Oh, people. They sure do ask interesting questions when it comes to adoption. That’s the theme behind the latest Open Adoption Roundtable prompt:

How do you handle such questions when they are asked of you? How would you want the other parties in your open adoption to handle those questions when they are about you?

– __ — __ –

People rarely ask me how Dee and the Squatch feel about adoption. Maybe it’s assumed that all adoptive parents feel freaking fantastic about it and therefore there’s nothing to ask. I don’t know why I’m not asked how they feel. That, in itself, is an interesting question. People do ask me why Dee adopted the Munchkin, as in what is wrong with her insides. I usually default to, “She wanted to be a parent.” Isn’t that why we all turn to whatever path we take to achieve that goal?

I do need to share a story though, where another birth mother recently passed judgment on Dee and the Squatch and I managed not to punch her in the face. I was pretty proud of myself.

For those who aren’t in my very small circle of adoption news trust, my daughter’s mom and her husband are in the process of adopting. That’s all I’ll tell you about that as you don’t need to know the details. It’s not your business. However, I was recently trying to share a story about something entirely unrelated and their process to adopt got inserted into the conversation. Someone who doesn’t know me, who doesn’t know my story, who doesn’t know how Dee and I both feel about ethics in adoption, who doesn’t know a lick about the hard work that Dee and I have done to create an amazing relationship, acted like it was horrifying that Dee was adopting a(nother) child. I couldn’t tell if she was calling her greedy for wanting a third child (hello! I’d like a third child!) or if I cut her off before she finished her statement about the children being from, in essence, three different families. But I did cut her off. And here’s why:

People have made horrifying comments about me, my decision to relinquish the Munchkin and what that must mean about my character. They have then crossed over the line and made comments about how it’s “odd” that “they” let me have other children, whoever “they” is anyway. Let’s get something straight: Commenting on another woman’s reproductive and associated family-building decisions is completely out of line. I don’t care what your excuses are, what your reasoning is: you are in the wrong. That time that you made the comment about the girl who had four babies by a very young age? Wrong. That time you commented on a mother of an advanced age having a baby and/or adopting? Wrong. That time you told someone that they had too many kids? Wrong. That time you poked fun at your friend with only one child? Wrong. That time you told a friend that she was abnormal for not wanting children? Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. It’s simply not your business.

– __ — __ –

As far as how Dee handles the question “why did Munchkin’s birth mom give her up,” I hope she handles it in whatever way feels comfortable with her at any given time. If she feels comfortable enough to launch into information about my kidney disorder and the subsequent path I chose, so be it. If she just wants to give a pat answer of, “It was what she felt was best at the time,” that’s fine too. If she wants to say, “I don’t know, why don’t you call her!” Well, I’d love to talk to someone who was being too nosy and making Dee uncomfortable. If she wants to give some sarcastic, off-the-cuff answer, I’d give her a high five later. If she wants to say, “I don’t know,” I wouldn’t be mad that she “lied.” I’ve given answers in the past to get out of an uncomfortable situation and I wouldn’t fault her for doing whatever she needed to in order to “get out” of a conversation.

Point: I trust Dee with sharing that part of our shared story, because I know that she loves the Munchkin and wouldn’t do wrong by her with her words. She also loves me and respects me as her daughter’s birth mother, as a friend, as a woman, as a mother and as a human being. If she wants to explain, she’s free to do so. If she isn’t up to it on any given day, the one asking the question needs to back off and give her room.

She could, of course, cut them off and tell them, “Asking this question is inappropriate. It’s wrong.” Because it is. Maybe she could send them to Burgh Baby’s post. Or here. I don’t care. You don’t need to know my reasons unless you know me and you want to understand my journey better. (Or, uh, she could point them to my blog, sharing the knowledge with them that I don’t and won’t share everything.) I feel that asking an adoptive parent why the birth parent “gave up” the child in question is even more inappropriate than asking me why they adopted — mainly because I hear that the adopted child will be in ear shot when the question is asked. (I’ve seen it happen, people. What is wrong with you?)

– __ — __ –

I do want to know, however, what’s the worst/most inappropriate comment/question you’ve received about the opposite party in your adoption relationship? I have this feeling that adoptive parents may have the worst stories. Sadly, I don’t want to be proven wrong.

