with all of this. I'm totally in love with Squeaker and absolutely delighted to be his mama. We've paid off the doctors and closed the door on further treatments. No more drugs, no more swollen ovaries, no more vicious mood swings and crushing disappointment. This is no longer a process or an expense we need to worry about. We're finished. It's over.

And of course, the change in coverage is wonderful news for my younger co-workers who may be battling the IF monster. I'm sorry that they're facing that battle, and delighted that it will be a less expensive battle to wage.

But I'm not going to lie -- when I saw that "50%" in the "amount covered" column of the insurance summary, it was all I could do not to burst into tears right there in front of everyone. And I've cried every time I've retold the story.

FUCKETY-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK.

Mother's Day, part 2

I should clarify that my rant today was specifically about my experience, but when I meant it to be generally applied, I was applying it to adoptive mothers of newborns specifically. Adoptive mothers of older children actually may not need or want immediate help -- sometimes bonding issues necessitate some private family time before additional adults are introduced. When in doubt as to whether your help would be helpful or appropriate, the best thing to do is ask.

We went on a very nice hike today with my mom and other family members. I mentioned my earlier post to mom, as I didn't want her to think that I was mad at her. As I said in the post, I'm just trying to sort through these feelings that I had when Squeaker was new. Mom seemed surprised at what I had to say. She said she hadn't wanted to intrude -- that she assumed we needed family time because of the adoption situation. Which goes to show that neither she nor I are much good at reading minds ; )

She also mentioned (and I don't think she'll mind my sharing this) that her mother showed up to help when I was born but wasn't much help at all, for reasons that seem primarily to have been age-related. I find this interesting, particularly when read in conjunction with the first two comments to my earlier post. Apparently a lot of women -- bio-moms included -- don't think they're getting enough (or the right kind of) help when they first become mothers. Now why is it that you never hear about this? Why are there all these secret mom-club and parent-club things that no one tells you until you're already in the thick of things? Don't you think this should be common knowledge and that this kind of thing should be mentioned in all of those "What to Expect" or "Yay, You're Adopting!" books? Why aren't women who've been through it forming organizations to remedy matters? (I know, I know, they're all too busy ferrying Junior to soccer practice ...) If we're all too busy to help our friends and family, then maybe there should be a free service or professional organization to do this ... Quick, someone set up a nonprofit!

On a totally different note, does anyone besides me have a child who hates hates hates riding in his carseat? If so, any helpful hints? Squeaker screamed hysterically for 1-1/2 hours each way today. He was fed, dry, not gassy, etc. -- just didn't want to be in the car seat. When we take him out of the chair, he stops screaming almost immediately. And we're supposed to drive out of state next weekend. We may go mad if it's anything like today's trip was ...