This is why I am not quick to share my birthmotherhood with every Tom, Dick and Harry. Or, mostly, Jane. Jane is a judgmental wench.

The pervasive belief that all who relinquished their child for adoption were going to harm their child. Which, of course, then tumbles and spills over into an automatic judgment of how I must parent my children now, most evident in the question I was once asked, in person, face-to-face with someone I still see on a regular basis, “And they let you have more children?”

Who is they? And why on Earth wouldn’t they let me have another child?

Let’s me say this: I was not ever a threat to the well-being of my children.

From moment one when those lines showed up on that pregnancy test in that pink-tiled upstairs bathroom, I knew I would do anything to protect my Munchkin. I would have given my life — and nearly did so three times during the duration of that complicated, life-threatening pregnancy. I fought, tooth and nail, to keep her inside, to keep her safe, to make sure that she had all the time she needed so that she would be healthy; my own health meant nothing to me as long as she was okay. When they came to talk to me about what would happen if she came early, I told them that she needed to be cared for first, that she was their first priority. I would have given my life for her. I endured endless months of bed rest, horrible medical procedures and a general lack of support for my daughter.

And I’d do it again.

The truth is that all of that health stuff only further complicated my singleness and poked holes in my fear and anxiety that I wasn’t “enough” for my daughter. That’s how we came to this place, where I am here and she is there and we are separate. No one told me that “enough” is relative. No one told me that if I was strong enough to endure the agonizing pregnancy with the Munchkin that I was surely strong enough to parent her. No one told me that “stuff” doesn’t make a parent. That adoptive parents fail just as much as we do. That it would be okay. So my anxiety lead the way. And here we are.

So tell me where in all of this that I was a danger to my child.

Tell me why I shouldn’t have been “allowed” to have other children.

Tell me why people look at me like a murderer when they hear that I placed my firstborn for adoption.

Tell me that they don’t doubt my parenting ability, question whether they should let their kids come over without their perfect-parent supervision.

Tell me that you are perfect.

I will be honest. I am human. I am not a perfect parent. I fall short for my parented children almost daily. But they are never in danger. They are always well-fed, except when they refuse to eat a meal that they liked just fine two weeks ago. They are always clean, except right out of the mud pit under the slide. They are always loved, even when they deliberately disobey me by reading past the final lights out. (Those young readers! Love ‘em! But man, go to sleep because tomorrow you will be a bear!) They are always safe, because this specific issue — this unnecessary judgment — has forced me to be a helicopter parent. What if we’re at the playground and BigBrother is on the monkey bars and falls and breaks his arm? Is someone going to see that as an example of me not paying enough attention to my children? What if they’re playing outside in our totally safe yard and someone kidnaps him? Is that then an example of how I am not an attentive mother? And so I hover.

Because of you.

Because of your unnecessary judgments.

Because of the way the news media only jumps on the most sensational stories of adoption.

Because of the way television and movie writers portray birth parents.

Because of the way we forced so many mothers into silence in decades past by telling them that they weren’t good enough.

Because of a need to see birth parents as unworthy, adoptive parents as worthy.

Because I fear that one misstep on my part will be judged more harshly than one misstep on your part.

All because as a scared, very sick, very determined-to-protect-my-child expectant mother, I chose the only path that I thought was available to us at the time.

I hear all the time that being an adoptive parent makes you a better parent because you waited and you “chose” a child. I say that being a birth mother makes you a better parent because you’re too scared to do anything wrong because you know everyone is just waiting for you to fail. Obviously, I don’t believe that at all, on either side, or in any variation that you want to say that one type of parent (attachment parenting, step-parent, those who endured miscarriages (of which I am one), and on and on) is better than another. It’s all false. Lies. Lies we tell ourselves and one another to make ourselves feel better about our choices, our lot in life, our short-comings. We’re all the parents we were intended to be, no matter how we came to the place where we are today. It’s a crap shoot, at best.

I have a grand dream that one day the sun will set on this pointless argument.

And those who are so concerned about the parenting abilities of me and the mothers and fathers like me — or anyone else who just dares to be different than the socially accepted norm — will, if not fully respect my family, go back to focusing on their own families.