Open Adoption Roundtable 34: Answering Questions is a post from The Chronicles of Munchkin Land. Want more Chronicles? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, please contact me or @ me on twitter.

I cannot leave my cell phone unattended during the day when my oldest son is at school. I panic that if I go to the bathroom or dare to attend a workout class without the thing glued to me that the school will call, that my son will have been in some sort of accident or is horribly sick and needs me — and I’m unavailable while I’m sweating to the oldies.

In fact, one day after a meeting, I forgot to turn my ringer back on and, wouldn’t you know it, BigBrother had been pushed on the playground, had a scrape and bump on his head and I missed the damn phone call. They eventually called my husband who tracked me down, and I rushed to the school full of guilt and worry. He was fine and went back to class.

But the worry is always there: Will something happen when I’m unable to be right there? Will I make it there in time? Will I be caught unaware? Will it be a day I’m having a temper tantrum about work or motherhood or snow or the house in which we live or my waistline, causing me to leave the house and take a long walk to clear my head without my phone? Will I ever be enough?

– __ — __ —

Yesterday, in the midst of a stressful work day and working out what we were going to offer on a house, I received a text message. So very few people text me because I so rarely respond. iMessaging on the new iOS 4 has caused me to text a little bit more, but still really only with the people whom I would have texted in the first place. But now it’s free. I digress. The text message was from Dee.

She wished us the best of luck with our house offer… and then told me that Munchkin was in the Emergency Room.

There’s really nothing worse than hearing your child is in the Emergency Room. Whether you’re actively parenting that child or not, it’s a horrible, gut-wrenching, almost paralyzing kind of pain that slices from your head and turns the knife right into the deepest part of your gut. It physically hurts.

I won’t go into details about what is wrong, other than she’s seeing a pediatric cardiologist tomorrow.

But I will tell you that feeling helpless… sucks.

The truth is that Dee also feels helpless. When you don’t know what is wrong with your child, there’s this aspect of helplessness and anger and even a bit of motherly guilt and failure mixed in for good measure. Add in the element of being so far away, of not being able to be there if something went wrong, of not … being enough, and it’s just difficult to handle, to understand, to process.

And, even more so, it’s amazingly difficult to swallow the fact that something is wrong with your daughter and you don’t know what and you can’t do anything — at all — to help and go about your every day life as if nothing is wrong at all.

I am thankful for coworkers who understand when I send a message that I may disappear. I am thankful for friends who respond on twitter fast as lightning. But it’s a weird realization that if she was here, if this was happening in real time in my home, I wouldn’t have put in an offer on a house yesterday. I wouldn’t have worked at all, without warning. I wouldn’t have gone on a play date this morning and pretended like everything was hunky dory in my world. I wouldn’t have been expected to make dinner and smile and do laundry and live the everyday of life. I would be with her. And I’m not.

I feel as if I’m floating outside of myself right now, watching as all of this is happening. Maybe I’ve purposefully disconnected from myself, afraid to feel or move or breathe or blink, because I don’t even know how to process some of this.

I can’t do anything.

Nothing.

I don’t deal well with that. … obviously.

I am thankful, beyond measure, that Dee communicates with me. That she can text me and ask me medical history questions. That she can keep me updated and we can lament together in the helplessness, in the worry, in the anxiety, in the hope. I am thankful for knowing so much, so instantaneously.

But it strikes deep into that helpless feeling I felt eight-and-a-half years ago.

– __ — __ —

I went to pick up BigBrother from school today in the cold beginnings of snowfall. A mom with a worried look on her face escorted out her son who was crying, holding an ice pack to a bump on his head. My heart softened and I said a prayer for his poor little noggin. And then I felt jealous that she was able to be there, to take him to the car, to care for his bump.

I smiled at her and she gave me that look that moms give when they are overwhelmed. I nodded. At that moment, BigBrother slammed into my legs, engulfing me in his after school hug. I wrapped my arms around his head and closed my eyes for just a second.

Safe for another day.

Helpless is a post from The Chronicles of Munchkin Land. Want more Chronicles? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, please contact me or @ me on twitter.

The newest Open Adoption Roundtable prompts us:

What did you learn about open adoption in 2011?

