As such, I’m hosting the Adoption Reading Challenge again in 2012. The landing page to share your links is already live. I kept the reading levels and number of challenge books the same this year. I actually fell short of the 20 myself (by 3!), but I don’t think 20 books is too outrageous. Here’s the challenge levels:

Level 1: Read 3 books about adoption, non-fiction or fiction.
Level 2: Read 6 books about adoption, 3 non-fiction/3 fiction.
Level 3: Read 12 books about adoption, 6 non-fiction/6 fiction.
Level 4: Read 20 books about adoption, 10 non-fiction/10 fiction.

That’s a lot of reading if you choose Level 4, but it was really interesting for me. I had to go out and beyond what my experience is (open, domestic adoption) and into other realms I hadn’t before (international adoption, adoptee rights, and so on). The rules, on the official page, are also the same as last year, with this addition that explains why people not touched by adoption might want to join this challenge.

Adoption is a huge theme in books (and movies/TV). Reading it with that in mind, to look at how it is treated in both fiction and non-fiction is a great way to become mindful of something that might be outside of your immediate experience.

Edited to Add: The rules also show that we have a Goodreads group for the challenge. Participation is not mandatory. Why should you use it? It would be great if you’re not a blogger (easy, quick interaction and reviews) or if you don’t like to review every book on your blog. It would also be great to help others find books.

The truth is that adoption is mentioned in all sorts of popular books (think Twilight to Jodi Picoult to even the books our children read). Recognizing it when you read it, talking about it and understanding why some depictions of adoption are detrimental to social change is not a bad idea whether you’re touched by adoption or not.

That said, I hope you will participate again in the Adoption Reading Challenge. You can sign up below and leave your links for reviews on the main landing page. Doing so helps others figure out what to read as they go. (Or, you know, what not to read if it’s a truly horrid book.)

I hope you'll join us again this year. I have no clue what I'll be reading adoption-wise this year (though I do know that even when I wasn't planning on reading an adoption-specific book, I sometimes got to check off another book read as it ended up being about adoption!). Let's get reading and sharing ideas, okay? Okay!

It’s hard sometimes, as so many adoption books written for children are written for adopted children. While One Little Girl could arguably be a book for adopted children, it presents the stories of the adoptive parents and the birth mother with the same amount of care, weight and length.

We first meet the adoptive parents before they are married. They fall in love, get married and decide they want to have a child. But, time passes and they do not. The theme of the story is wrapped up in this line:

Although they were still happy,
they were a little less happy
than they could have been if
they had a baby
to share their love.

We then meet a “Lovely Young Girl” who is “clever” and, as you might guess, finds herself pregnant. The words used to describe her pregnancy are not overly negative. In fact, she is described as being “both excited and scared.” They do emphasize the “quite young” part a few times, which doesn’t sit overly well with me, but not obnoxiously so. It doesn’t get into why she can’t care for the baby herself, other than her age, which — again — isn’t what I wish to convey, but again, the heart of the message feels pure.

The only thing that doesn’t really sit well is the illustration and wording when the girl chooses the adoptive parents.

When my baby is born, I would like you
to be the Mommy and Daddy.
I love my baby very much,
and this is the greatest gift I can give her.

The illustration is, as you might guess, a package wrapped up in a bow.

I hate this analogy. The giving and receiving of gifts as it pertains to adoption. Especially considering that on the next page the adoptive parents refer to the giving of the baby as “a great gift.” I just don’t like that terminology in this context. It sits wrong. It feels wrong. I recognize that as my personal preference and my own issue, but it sits wrong all the same.

We are treated to the birth mother saying goodbye to her daughter, telling her that she loves her and handing her over. Instead of just disappearing into the ether like some other adoption books have done to the birth mother. I appreciated this page because of the emphasis on love. If anything, I want my sons to understand that I did not relinquish their sister due to a lack of love. I loved her very much — unconditionally. I am hoping this page will help reinforce that as they continue to build their understanding of what adoption is — and isn’t.

Obviously, there are some things in this book that are not the same as my story. Munchkin isn’t blonde nor is she blue eyed. The book doesn’t go on to say whether or not an open adoption happened and how that works. The book doesn’t even remotely address the fact that the birth mother did not get pregnant on her own and that there are birth fathers out there who love their children as much as the mothers in question.