So I thought I would explain more about what “my peace” means to me.

First and foremost, peace doesn’t mean happiness. Quite honestly, happiness is fleeting. If you want to live a full life, you should be searching for joy, not happiness. Happiness is based on life situations and external circumstances. Joy is based on your outlook on life, your core views on life, your inner being — even when the situation at hand isn’t happy. I live a joyful life, but that doesn’t mean I’m always happy.

How does that relate to adoption? I’m not always happy as a birth mother. There are times when I am downright sad. Her birthday, holidays, moments that catch me off guard. They are hard, they are real. Allowing myself the room to be sad is part of my peace.

I don’t allow others to tell me when to be happy, when to be sad, when to feel anything. I feel what I feel. Recognizing that was a big turning point in my healing. I am allowed to feel what I feel.

Because I am a person who leads a joyful life, not just a happy one, I look for the good in everything. Sometimes I fail. I am human. Even when I am sad however, my life is not lacking joy. Even in the darkest of times, when happiness seems a billion light years away, there is joy — in family, in self, in life itself.

So, no, my peace doesn’t mean that I’m always happy. It means that I have a joy in knowing that I gave birth to a daughter that I fought, tooth and nail, to keep healthy during pregnancy. It means that I am allowed to be sad. To be angry. To be scared. To be apathetic. To be excited. To be overwhelmed. To be underwhelmed. To be whatever I need to be at any given moment. It means that, at my core, I’m okay with the mixed bag of emotions that come with adoption relinquishment.

You’ll note, of course, that I mentioned anger. So many fear anger, and I did for quite some time. I don’t feel angry often any more, though I did have a moment on her birthday this past year during which I was so angry with Munchkin’s biological father that I could have spit. But it passed. And there was room for the feeling when it was there. Anger is not a negative emotion. It is simply emotion. When we act out negatively in anger, things can get messy. Feeling it, acknowledging it and seeing how it fits into my journey allows me to nod my head at it and move on to the next emotion — which is hopefully something easier to swallow.

My peace also doesn’t mean that I don’t miss my daughter. Some people assume that, have sent me crazy, ridiculous emails accusing me of “forgetting” my daughter or doing her harm by talking about peace. I miss my daughter. Plain and simple. There is no question about it nor has there ever been. I miss her. But I also can’t do anything about the past which brings me to another key point in my peace: Accepting the past, hoping for the future.

I made choices. Some were helped along by bad advice and lies. But I made choices. I accept those choices and their consequences. Oh, they stink at times. That whole missing my daughter and feeling sad? Not fun. The times when my boys question me about the whys and hows of letting her go? Cuts me to the core. But I accept it. I cannot change my past, but I can hope for the future.

I can hope that someday I will have a decent-to-great relationship with my daughter. I can hope that she will understand and, if not, forgive me. I can hope that my sons will understand and, if not, forgive me. I can hope that I will continue to have a great relationship with her mom. I can hope that changes with come to the adoption industry that make it so young mothers aren’t lied to. I can hope that speaking out educates others and changes long-standing stereotypes. I can hope that laws change so that adoptees get their original birth certificates. I can hope that someday the angry moments are much fewer and much farther between. I can hope that the joy I have for my life overflows into my everyday demeanor. I can hope that someday my peace allows total self-forgiveness someday. I’m getting there; guilt and shame are hard to beat, and even in their overwhelming negativity, there is room for them as long as I don’t allow those two things to rule my actions or the rest of my feelings.

My peace is about living this life the best way I can each and every day. I stumble sometimes. I fall. I don’t have all the answers for myself, let alone other people. But every time I wake up on a new morning, it’s a new chance to live my peace. My joyful, happy, sad, angry, guilty, shamed, excited, proud, worried, anxious, trusting, accepting, messy peace.

And, oh, I am thankful for that chance every day I get it.

I was looking through photos of that visit this evening, remembering the things we did and the things we said and the memories we created. I felt that twinge of sadness, but I also felt that joy that we have what we have; we are rare and I am grateful for everything we have created for ourselves.

LittleBrother is on a big Munchkin kick as of late.

“Is it the end of May yet? But can’t we go at the end of April? We did last year!”