Oh, 2011.

I learned a few things about open adoption in 2011, and almost none of what I learned came from my daughter, her parents or my own immediate family.

It came from people outside of our family, from people who don’t (and won’t) have a say in how we act, react, educate our children or function as a family unit.

And not to be cynical on the first day of a new year, but most of what I learned wasn’t good. However, when you look at the lessons I’ve learned this year as a whole, it can be boiled down to one simple statement:

You do not get to dictate how we live our open adoption.

The parties involved in this relationship are the only ones who get to decide what it is right — or wrong. Only we can decide what is “too much,” whether that’s contact or space or sharing or thought or grief or happiness or love. Only we can decide who we tell, how much we tell and when we get around to telling. Only we can decide what feels right at any given time — and we reserve the right to change our minds. More over, we only know what works for us. We don’t know what will work — or won’t — for your family.

I’d like to think that the lessons I learned about open adoption — and the unsolicited opinions (and nastiness) of others — in 2011 will let me live 2012 a little more freely. I’m human, of course, and so the words and actions of others will still affect me in one way or another.

But it comes down to this: I won’t apologize for my family. I won’t change how we do things just to make you feel better. I won’t quit doing what I’m doing just so you feel better about the path your life journey has taken.

In 2011, I learned that people don’t want us to be who we are when it comes to open adoption. I also learned that we are who we are, not to quote Ke$ha. And I’m done trying not to be. Screw it, let’s quote her: You know we’re superstars. We are who we are.

And we won’t be anything but ourselves in 2012. I don’t see any reason to be anything but ourselves. Because we’re awesome — every last one of us.

Happy New Year! I hope you and yours are allowed the freedom to be yourselves as well.

Open Adoption Roundtable 33: What I Learned in 2011 is a post from The Chronicles of Munchkin Land. Want more Chronicles? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, please contact me or @ me on twitter.

There’s a new Open Adoption Roundtable prompt up:

Write about open adoption and being scared.

I had been staying at my parent’s house during the 30-something weeks of my pregnancy. I was still on Level III bedrest and unable to work or do much more than shower. While my mom and I still had communication problems, we all felt safer when I was on The Farm where others would regularly come and go throughout the day.

The pains started before my mom got home from work that evening. Fall had already stolen our daylight hours and darkness fell quickly as I tried to find a comfortable place in my bed. I knew something was wrong, but having no childbirth education and no prior experience, I wasn’t aware that I was having contractions. Not Braxton Hicks contractions: full blown contractions. I thought relaxing in the bathtub would make me feel better.

It made the contractions worse.

When my mom got home, my dad let her know that I was upstairs and was in pain. I heard her footsteps come quickly up the stairs, down the hall and into the bathroom. She found me holding my tight, rockhard belly, writhing in pain in the bathtub.

“You’re in labor.”

“No. I’m just in pain.”

I had a difficult time determining the constant pain I was in due to my right kidney from the pain of labor. The reality was that pain was a part of my morning, my midday, my night, my middle of the night. From 18 weeks on, I was in some sort of pain all day, everyday. Never having experienced contractions on top of that pain, I didn’t even realize that I was having contractions. I didn’t know enough that the hard tightening of my abdomen, the doubling-over pain, the inability to catch my breath meant contractions. I was in labor, and I didn’t even know.

My mom got me out of the tub, got me dressed. My dad drove, my mom sat in the passenger seat and I sat in the back, hanging on to the seat and breathing like they teach you in the movies. Hee-hee-hoo. Hee-hee-hoo. It did not make the pain go away. My dad put on the four way flashers and passed a cop going well over the speed limit to get me to the hospital; we were not pulled over. Something went right.

I have no memory of arriving at the hospital or being wheeled to labor and delivery which was in the bowels of the hospital. I have vague recollections of the flurry of activity around me, but I was sweating and in pain and confused. And scared. I fell back on my gurney and either prayed or cursed or something in between, “Let my baby be okay.”

The doctors and nurses tried everything they knew to do to stop my contractions — which were off the charts — to no avail. The terbutaline didn’t work. The mag drip, which only made me sweat more, didn’t even begin to stop the contractions. My hospital was a small, mostly rural county hospital. There was no NICU. They had no nephrologist to address the fact that my kidney was not working. I was beyond their ability to help.