But, to be honest, the book didn’t piss me off either. Which is my indicator of a relatively good children’s book on adoption. Because some books do make me cuss. They are written without concern that birth mothers’ children will be reading them, without a care that other children might also form their understanding of adoption based on the words in the book. This one takes care, despite the gift context, to show that this was a loving decision between people who cared deeply for this child.

I should say that the illustrations are beyond gorgeous. (And that there’s no pregnant young girl holding her belly with a forlorn look on her face like we see all the time. Hooray!) However, please beware the font. It’s — well — it’s unique.

The book’s author is — not surprisingly — an adoptive father. I was interested to learn that his daughter, the subject of this book, is six months older than the Munchkin. I feel like he tried, very hard, to capture both sides of the equation — without making it feel like he was trying too hard. And, trust me, that’s hard to do. (Note: The illustrator has brothers who were adopted.) I’d still really like to see a book of this nature written by a birth parent. (And no, my friends, this is not where I excel. So don’t say, “There! That’s your book!” My child storytelling is somewhat… lacking.)

I do wonder if the dedication of the book is to their daughter’s birth mother. It reads, like the hook of the book:

This book is dedicated to Judy Smith, without whom, we would still be a little less happy than we could have been.

I also wonder, taking it back to the hook of the book quoted above, if their daughter’s birth mother is ever “a little less happy” than she would have been if she had parented. For all of our talk about accepting our decisions to relinquish and being happy where we are in life, the truth is that the sting will always be there when I think about my decision to place the Munchkin for adoption. I can’t tell you what life would have been like if I had parented or how happy/unhappy I would be with my current life. But I can tell you that there will always be a sadness — a little less happy — because I let her go.

I suppose, when I’m honest, that’s the other thing that smarts about the book. The happiness factor. It feels like we put a lot of pressure on our children when we equate them with our happiness. Furthermore, placing the weight of your happiness on someone else’s loss seems to be a little… much. But it’s a book for children and getting deep into the one person’s loss is another person’s gain isn’t really the point of this book. I suppose. Perhaps just a mention of a tear. A bit of sadness. I don’t know. Something that acknowledges the duality of adoption; anything.

But…

I like the book. There, I said it. I read it in my kitchen when it arrived and I cried. The sad cry of a mother who let go. The anguished cry of a mother trying to figure out how to help her sons understand why she would do that, why she would let go. The slightly happy cry that, for once, my place in an adoption book was more than two sentences long. The birth mother matters in this book, and not just as a means of delivering the child. The love is what matters.

And that’s what I love about this book.

We happened into a little bookstore. I hit the kids’ section first, meandered around a table of “super on sale” books and finally began to look at the books on the wall. I judge books by their covers. I do. While some people might not like headless women on covers, I am somehow drawn to them. I only picked up one book off the shelf that day, drawn in by its cover and the title, Crybaby Ranch.

I flipped it over, read the back and cussed.

When an argument over pineapple pizza reveals to jewelry maker Suzannah Perry the truth about her stale marriage, she wastes no time leaving her husband in Ohio for a ramshackle cabin in the foothills of Wyoming’s majestic Teton Range. As she strings necklaces, she works on untangling her most complicated relationships: with the mother she’s losing to Alzheimer’s, with the adopted son who has spent his life chasing after his birth mother, and most of all, with her new home’s previous owner, easygoing “Marlboro Man” Bo Garrett.

Emphasis my own.

I walked over to my friends, shoved the book in their faces and said, “How do these things find me?” It was honestly the only book I had picked up in the entire store. I didn’t even touch one of the kids’ books for my sons. It was as if this book had a siren song made only for me. And I crashed right into it.

I bought the book. Obviously. I had to. The good news is that the book is really not about adoption. In fact, I don’t think the words adopted, adoption or adoptee are used at all in the book. The son is a very minor character. The only interaction that he really has with Suzannah is when she calls him out for never really calling her mom or treating her like a mom (on things like Mother’s Day). The birth mother is mentioned a handfull of times: She left the husband and the son. Suzannah? Was the babysitter and eventually married the father.

There was no deep-delving into adoption issues. I can’t claim this as an Adoption Reading Challenge book because it wasn’t. It did, however, have some interesting discussions on Alzheimer’s and watching our parents age. I didn’t hate the book, but it wasn’t really something I’d suggest to other readers either. My mom stole it from me while we were on vacation and read it. As she spends her days with senior citizens, she found the caring for an aging parent to be interesting, though I’m not sure she liked the rest of the book or the name of the band — which even my husband said was a “little much.” (No, really. “Your Sister’s Cherry.” I snorted my beach beer reading that line.)