It’s hard to explain that you can skip preschool with much more ease than you can skip Kindergarten… that elementary school ruins your lives and it stays that way clear through college… and, let’s be honest, on into the work years of our lives. He just knows that last April, we went to see the Munchkin and, dang it, we should this year as well.

My heart agrees. My schedule does not. It’s hard to fit in two separate t-ball leagues (age differences) and play dates and, well, work and church and family and making a new house our own and on and on. That’s not even taking into account the busy life that Munchkin and her family lead. I wouldn’t wish different for us — I think that each of our immediate families lives a life that keeps us busy and active in ways that are beneficial to each family member. It’s what I wanted for myself, for my sons… for my daughter. I love that she’s involved with so much.

But the passage of time blows by so quickly. And suddenly we’re all one year older. I feel one part thrilled that we’ve lasted another year — alive and in a successful open adoption relationship — and one part part sad that we are apart this year.

All I know is that I am a far cry from the twenty-one year old girl who read a positive pregnancy test. In good ways… and in ways that you don’t know to expect, some of which are sad. I am proud of who I am, even if one of those parts of me is sometimes sad.

Last week I took it upon myself to mentally recall all of the magazines we are subscribed to and update their addresses. I had to mentally recall because I had, in a fit of “if it sits still, we’re throwing it out” packing craziness, tossed almost all of our old magazines. Only a few new magazines had made their way through mail forwarding to the new house, so I was left to sift through the subscriptions in my brain.

It took awhile.

Eventually I remembered that BigBrother had been receiving Highlights High Five. His reading has exploded, so I had the genius idea of moving the High Five subscription into LittleBrother’s name and gifting BigBrother with a new subscription to regular Highlights. If you’re not familiar with either magazine for kids, you should really look into one or the other. High Five is great to read to your pre-readers and fabulous for your new readers as the stories are short and easy to read. Highlights is still the mega-awesome children’s magazine that you remember from back in the day.

So, I went to the website… and woe is me, it was having some of its own tech woes that day. I don’t know if it was because I was changing names or what, but nothing worked. Frustrated after a day of magazine address changing, especially considering that some magazines don’t let you change your address online at all, I tweeted.

@Highlights I’m trying to renew subscriptions and it’s telling me the card isn’t working. I tried 2!

— Jenna Hatfield (@FireMom) April 2, 2012

It wasn’t mean. I didn’t expect to hear anything and planned on taking one for the team and calling the next afternoon. But before I could do that, they tweeted me!

@FireMom That sounds frustrating! I’m so sorry. If you are still having trouble please email us at customerservice at Highlights (dot) com.

— Highlights (@Highlights) April 3, 2012

And then, before I could email them, someone named Hillary was DM-ing me! I laughed because she claimed to be a fan of my blog. I chalked it up to having been given some good PR talks about how to deal with angry bloggers who have taken to twitter and thanked her for her help.

But she went above and beyond taking care of the problem. She changed subscription names and addresses and comped us one of our two subscriptions since we had problems with the website. I was really, really touched by her hard work. And it was hard work. She worked at that for a long time that day, trying to figure out what went wrong and then going about the process of making it right. I was really pleased. And I said so!

I have to say this after my experience today: @Highlights has the best online customer service team. Ever.

— Jenna Hatfield (@FireMom) April 3, 2012

But I had no idea that my customer service experience was about to get even better.

A couple of days later, I traipsed out to our new mailbox to retrieve the mail and found an envelope from Highlights. One piece of paper held all of the confirmations for changes and subscriptions and letting me know I’d be billed for the Highlights subscription. The other was a handwritten note. I won’t include everything written in it as some of it is just good PR, something you might expect.

But then, at the end of the note, well, I’ll share that…

I mentioned I’ve read your blog for awhile. My mom is also a birth mom to her firstborn. Thank you for all you do for those of us living on all sides of adoption.

I almost dropped the letter.

I cried.

It took a few days and then I emailed her to thank her, to confirm something and to ask if I could quote her in a post. She replied and graciously allowed me to use her words. She went into further detail in the email, explaining how the relinquishment of her mother’s firstborn shaped who her mother was as a person and a mother and that it shaped both she and her brother.