Word began to buzz that I would need to be transferred. The mag drip made it hard to pay attention; my skin felt like it was crawling, I was hot but I was cold, and the contractions would not stop. The pain ripped through me in waves. They started in my back, moved forward to my front and then managed to go from the center of my being to my head and my toes. Around to the front, up and down. Around to the front, up and down. Over and over.

As the doctors and nurses ran back and forth, the look of panic evident on their faces, I did the only thing I could do: lie still. The noise in the room faded in and out as I was left to think about the worst case scenario: I didn’t know if I would live. If I didn’t live and the Munchkin did, what would become of her? Who would legally be in charge of the choices involving her future? Would it be her biological father? Would it be my parents? I had enough sense to know that Dee and her future adoptive dad didn’t have any legal rights, but I felt a sense of loss knowing that they probably wouldn’t be notified for quite some time if I died. I wondered if a legal battle would then commence and between whom? My parents and the biological father? My parents and Dee? Dee and the biological father? Everyone all at once? I floated in between these thoughts and wondering what would cause my skin to stop crawling so badly.

Eventually the decision was official: I was being transferred to Pittsburgh. My parents were not allowed to ride with me in the ambulance. They were also informed that the medics would be driving hot — lights and sirens — and they were not advised to follow at the same rate of speed. I was being sent alone in a speeding ambulance, not knowing if I was going to survive the night. This was it, I figured.

I assume I said goodbye to my parents. I somehow made it into the ambulance, because I have vague recollections of hearing sirens, of jostling about, of a medic talking to me and asking me questions along with a nurse from my hospital. I don’t know if I answered them. I just remember being so scared, thinking we were going to fast and that if my kidney didn’t kill me, surely an accident on the highway would do me in.

I don’t remember arriving at the hospital in Pittsburgh. Things were touch and go for a bit, is what I’m told. I only remember waking up sometime in the middle of the very dark night to find my dad watching an episode of Scooby Doo; my skin was still actively crawling as I was still on the mag drip. I was sure that something had happened and I was in hell.

Eventually he turned off the TV, and I stared at the ceiling of the hospital room. I prayed not for myself, but for my Munchkin. I was so scared. More scared than when the pregnancy test showed positive. More scared than when I drove back to Pennsylvania, leaving her biological father behind. More scared than when I told my parents. More scared than when I woke from surgery at 18 weeks to be told I was a high risk pregnancy. More scared than when I first contacted the non-agency. And, in comparison with what was to come, more scared than the first visit or when Dee and Munchkin’s adoptive dad divorced. Not more scared than when Munchkin has had some health issues, because that’s where my fear lied: in her well-being. I needed — desperately — for her to be okay. I would have — no doubt — given my life to bring my daughter into this world, to assure that she was going to be well cared for, to give her the world.

Eventually daylight crept into the hospital room. Nurses and doctors began calmly entering and exiting the room. My skin stopped crawling and the contractions slowly began to calm down. I had moments of panic when the NICU doctor came to explain what chances at 31-weeker would have in this world, but as the staff got my contractions under control and gave me a prescription for terbutaline to take on a daily basis, I put my faith in medicine that my daughter would be okay.

Four days later, I left the hospital, sore and even more swollen than before having not had my kidney function in five days. I prayed once more to make it to the coveted 37 weeks as I left Pittsburgh and headed back to The Farm. The fear didn’t leave me until she arrived in this world, and, quite honestly, the fear stays with me to this day. I need for my daughter to be safe, healthy and okay. I almost gave my life for it multiple times during that pregnancy and I would give my life for it now — just the same as I did with and feel about my sons.

I am so thankful she was okay through the darkest night of my fear and I can only pray that she remains okay for years to come.

Open Adoption Roundtable #31: A Scare and a Deep Fear is a post from The Chronicles of Munchkin Land. Want more Chronicles? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, please contact me or @ me on twitter.

It’s time for another Open Adoption Roundtable. This new prompt:

Do you remember the first time you heard about open adoption?

If you need some further prompting: What were the circumstances? What was your reaction? If you grew up in an open adoption, do you remember the first time you heard the label applied to your relationships?