The book that I’m currently reading for BlogHer’s Book Club, The Beach Trees, has a dead-mom, guardianship, family wants custody kind of storyline to it. Of course. I don’t know yet if they will make it an important theme or if it will remain a minor counterpoint in the book. If it does become a main theme, I’ll be sure to add it to the Adoption Reading Challenge review link so you all can check it out as well.

And then, oh man, I’m taking an adoption reading break. Hopefully. I don’t think I’ve read a book that didn’t contain some minor mention of adoption in a very, very long time. Years maybe.

[Disclaimer: Affiliate links above.]

But, yes, the interview was awesome. (Though, as a heads up, it contains a minor spoiler.)

And got me thinking more about books and writing and how I’m not ready and how I am ready and how I don’t know what I want to say and how I know what I want to say and… so on. (Yes, I think in run-on-sentence. You don’t?)

Recently, as I was lamenting to Dawn and Kate about the crazy landmines of parenting post-placement, she poked me (virtually) and said, “There. That’s your book.” And I shrugged. Virtually and in real life.

I have refused to write or even entertain the thought of a true this-is-our-adoption-story memoir. As my tagline at this blog says, I am “writing our ever-evolving story.” I don’t think there’s going to come a point in time where I can say, “Yes, this is finished. I can share this story now.” And while that one book I read about memoir writing (whose name I have forgotten) tried to insist that memoirs are about a snippet of time and not necessarily the whole story, I don’t know how I can possibly share our story in a snippet. That’s the thing with adoption in general and, in my personal experience, open adoption; there’s more than a snippet to share. Like when I talked to the Munchkin on the phone the other day. Or how my oldest son has taken to not only praying for my daughter’s family but for their dog Fiona. So on and so forth. Our story is added to everyday.

The same goes for this post-placement parenting stuff. Every time I think I have a handle on it, these two add a new layer of complexity. It’s like a reverse onion peeling. We’re adding on layers. I wonder when we’ll get to the point of pulling the layers back, getting to the heart of the matter. I know that’s coming. I know BigBrother is nearing the question, “But will you give me away too?” It feels like it is hanging in the air.

I recently read a post by a mom who didn’t want to explain adoption to her non-adopted child because she didn’t want him to understand that mothers can “give away” babies. My kids don’t have that luxury. I have to be honest; the lies, even white ones, make things worse in the end. If asked, I have to present an answer. Sometimes, I have to be honest about things they haven’t yet asked because it’s part of their reality and they have a right to understand.

There is no end to our story. Adoption is a life changer and it is an on-going learning process.

Do I wish there was a book that helped birth parents wade the waters of post-placement parenting? Uh, yeah, especially as it pertains to openness and navigating those tricky waters. Do I think one will ever be picked up by a real publisher? Probably not. Not only is it overly niche, but it’s directed at a group of people that a large number of other people don’t want to think about, help or acknowledge as real human beings worthy of compassion.

And so, this blog just keeps on trucking — or, since I used a water analogy earlier, it keeps on swimming. It’s what it needs to be right now.

I never told my children about The Baby. When they were little, I thought they’d think I might give them away, too.

But later there was never a right time, never a moment in which I could say that I’d given away my first child.

There are obvious differences between my experience and Bunny’s in that quote. My children know and have always known. On the night that my first son was born, I sat in the rocking chair with him by the window, looking out on the hospital lawn at all of the Christmas lights. My husband was taking a shower as I rocked and told my firstborn son about his sister — my firstborn. There has never been a time when they didn’t know her name, didn’t know about her.

But I still harbor that fear that they will have their own fears about family permanency. BigBrother has been hinting around some of his fears as he begins to ask more questions and talk more freely about adoption and its process. I work on reassuring them that they aren’t going anywhere without using language that would be scary in itself. I’ve never verbalized, “I’ll never give you away,” because, knowing my oldest, he would think, “Why did she just say that? Does that mean she could or would?” And we’d be on a cycle of questions for four days straight. I try to talk about families being forever and how we love each other no matter what. But BigBrother’s question is coming soon. I hope I’m ready.

The birth of The Baby, and her loss, certainly affected the kind of mother I became: over-protective, full of the fear, without identifying it, that I would lose another child, that the baby would be taken from me.