I cried again.

There are moments in blogging, in writing, in living an open life that catch me off guard. I should know to expect them. I should realize that people from all walks of life might come across my words and relate to them in one way or another. And I do. I’m not surprised when my mother-in-law knows what I’m doing even when I haven’t called to tell her. I’m not surprised when new local friends Google me and know more about me before I get a chance to tell them my story. But I sometimes forget how small the Internet is and how words can reach through the screen — or out of a hand-written letter — and touch your heart so deeply.

What started out as a simple project of updating our subscriptions turned into a moment of connection between myself and a reader. A moment of validation that someone out there gets it. A moment of remembering why I keep blogging even when the muck is deep. A moment of hope for my parented sons that their reality isn’t all that horrible.

Quite simply, while I was a Highlights fan before, I can say that our family will be lifelong subscribers.

Write about open adoption agreements. Is there one in your open adoption? What effect does it have on your relationships? If you could go back in time, would you approach the agreement differently?

About one month after the Munchkin was born and placed with Dee, I once again had stable Internet. It was at that time I learned open adoptions were not legally binding in our state, meaning that Dee could close the adoption and essentially fall off the face of the Earth with the Munchkin. I would have no recourse. End of discussion.

I was slightly upset. To put it mildly.

I had not been informed of this fact. The unethical facilitator through which I placed did not tell me this information in any way, shape or form. ANLC presented open adoption as all good. They told me that I would be sad for awhile, but that it would get better. Little did I know they were telling Dee that eventually, most likely after a year, I would disappear. I was lied to, by omission, about the true facts of open adoption. ANLC lied in order to make sure that I would relinquish.

I called them on it shortly after I found out the truth about open adoption. Literally. I called them. When I asked why I wasn’t told that open adoptions weren’t legally binding in my state, my “counselor” replied, after a lengthy pause, “Who told you that?” As if it was some big secret. As if she had been outed, right then and there, as a liar. She then tried to cover her tracks, claiming that since she was in California, she wasn’t 100% sure about Pennsylvania law. I lost it at that point.

I turned to Dee at that point. She and her then-husband were equally upset. They turned to their Pennsylvania based lawyer, not the facilitator, and had a good faith agreement drawn up.

I’ll be honest: I don’t even know what it says anymore.

The agreement matters very little to me. Dee knows I’m not going anywhere. And if I do, she has my social security number and could track me down quite easily. I know that Dee isn’t going anywhere. We decided long ago that we were in it for the long haul, even through the crappy stuff. Our relationship goes beyond paper and signatures. We are family. I don’t need an agreement with my mother to continue a relationship with her. I don’t have to have my dad sign a piece of paper that he won’t disappear from my sons’ lives as their very important grandfather. My mother-in-law never had to promise to love us: she just does.

In saying that, I recognize that families have falling outs. People cut each other out for all number of reasons. It’s a fact of life. I recognize that the space exists for Dee to disappear. Or for me. I think it’s always a fear in the back of my head, my heart, but I don’t dwell on it. I don’t let it affect our relationship, like I don’t let the fact that my brother could decide to never see his nephews ever again affect the relationship I have with him. Quite honestly, every relationship is a good faith relationship: you have the faith that you’ll wake up tomorrow and your mom will still love you, your friend will still be your friend and that your husband will still be in your bed.

I’m okay with all of that, I suppose.

I’m not okay with the way that ANLC lied to me. I’m not okay with agencies and facilitators lying to expectant parents considering relinquishment and adoptive families alike about the ins and outs of open adoption just so they can get what they want which is, of course, the money. I’m not okay with this form of coercion that is alive and well in our country.

But I am okay with what I have in my daughter’s family. We make our relationship work. It is always my hope that the others out are able to find something that works for them as well. I know it doesn’t always work — like any other relationship — but that doesn’t make it any less sad.

– __ — __ –

Open Adoption Bloggers has a new look. Check it out.

I thought. And I tweeted as much as I could get about the adoption niche of the Internet in one little 140 character tweet with two separate hashtags.