The short answer is: I have no idea when I first heard of open adoption.

I never go with the short answer though, do I?

Before I contacted my non-agency, I had some vague understanding that “birth parents” could pick out their child’s parents, that they could “know” them. I don’t know the whys or hows of that knowledge, but it was there. It wasn’t until I was working with my non-agency that the terminology entered my understanding. Their concept of open adoption was pictures and letters for a year, and for awhile I truly believed that was all open adoption was and could be. My daughter’s adoptive father kind of blew my mind when he broached the subject of visits. I was still pregnant and still not aware of fully open adoptions like ours exists now.

It really wasn’t until after the Munchkin was born and with her family that I began to learn about what open adoption was and what it could look like in our lives. After moving to Ohio six days after she was born, I finally had a reliable Internet connection. I participated in various adoption forums and a few closed groups on LiveJournal. Other adoptive moms, adoptees and birth mothers schooled me about terminology, openness, boundaries and other stuff that my non-agency never even mentioned.

I am always amazed that Dee and I have found ourselves in this fully open adoption when neither of us had any real education or support about what it could or should look like. Then again, when I think about it, perhaps that’s why we’ve made our way to this particular point. It makes me think of what Luci Swindoll (who is hilarious and not offensive) said this weekend in Pittsburgh when referencing Picasso. “Nobody told me I couldn’t.” No one told us we couldn’t become friends. No one told us that she couldn’t be in my wedding. No one told us we couldn’t spend the night at each others’ house for four to five days. No one told us we couldn’t go on vacation together. No one told us we couldn’t. So we just did.

Open Adoption Roundtable #30: The First Time is a post from The Chronicles of Munchkin Land. Want more Chronicles? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, please contact me or @ me on twitter.

I read an interesting post on BlogHer about gender differences. Boys are boys. Girls are girls. And while I get the total point of her post — sometimes you just want to laugh or, really, commiserate with someone who understands. Sometimes I love to rant with other moms of boys because I feel like they understand what I live with on a daily basis.

But remember: I had a girl. I placed her for adoption. And we have an open adoption relationship, complete with visits. So I get to see some of that other side of the coin.

That’s why this paragraph Renegade Mama shared on BlogHer really caught my attention:

We chatted about the differences between boys and girls, the way a girl at five seems so oddly capable of just doing a task (even a complicated one, like putting socks on without first throwing them across the room a few times, or sitting in a chair without tipping it backwards or otherwise flailing around). The lady behind the counter agreed, having mothered five boys. Then this blonde woman behind us, who we didn’t exactly invite into our little discussion I might add, gets all condescending and pipes up: “You know, I don’t think it’s a boy/girl thing. It’s just a person thing. It’s just an individual personality difference — it has nothing to do with being male or female. I raised a boy who is so sensitive and gentle. It’s just a human difference.”

I’d actually be inclined to agree with the nosy blonde. (Though I do agree she was nosy.)

Munchkin and BigBrother are strikingly similar in personality. They have their own gender identifying interests, of course: Munchkin dances, BigBrother loves any sport with a ball and turns everything into a gun. But otherwise? Neither can sit still at the table and during our last visit, we learned that the two of them sit off the side of their chair in the same exact manner. They’re both very bossy. And sensitive — don’t laugh at them. They both love to learn, to read. While I haven’t attended any of Munchkin’s parent-teacher conferences, I’m pretty sure she is a teacher pleaser, which BigBrother is too. BigBrother is also a general adult pleaser. He wants to do right, to please us with his actions. He puts his socks on the first time. He clears the table. He says please and thank you. But he does laugh at fart jokes. Then again, so do I.

I’m not saying that Munchkin and BigBrother are the same. They are not. There are all kinds of ways in which they differ. Some of that can be chalked up to gender. Some of that can be chalked up to being raised in separate households. And some of that can and should be chalked up to different personalities — that part of their human-ness.