The difference here is that I do identify that fear. It shapes my every move, my every decision in parenting. I have learned and continue to learn how to parent around it or, really, how to parent with that fear. I was discussing this very thing with Dawn and Kate the other day, about how I’ve had to work so hard to land this helicopter and how there really are no resources for parenting with this fear. I’ll go along for a few weeks at a time and think I’m doing great; I’ll sit at the park while they play and read a book instead of hovering, hovering, hovering. But then BigBrother walks away from me for Kindergarten screening and I cry because I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing or who he’s with. I can’t stand the not knowing. And so I fall back into realizing that my parenting is forever shaped by that loss, that fear.

I was much less of a mother than the woman who adopted her, who was there for all those things, who picked her clothes up off the floor, and taught her to say “Please” and “Thank you” and who sang lullabies at night. I hoped she sang lullabies.

But if love counts — and it must, at least a little — then I am also her mother, because I loved her. I loved her for four days, and for forty-two years, and forever.

Yes, I blubbered all over myself at that point.

I remember in the early days of our open adoption when we were still floundering around our roles and our titles. Dee asked me if I would just rather be called “mother” instead of “birth mom” or “first mom” or any of that jazz. I balked. I straight up balked. I had been all but brainwashed by my non-agency to simply be the birth mom. I look back on that and wish I would have had the common sense to see what gift was being offered to me. But, to be honest, it doesn’t matter to me that I am now simply Jenna, her [Munchkin's] birth mom. I know who I am. I am secure in my role in her life. I have always loved her. I will always love her. And it counts.

It counts.

Jessica Lost: A Story of Birth, Adoption & The Meaning of Motherhood

The book is written in alternating chapters — one by Bunny, the birth mother, followed with one by Jil, the adoptee. While I am a known alternating-chapter-dissenter, it worked so amazingly in this book. I think if either author had written their story on their own or if they had written in the format where Bunny told her whole story and then Jil told hers, the weight of the book would have been lost. The full concept of what adoption feels like would have been missed. Not because one cannot understand concepts like grief and loss if only told by a birth mother or if only told by an adoptee; no, we know from blogs that individuals convey those points quite well. But when you put them together, the loss of mother and child? It’s impossible not to be moved, to ask questions, to shed two or eighty tears.

I feel as if I can’t do the “plot” of this memoir justice. I suppose that’s what happens when you take two really good writers, an emotional topic and put it all together. It turns out to be this amazingly well-written piece of work that is difficult to explain; I feel like my words can’t adequately describe what the book is about… But, in short, we follow Bunny through her quick college-aged marriage, unexpected pregnancy during a rocky marriage, birth, divorce and search for her daughter as we simultaneously follow Jil through her tumultuous child-to-teen relationship with her adoptive mom, a series of devastating losses, the birth of her children and the eventual search for her mother.

Bunny’s story is her own, but there are shreds of recognition to the stories of other birth mothers and the birth mother experiences woven throughout her words. She blocked much of the pregnancy and birthing process. She held her shame close and thus kept the secret from most everyone in her life; her husband was the last person she told prior to reunion. The relinquishment of her daughter affected how she parented her children later in life. I found myself nodding — and crying — so frequently as I read through her chapters.

Jil’s story is her own as well, but having read adoptee blogs for so many years, I see some other sameness represented in her struggles growing up, the inner dialogue about whether contact would be good or not and other bits and pieces. Her story broke my heart several times and her chapter on loss was almost too much for me to take — and I didn’t even live through it. As she struggles to understand what makes us who we are — nature or nurture — I found myself asking the same questions. I wonder that of the Munchkin and the how’s and who’s of the girl she is becoming and the woman she will become.

There were many quotes throughout the book that struck me on the deepest of levels. I will be hitting on a few over the next few days; one on naming, one on parenting post-placement, one on knowing who you are and one on adoption vs. abortion vs. society’s view on the two. While Bunny’s pregnancy and relinquishment of Jil happen in 1954, a different era of societal thought adoption and how it was carried out, many of the things that Bunny and Jil shared are truths even today. We like to believe that society has changed vastly and that we’re helping adoptees, birth parents and adoptive parents better maneuver the tricky currents of post-placement. But some things are still true, decades later.