While those things are incredibly important and should be a flag to wave for any and every adoption blogger, the power of the Internet has meant more and has done more than just those things for me over the years. Speaking very personally, I can list off a number of things the power of the Internet has done for me, has taught me, has done for my little niche at large.

The power of the Internet has:

• taught me that I’m not alone. Of course, that goes along with uncloaking secrecy, but it goes beyond that as well. For decades upon decades, birth parents were expected to be quiet and go on living despite their grief and loss. They were to be happy for their “new” lives, even though those new lives were forever altered. Open adoption brought about a band-aid answer to that pain, but the Internet gave us a space to talk about it. The Internet made it okay to stand up and say, “I’m a birth mother.” Though, of course, the haters will always hate, the power of the Internet let me know that I am not alone in my sad feelings, my happy feelings and my in-between feelings as a birth mother.

• brought adoptees from all walks, emotions and experiences into my life. From them, I have learned much. I have put much of what they have taught me — by words or actions — into practice when I deal with situations that arise in my home with my parented children, outside my home with society at large and, most specifically, in my relationship with my daughter. I am not claiming to have taken every bit of (sometimes unsolicited) advice to heart when it comes to adoptees (as I don’t do that with anyone), but I have expanded my understanding of what adoption means to the adopted child and adult because they were brave and wise enough to share their words. More over, I came to understand the unethical ways we have treated adoptees over the years and why it is so important for them to have their Original Birth Certificates (OBC).

• shown me that different doesn’t diminish, but diminishing does hurt us all. We all have different stories, beliefs, ways of coming to terms with and understanding our journeys. Across the triad and beyond, we are all simply different. Those differences don’t diminish our stories; one story is not more important than the other, one story is not inferior to another. In fact, those differences make our stories all the more powerful. We need the stories of coercion that still exist in today’s adoption industry to be told to understand the changes that need to be made, but that doesn’t mean that the mother who wasn’t coerced doesn’t have an equally important story to tell as well. Our stories weave together and form a larger picture of what adoption means in today’s society. One without the other leaves out the brilliant textures, but bringing them together creates an unmistakable and nuanced voice that cannot and should not be ignored.

• let me not only see but believe that our differences aren’t all that different. Despite the fact that I think our differences lend to the bigger picture of what adoption is and is not, I have learned over the years that our differences aren’t all that different. We come to the adoption roundtable with many titles: birth mother, first mother, natural mother, adoptive mother, adoptee, closed adoption, open adoption, foster adoption, abandoned, taken away, coerced, forced, and on and on. We cling to our titles — and rightly so: they are our own titles. But sometimes, we swing those titles around like swords, fighting with others who stand opposite or even right next to us in our niche. Birth mother against adoptive mother. Closed adoption against open adoption. We clash and smash our sword-titles together, seeing who wins out — but really, we’re just women and men. Titles aside, we are human. We have an innate need to be heard, to be recognized — and that is why we clash. Our differences don’t matter as much when we put down the swords and look at each other and realize that we’re all human. We don’t need to do this, to go there. We are stronger when we accept one another versus when we tear each other down.

• helped me find my peace. Or, whatever peace is at any given time. From both sharing my story and reading others, I have come to accept that my journey with peace will be a lifelong path. There will be peaks and valleys. There will be happiness and sadness. There will be rough patches, no doubt. And while others chastise me, forgetting that our differences don’t diminish or that our differences aren’t all that different, I have found the space to allow myself to be happy when I am happy, sad when I am sad and in between when I am in between. I have come to accept that adoption grief and loss will shade my life forever, but that the shading doesn’t have to define my every day. I am more than just a birth mother, more than just a mother, more than just a woman. The journey to discovering and accepting that was found on the words and experiences that others were brave enough to share over the years. Without the Internet and the power behind your words, I don’t know how long it would have taken me to accept the good, the bad and the whole of my journey.

There are more… many. I’m sure you can think of some now as you sit in your sameness and meander through the memories of what the Internet has taught you about adoption, parenthood… life. I encourage you to share some via the hashtag or on your own blog. I encourage you to remember as you do that we’re not really all that different. And yes, I want to hear you as well.

Yeah, I balked too.