But you cannot deny their similarities. Dee and I have been pretty shocked by them over the course of our past two visits. I was left to wonder, of course, if the two had been raised in the same household if they would be so similar. Because, honestly, I place a lot more weight in birth order personality traits than in gender oriented personality traits. I think I’m a stunning example of a woman with many supposed masculine traits but, really, those are — in my mind — more evidence of my first child birth order personality traits than any male vs. female issue. And so I’m left to wonder: If they were raised together, would the Munchkin be who she currently is and would BigBrother be who he is. (Point: While Munchkin is the firstborn, being raised separately, BigBrother is thus first born in this household. All of this gets mushy when you think about it too long, trust me.)

And if you want to get totally confusing: My two sons? Are as different as night and day. Loud and quiet. Bold and shy. Green and pink (no, really). Yes, again with the “everything is a gun” and laughing at fart jokes, but otherwise they are very, very different. (And I love it.)

It’s not a black and white issue by any means. I will be interested to see the differences and similarities the kids will exhibit over the years. It has definitely been eye-opening thus far.

Gender Equality: My View as a Birth Mother is a post from The Chronicles of Munchkin Land. Want more Chronicles? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, please contact me or @ me on twitter.

I stopped into the Hallmark Sponsor Suite at BlogHer ’11 on Saturday morning. I had also stopped by on Friday afternoon, but it was bumpin’ with other ladies wanting to send a card home. I had a chance to browse a few cards, but it was busy once again. (Tip for next time, Hallmark: Spread those cards out more. There wasn’t enough space to get a good look.)

I wasn’t going to send a card to my husband as he was at the conference with me (though they would tweet someone to come pick up a card). I thought about sending the boys a card, but we would beat it home and what fun is that? I thought about some of my friends going through general-life-ick that needed a pick me up, but I couldn’t find one that said “I’m sorry you’re going through a divorce but I never much liked your husband anyway” or “I’m sorry your wife died, wanna bring your kid over to play with ours while we ignore our grief and drink copious amounts of beer” or “I hope you don’t hate your new job as much as your old one, but it’s not looking good so far.” Maybe they were there (doubtful), but I couldn’t really search much.

The second card I picked up was this one:

Front: Not only do I miss you…

I opened it.

Inside: …my refrigerator misses your pictures! Want to color this one and send it back to me? (My fridge will thank you.)

And then I opened it again.

Inside: Colored especially for ________ especially by _______.

I think I blinked a few tears as I imagined the Munchkin coloring it for me and sending it back. I took it over to the couches to fill it out as I had to set down all of my stuff to look up her address in my phone. I dropped it in the mailbox for Hallmark to mail for me. And I sighed.

A sigh of sadness; I miss her so much. A sigh of relief; it’s nice to have a card that’s not heavy but still says I miss you. A sigh of reality; this is my reality. A rare card that I can send. It is what it is. Despite the sadness and the reality, it pleased me to no end that there was a card that I could send to my daughter to let her know that I was thinking of her while I was even father away than usual. In fact, there were a few products from other companies that I picked up to send off to the Munchkin. It gives me a great sense of … peace … when I can do these little things for her … to show her that I care, that she’s always on my heart and my mind.

So, thanks Hallmark. You get mad props from me, even if it was crowded in that room!

[No one paid me for this post. Obviously.]

How Hallmark Made My Day at BlogHer ’11 is a post from The Chronicles of Munchkin Land. Want more Chronicles? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, please contact me or @ me on twitter.

We’re at camp right now.

This morning, over breakfast at our little table, BigBrother asked a question.

“Do you think Munchkin will ever come to camp with us?”

Mind you, I had consumed some coffee before he woke up but not enough to deal with in-your-face grief and loss. I took another sip of coffee.

“Well, probably not, buddy.”

He took another bite of cereal, staring out the window.

“But why not?”

I stared out the window too. No one was out and about yet; the morning “up-and-at-em” bell hadn’t even sounded yet. I stared at a cottage across the sidewalk. I watched a hummingbird make its way to my mom’s flowers that she has planted along that side of our cottage. I looked up at the sky and wondered when this heat will break. I looked at anything but my inquisitive five-and-a-half year old.

“Well, different families have different things that they do in the summer. Munchkin is going to Canada soon to visit The Squatch’s parents with her family.”

Another bite of cereal.

“But isn’t the Munchkin part of our family too?”

I told you that I hadn’t had enough coffee for this conversation.

I looked at him. Big brown eyes looked back at me: my eyes, her eyes, his eyes. Another sip of coffee.