Jessica Lost is really a must read for all sides of the triad with the caveat that it is a hard read at times. Adoption is not all butterflies and roses; it is loss, it is hurt, it is confusion, it is secrets hidden from ourselves, others and society. Being able to recognize that we all have our own unique stories but that there are still some aspects of adoption that tie us all together is also important going into this book. This story is not your story or your mother’s story or your child’s story; this is the story of Bunny, Jil and those in their lives. But this story may help you understand things you maybe never thought to think about, whether related to your own experience or that of someone else in your life.

This is the fifth book I have read for the Adoption Reading Challenge (I took a break for a month).

I will be interviewing Jil for BlogHer sometime before the book is officially released on May 3. I will let you know when that is live. Until then, feel free to pre-order the book. You won’t regret it.

Jessica Lost: A Story of Birth, Adoption & The Meaning of Motherhood

The book itself is written by a birth mother and her relinquished daughter. It’s a memoir told by each in alternating chapters. I’m excited to read it and… hesitant at the same time. While Bunny Crumpacker’s adoption may have been closed, I am learning that there are so many similarities in the emotions despite decades of time difference between eras.

Take for example, this paragraph at the end of the first chapter:

Not many people knew about the pregnancy then, or later, It was the great secret of my life. I can tell you how it began. I can tell you how it affected the rest of my life. I can tell you what kind of mother I turned out to be. But there is only a little I can tell you about the pregnancy, or the birth of that lost child. I kept my secret so successfully, for so long, that I no longer have it to share. For a long time, I no longer had it for myself to know.

My pregnancy and adoption have not been a secret nor were they ever. However, if I wouldn’t have actively blogged those pregnancy days, I wouldn’t remember anything. Even still, the stuff that I didn’t capture and forever save in the web is forever lost to me. Or, mostly lost to me. Moments in the hospital that I didn’t record and haven’t yet recorded still float back to me on silent days. A conversation had with yet another nasty nurse. The old lady in the lobby. My dad holding Munchkin. The phone conversation with my mom. The birth isn’t recorded anywhere in great detail and I have shoved so much of it somewhere silent and dark and untouchable.

When I read the words of other birth mothers who tell a similar story — purposefully avoiding memories of the hospital — those memories have a way of making their way to the front of my mind. And so, I’m kind of hesitant to keep reading. What memories will push through that I have kept hidden in the back of my mind for years? I don’t know, obviously.

But I’ll keep reading. I hope to have it read by the end of the week.

That said, I need to share something with the blogosphere and, quite specifically, the adoption blogosphere. I remain adamant that this book should be a must read. However, we’re all busy. So I’ll share this. And you need to read it before you comment on a blog that makes your hair stand on end. Or before you send an email to your child’s adoptive mother or birth mother or even your child.

According to Dr. Hartling, in order to deal with shame, some of us move away by withdrawing, hiding, silencing ourselves and keeping secrets. Some of us move toward by seeking to appease and please. And some of us move against by trying to gain power over others, by being aggressive, and by using shame to fight shame (like sending really mean e-mails).

When I think back to any overly angry, finger-pointing, “you’re-wrong-and-I’m-right,” no room for grey areas comment or email that I’ve ever sent on the topic of adoption, it all comes back to me and the issues that I’m dealing with at any given time. I can think of very few exceptions to this rule. Even when I have been antagonized or trolled or purposefully hurt and I simply responded, it came back to the instigator poking some soft spot in my shame healing scab.

It actually happened to me recently. I have to read a lot of different blogs for my job. I land on all sorts of blogs for all sorts of reasons, usually having no background story to why I’m suddenly in the muck of their most recent post. Last week, I landed on a post that made my blood pressure do that weird thing where my vision shakes and I get a tingly feeling on top of my head. Before thinking, I started typing out a comment that was certainly going to set her straight! I was going to tell it like it was! And I did, let me tell you. I let her have it. And I was going to be totally obnoxious and leave it anonymously.

And then I asked myself, “Who the heck do you think you are?”

I x-ed out of the tab. I went and took a breather outside. And I realized that it was my knee jerk reaction to people talking poorly about birth parents. When I look at the quote above, I know my reaction was a reaction to wanting to be seen as a worthy individual despite and/or inclusive of my title as a birth parent. And, looking at that quote, I know that mom’s post was coming from somewhere within her own issues.