While I can’t dismiss her seemingly personal experience, I still do not believe that the majority of birth mothers feel “happy” upon relinquishment. I explained that it wasn’t a happy moment for me. And then I went on… as I usually do.

Out of all of the birth mothers and adoptive mothers with whom I have discussed THIS specific moment, not ONE has said that it was a happy moment for the birth mother. Later? When things and hormones and everything calm down? And promises are kept? And normalcy brings everyone together? Yes, that can be happy (though, also really, bittersweet). But that moment? Of letting go, of signing it away, of the lowest lows? Is not happy.

Of note: I did not have to sign papers in the hospital as I was released from the hospital before the required 72 hours before a mother can sign the Termination of Parental Rights in Pennsylvania. I signed at home. However, leaving the hospital without my daughter was incredibly hard. That letting go, the walking away, the dying inside. The only thing that even comes close to matching that moment of low was signing the papers with the attorney. Those two moments were not happy. They were incredibly hard, soul-sucking and reduced me to feeling nothing more than worthless.

Speaking specifically of that moment in the hospital — the hand off — I have blurry memories. I was panicked because my mom refused to come to the hospital so I was doing it with the help of my dad who was trying to be strong but was emotionally devastated as well. I remember Dee sitting in a chair across the room; she was wearing glasses. I remember the nurse, touching my arm. I remember the feeling that I had no control over the moment. It wasn’t that I wanted to change my mind; it was that I wanted everything to slow down. I wanted to breathe. I didn’t want the nurses to be pushing us out the door. I wanted to sit, to think, to talk. I wanted to look at my baby, quietly and without interruption. But things were going so fast and it hurt too bad to look at her, so I slipped into the mighty trick of astigmatism-caused blurred vision and melted away.

I was not happy when the nurse wheeled me down the hallway. I was not happy when my dad took my daughter from my arms. I was not happy when I got up and walked out of the hospital without a goodbye, cold December wind slicing through me, making me catch my breath which, having just had a baby, hurt. I was not happy as we pulled away, as my dad broke down in sobs.

The thing is, that while Dee was happy to have a baby sitting next to her in the car, she shared how bittersweet the moment was for her, how sad she was that I was obviously — and rightfully — heartbroken. I remember her words, which are not mine to share with you, and how amazed I was that she was able to convey that bittersweet moment, when she was placed between two emotions and forced to feel them both. She was happy and she was sad.

And so, I’ve been forced to think about this for the majority of the day. I don’t deny that in certain cases, a mother relinquishing her child might be able to feel happy. I know others who spoke of not quite happiness but instead a peace; they were at peace with their decision but they still felt a sadness. I know many others who felt an incredible, deafening, eye-blurring sadness — like me. Others were angry. There are many ways to feel, of course.

So, I decided to make a poll. I could have put emotion after emotion, but stopped after a short while. The last option is “unknown” if you can’t quite recall. I made a radio button poll so that you can only select one even though I know the majority of us felt a multitude of emotions. Please select the one you feel fits closest to what you felt, though I did write in an option for no one word can quite describe. (To be honest, I don’t know which button I’m going to press when I publish this post. We’ll see!) I would encourage you to explain your answer — if you feel so inclined. I’m sure some less than ethical people might try to skew the results of this poll, so — as with all things on the Internet — take it with a grain of salt. At the very least, I think discussing this would be a good thing.

Note: Everyone is welcome to participate in comment discussions. I would appreciate if only birth parents would answer the poll. I have no way of enforcing this, but you know, be fair.

And by the way? The attorney in the referenced post? Lacked compassion, an understanding of the moment she was experiencing and the ability to read people and emotions. End of discussion on whether or not we should “dis” her.

But sometimes…

Sometimes I can’t write some things because… because I can’t.

I’m rarely wordless. I have lots to say. About lots of things.

But there are topics. There are things. There are emotions and experiences and bouts of depression and feelings and fears and thoughts that I just can’t put out into the great wide open. As much as I’d like to credit myself that I’m just “taking care of me” and “respecting my own boundaries,” it’s not that. Or, it is sometimes. But, with some things, the words simply won’t form.