“Of course. She’s your sister and she always will be. But they’re busy in the summer like we are. You know, like we haven’t been home much at all this summer? With vacation and trips to YiaYia and Papau’s house and Nina’s house? And camping trips? And now we’re here at camp for ten days. It’s good to be busy in the summer.”

More cereal. More crunching.

“I just think she’d have fun at camp with us.”

More coffee. More inner breaking.

“I know, buddy. Me too”

Early Morning Camp Conversations is a post from The Chronicles of Munchkin Land. Want more Chronicles? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, please contact me or @ me on twitter.

There’s a new Open Adoption Roundtable up. And i’m kind of miffed about it. We’re piggy-backing in on a set of questions that Lori at Write Mind, Open Heart posted from one of her readers. I’m not sharing my link over there because I don’t think her friend can handle my answers.

I will be up front and say that I didn’t like this line of questioning. It’s very slanted toward what adoptive parents do and think. Questions about birth parents are laced with a negative undertone that I didn’t quite appreciate. I hate leading questions that paint me as some kind of second-class citizen with a racy past and an even riskier future. I pose no danger to my daughter, my parented sons, my daughter’s family or anything but the spider I squashed last night. And I actually don’t squash spiders all that often.

So, my tone gets increasingly agitated as I answer these questions. Consider this your warning.

– __ — __ —

1. Can the adoptive parents really go back on their word after the adoption has been finalized and do whatever they please in regard to updates and pictures?

Well, sure! Legally, they can do whatever the heck they want! They got that baby! Now they can move to Zimbabwe, change that baby’s name to something more “appropriate” and never think about that pesky birth mom (and dad) again. The truth is that even in states where open adoption agreements are legally binding, there’s really no way to enforce said agreements. The adoptive parents have all the rights. And that’s pretty much the end of the discussion.

Would I recommend that? No. Not only will those adoptive parents someday have to answer the questions of the child that they are parenting, but to pull the rug out from under a birth mother that was promised one thing and delivered another is highly unethical. And it always makes me think of Cindy Jordan. Don’t know her story? Learn it.

2. Who is the go-between for communication with most Open Adoptions: the case worker, the placing agency, or the lawyer handling the adoption?

Prior to relinquishment, I am assuming this question is asking. Our facilitator contact tried to be our go-between. She was ridiculous. So we forged our own contact.

We are also in charge of all of our contact in this post-relinquishment eternity. Why would we have a go-between now? She was in my wedding. I bought her fries at the drive thru on her wedding day and made her eat so she didn’t puke. She’s seen me give birth. What go-between?

3. What are the advantages and disadvantages for each of the above contact persons?

Well, you’re asking the wrong person. I don’t believe that any of those people above are overly ethical and concerned with the well-being and rights of all involved. Just don’t use ANLC as your facilitator and you will be ahead of the game.

4. How can case workers be involved in Open Adoption as well if DHS are already so understaffed and the budgets are maxed out for the thousands of forgotten children lost in the system?

DHS was never involved in my situation, nor was a case worker. I am not and never was addicted to drugs nor am I nor will I ever be a risk to my children. Please don’t lump me into a sub-sect to which I do not belong. The only social worker I ever saw was at the hospital. She informed me my insurance was messed up again and told me to call them in the morning. I said okay. End of my experience with a ‘case’ worker.

5. Is there an incentive such as money for the adoption agency to be still involved indirectly and indefinitely for an Open Adoption? Does it cost the prospective adoptive parents more money upfront for it to be an open adoption?

I have no idea. I know that our unethical facilitator hasn’t been involved since the papers were signed. When I approached them for a referral to a local counselor, they initially refused until I threatened legal action.

6. If the contract is legally binding, what happens to the adoptive parents if they don’t follow through? Is there really any legal recourse for both parties that are clearly spelled out?

As I said above, legally binding contracts are hard to, if not impossible to, enforce. I did an entire series of states and their laws regarding this issue at that one site that my unethical facilitator pays the bills for with their advertising. But I won’t link there because they’re icky. You can google it though. Suffice it to say that there’s talk of mediation in all states with enforceable contracts, but what’s the result of that mediation? No overturned adoptions, that’s for sure. Just more of the same, but with resentment on the part of the adoptive parents that they were called out for their actions.