I have become pretty good at walking away from knee jerk reactions over the years. I teach my sons to just “walk away” when someone says something mean or pushes them on the playground. I’ve had to teach myself the same concept online, especially in the adoption niche. Sometimes it is hard. Sometimes I choose a very calm path of interaction. But sometimes walking away is the courageous choice; surpassing the need to “be right” for the need to “be okay.”

More over, looking again at the quote, I have been in all three positions of dealing with shame — moving away, moving toward and moving against. When I’m really struggling with something, I pull back from everyone, especially those who are too close to the situation. It is during those times that I unsubscribe from all adoption blogs, ignore birth mother friends and generally live in a self-preservation bubble. Very early on in our adoption, I moved toward, wanting to please not only Munchkin’s parents but the adoption world at large. I find myself less likely to do this now, but I catch myself doing it every so often; stirring the pot or simply asking for what I need can be scary and sometimes it’s just easier to nod your head and agree. And, yes, as I said, sometimes I still want to leave comments and tell people that they’re wrong. Knowing these are all based on where I am at any given time with how I feel about myself in relation to Munchkin’s placement gives me a leg up on not acting like a total arse both on the web and in my everyday life.

Having just shared with you that I still struggle with not being a total dillweed in comments, I hope you — the collective adoption blogosphere — will think twice before saying something nasty to someone on their blog. Or via email. Or on Facebook or twitter or so on. Think twice before hitting submit or send. If your nasty comment is more about you than the person on the other side of the screen, step back. If you can’t find a non-confrontational way to make your point, you’re likely the one who needs to go take a breather and reevaluate why you’re so upset.

Trust me. I know.

Classic.

Anyway, I picked up Brene Brown‘s newest book, The Gifts of Imperfection: Let Go of Who You Think You’re Supposed to Be and Embrace Who You Are. I’ll admit that I rolled my eyes at the title. I will also admit that the only reason I bought the book is because our library system didn’t carry a single copy and I was feeling the twinge to buy a book. So I bought it, rolling my eyes at myself the whole time.

I’ve stopped rolling my eyes.

This book is not about adoption. Because of that, I won’t count it toward the Adoption Reading Challenge. But I’m going to put it out there that every member of the triad should read this book. I can’t speak to the issues that adoptive parents and adoptees might be dealing with in their own lives, but I can imagine that it would help them with certain things. However, let me tell you, birth parent readers: You need this book. Maybe you don’t think you need this book. Maybe you are an imperfectionist. Maybe you already embrace your imperfection — your humanness — better than the rest of this. You still need this book.

I keep having to set it down and walk away. Because it’s too real for me at times. Too in my face. Too “Oh, that’s talking specifically about me… how did she get in my house? My head?” It’s downright triggering at times.

I was going to wait until I finished the book to tell you about it. But I can’t. I’m currently struggling through the chapter about shame. But I have to go back to the beginning and offer you a quote or two. I know a few of my readers chose courage as their word for the year, which is one of the topics in the book.

The root of the word courage is cor — the Latin word for heart. In one of its earliest forms, the word courage had a very different definition than it does today. Courage originally meant “To speak one’s mind by telling all one’s heart.” Over time, this definition has change, and today, courage is more synonymous with being heroic. Heroics is important and we certainly need heroes, but I think we’ve lost touch with the idea that speaking honestly and openly about who we are, about what we’re feeling, and about our experiences (good and bad) is the definition of courage. Heroics is often about putting our life on the line. Ordinary courage is about putting our vulnerability on the line. In today’s world, that’s pretty extraordinary.

And then she talked about compassion (which is lacking a lot in adoption — and not just on the web). And then love and belonging — and how belonging is less about changing ourselves to fit in and more about simply belonging (which, again speaking of adoption, there is an issue with letting everyone belong). And then she wrote a whole chapter about the “stuff that gets in the way.”

Oh, I know all about the stuff that gets in the way. In fact, I’m perfect at letting stuff get in the way. (See? I embrace my imperfection.) This chapter is where I am sitting. Stuck. In shame. Oh. Her definition of shame:

Shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love or belonging.

Yeah, I know shame.

Shame shapes how I interact with people — or don’t. Shame shapes how I parent — and hover — and fight hovering because I am aware how shame affects my parenting. Shame shapes how I see myself — not physically, but in a broader sense. And it sucks. To be fair to myself, there is an ebb and flow. I am sometimes more gentle with myself than at other times. But it’s always there.