Sometimes it’s because I’ve blocked something out and have no ability to even go there to form the words, to even find the memories. Sometimes it’s because I know what I want to say… and I don’t want to say it out loud. I don’t want it to be real. I don’t want me to know I feel a certain way, let alone you. And so I’m silent. I don’t go there.

People say things, even with good intentions, not knowing. Or maybe not understanding even if they know. And I blink, force myself to smile and nod. I stumble over some answer I’ve formed over the years. I look away. I disappear inside of myself, somewhere between a memory and a prayer that this conversation will end. Soon.

But it won’t. It doesn’t. It will continue. And I’ll just keep smiling and nodding and stumbling and disappearing.

Uh, no.

Yes, I am an adoption advocate. An ethical adoption advocate. Ahem.

There are many things wrong with how I was approached.

1. I may mention adoption stuff at will on the family blog, but it is not my adoption blog. Reading it at all would tell you that. Pitch me in the appropriate blog.

2. Pitch me in an appropriate manner. Both blogs include not only a contact form but my actual email address in case you think the contact form didn’t work properly. Pitching in the comments is spam, plain and simple. Unless the post was “I’m looking for a great way to improperly promote my own agenda for Adoption Awareness Month instead of focusing on the children in our country who are currently waiting in foster care! Can anyone point me in the right direction?” That would be the only time that a comment of such nature wouldn’t be considered spam.

3. Adoption Awareness Month is not about promoting the wonders of open adoption in hopes of convincing expectant mothers to relinquish. Adoption Awareness Month is about raising awareness that TOO MANY of our children are waiting in our — broken and badly in need of reform — foster care system. This month should not be used for agencies to “get the word out” about how “awesome” open adoption is in hopes of making the proverbial buck. This should be a time when agencies stop trying to attain the almighty dollar and instead point to the foster care system and how our children need homes. This should be a time where we stop and think about those children and how the system is doing them wrong in many ways. This should be a time where we stand up and say that the reforms that are so desperately needed NEED to be addressed. Not next year. Now. The only “open adoption” promotion that should be going on this month is this kind: Showing that you can adopt from foster care and have a successful open adoption with birth family members. That’s it. No domestic open adoption monkey making hoopla. Children finding families. Children keeping roots. Children. Who need homes. Not homes who need children.

I absolutely loathe that domestic newborn adoption agencies attempt to use this month as a way to make money off of adoptive parents and “waiting” babies who aren’t really waiting. I hate that they refuse to acknowledge what this month is all about, who this month should really benefit. I’m tired of being asked to participate in things that don’t even begin to skim the surface of what this month could and should be about. It sickens me that certain agencies are just concerned about their own wallets and not real children needing real homes.

So, no, I won’t participate in your “open adoption tumblr.” I won’t promote your cause, because your cause is not my cause. Even if your cause was my cause, learn how to pitch bloggers. Spam is spam is spam.

/end rant

I thought it could be fun to do an open mic style roundtable. Our group is growing and a lot of us haven’t “met” each other yet. So point us to a favorite post on your blog. It doesn’t even need to be about adoption. And tell us a little bit about why you picked the one you did.

My favorite post on Chronicles is The Woman Upstairs. I wrote it in 2009, and though I’ve written some great stuff since then, it is still that one I return to time and time again.

A snippet:

She lived in the apartment above mine. She walked heavy and had an even heavier case of insomnia. Pregnant and on bed rest, unable to sleep at night myself, I’d hear her feet hit the floor at one o’clock in the morning. She’d stomp into the bathroom and run herself a hot bath. For awhile, the sounds would cease as she likely attempted to relax herself back to sleep. She’d stomp back to bed, waking me yet again. I’d roll to my other side, hand gently touching my belly as the Munchkin kicked me. My precious daughter was a night owl as well.

There are many reasons why that post is my favorite, so I can’t narrow it down to just one. It remains my best piece of writing about the memories of my pregnancy, as I shut them down and push them aside so often. I let myself “go there” for this particular post and the result was something that I was intensely proud of, though completely drained after writing it.

I’m going to go blog-hopping and read the amazing posts other people chose… as soon as this New School Year Ick lets me sit upright for more than an hour at a time. Oh, germs.