Apparently, however, I’m doing something right. She explains that shame has power in secrecy and silence. When we talk about shame, it loses power. So, I’ve been doing something right despite all of the muck and mire. Self high five.

I’m going to continue mucking my way through this (difficult-for-me) read. I really do encourage you to read this book, even if you’re sitting there thinking, “I’m courageous. I love and I belong. No stuff gets in my way of wholehearted living, least of all shame. That’s for other people. I’m above that.” You’re probably not.

I’ll probably blog some more about the book during and after I finish. I’ll probably share some more of why and how specific things relate to me and my story. I don’t know if I’ve always thought of myself as courageous (by speaking with my whole heart here) or beating shame into submission (because it often feels the other way around), but looking at my experience with those definitions and thoughts in mind changes how I see myself — a little bit. I have a lot of work to continue to better myself. But I figure we all do, and I’m not alone.

Have you read this book?

Participant wise, we blew my mind. As of right now, 36 people are signed up for the challenge. I really thought it was going to be me and a few other people. What deeply pleased me were the participants who signed up who don’t have any direct adoption connection. Awesome.

We currently have 23 reviews linked through the linky and a few more in the comments from non-bloggers or people who tried to post their links on days that the linky was in limbo. Here are just three of the reviews from books you might find interesting.

• Andy at Today’s the Day reviewed Dan Savage’s The Kid.

  I read this book with both my adoptive hats on (since neither really ever comes off). As an adoptive parent I found myself nodding and agreeing with some of his feelings, frustrations and fears. As an adoptee I couldn’t help but wonder how I would feel if this story had been written and published about my beginnings. I suppose that is a risk that any writer – published or just us bloggers – take when we share true life accounts of our families.

• Mandy at Four Against Two reviewed Ann Burg’s All The Broken Pieces.

  Do my girls still feel that way? What goes through their minds? Like Matt, they don’t talk about Ethiopia much or their feelings about the adoption, but when they do the floodgates open and I get a better perspective of what is in their mind and hearts.

• Sangitha at Life and Times in Bangalore reviewed Joyce Maguire Pavao’s The Family of Adoption.

  – that the intensity of the grief for the birth mother has an initial 5 – 7 year phase – they are suffering post traumatic stress and then continues on their whole lives. This is new information to me from birth mother blogs and books like this – with Indian society being what it is, I doubt I will ever know a birth mother. And definitely not one who will be open with her feelings.

You guys are reading and reviewing gurus! Love all of the stuff you’re sharing.

I was also contacted by a book blogger who wanted to know — kindly — why I made this niche challenge. Her question was, and I paraphrase, “Why should book bloggers care about adoption as a theme in literature? Or, in the case of non-fiction, in life?” (And trust me, her question was genuine, not nasty.)

And so, I’ll answer it: Adoption is everywhere. There are times when I think I am reading a book that has nothing to do with adoption and, BAM! There it is. Take the Twilight saga as an example. I thought I was reading solely about vampires. What do we learn about the vampires almost immediately — before we even learn that they’re vampires? They’ve all been “adopted” by Dr. Cullen. Except they haven’t really. Which proves the point: What seems as a simple thing in a book can be a stumbling block for large numbers of people. The weird treatment of adoption in Twilight kind of disturbed me. Then again, I loathed most of the writing in the series, so that was just another example that ticked me off. I digress.

But yes, adoption is everywhere. Just sit down and turn on the TV (I know, book lovers would rather read), but it’s all over the TV in all sorts of ways. Read the newspaper. Actually take a minute and look at the adoption niche in the blogosphere. And, really, next time pay attention to a book you’re reading and see if it doesn’t have a minor mention of adoption or a whole running theme.

Book bloggers and book worms alike can broaden their understanding of writing, reading and a social issue by becoming aware of how authors treat adoption. Some treat it as nothing more than a catalyst for a story. Some really try to weave some social commentary into their writing. Some still allow the negative stereotypes assigned to birth mothers to come forth in their writing (Karen Kingsbury, I’m looking at you), which would be a no-no for character portrayal in other social issues nowadays. Becoming aware of some of these things is good. Trust me.

Warning: It WILL change the way that you read though. And, honestly, that’s not a bad thing.

And that’s where we are as we enter the month that — at least on the calendar — ends winter. If you haven’t yet joined the Adoption Reading Challenge, feel free to do so. You can join at any point all year. If you want to contact me to ask a question, go right ahead!

In the meantime, get back to reading!