7. What deters the birth parents from coming to your house unannounced?

And here’s where I get pissed the hell off.

What on Earth?

Who do you think I am? It’s already assumed that DHS needs to be involved in my life. And now I’m showing up at Dee’s door unannounced? First off, I have a life. I live it. I’m kinda busy. We keep in contact. But for me to pick up and drive eight hours takes months of planning, phone calls, emails and last minute “uh, what do I need to bring” conversations. Secondly, even if she lived nearby, I’m really not someone who shows up anywhere without calling and saying, “Hey, are you even home?” Mainly because when people do it to me, I’m usually still in my jammies with bed-head (I have stellar bed-head). I am not a stalker. I am not a threat. I am a good person with actual boundaries that I would like respected, so I respect others as well.

And, by the way, if my daughter’s mom showed up on my doorstep unannounced, I’d figure that something was horrifically wrong and usher her in with hugs while I got her some tea and told her to speak. Because she’s family. Not a stranger.

8. Do you know if there are any court cases where it’s obvious that there are loopholes in Open Adoption that need to be addressed?

No. And what loop holes? The law is pretty cut and dry. Birth parent signs TPR. Adoptive parents finalize adoption. OBC is sealed. Birth parents cease to exist in the eyes of the law.

9. Just like there are issues with closed adoptions and we have the outspoken activists’, etc., are there any Open Adoption opponents or vice versa that are working to be the voice for the birth mothers as well as the adoptive children and their best interests?

I’m pretty outspoken. In case you missed that. The question is awfully hard to understand. But, yes, there are opponents of OA who regularly berate me because I’m too happy with my life as it stands. And then there are the pro-adoption-never-speak-ill-of-adoption camps that berate me because I’m not quite happy enough. They can both fluff off, because I’m going to stand here and happily speak my reality. Sometimes my reality is sad. Sometimes it’s downright hard. But I’m a happy person. Except when it’s assumed that I’m a crazy who doesn’t deserve contact with my child. Then I’m kinda pissy.

10. When is the adoptee old enough to choose if they want contact or not? What if they are the ones who want to break off ties with the bio parents?

I will respect my daughter’s wishes, but the truth is that if she was saying she didn’t want to see me, I strongly doubt Dee would let it go at that. I’m sure she would discuss what was up with the change and try to figure out what was at the heart of the matter. Again, I would respect whatever she chose — at whatever age — but that’s 100% because I know my daughter’s mom wouldn’t fabricate such a thing nor would she just shrug and say, “Okie dokie.”

11. Are there any support groups/legal aids for birth mothers where they can get honest answers with their concerns for open adoptions?

Legal aids? Ha. Support groups? Sure. I belong to the Ohio Birthparent Group. I am having to miss the meeting again this month due to a camping trip with my extended family and I’m quite upset about it. They’ve been an amazing support this year. There are groups online and all over the country — though some groups tend to be less inclusive than ours. Ours is equally accepting of open and closed adoption era mothers whereas some groups I tried to look into in years past didn’t want me because I have an open adoption with my daughter’s family.

– __ — __ –

Perhaps it would have been better if this Open Adoption Roundtable had not piggy-backed on Lori’s friend’s set of questions as they are so obviously slanted toward adoptive parents. I’ve never really witnessed an OA Roundtable that specifically left out birth parents (though we could argue that open adoption adoptees are sometimes slanted out). I spoke with Heather and am confident that it wasn’t intentional to leave birth parents completely out of this discussion. I trust Heather.

But stop and think for just a minute: If I started a discussion with a series of questions that asked leading questions about adoptive parents, I would be flamed. End of discussion. I understand that there is an interest in educating others, but let’s not pretend like this was an inclusive set of questions. It wasn’t.

Open Adoption Roundtable #28: The One Where I Get Kinda Miffed is a post from The Chronicles of Munchkin Land. Want more Chronicles? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, please contact me or @ me on twitter.

Open Adoption Roundtable #27: First Meetings.

– __ — __ —

September 2003

I clutched his hand as we made our way across the parking lot. My stomach flipped-and-flopped; a combination of nerves and the Munchkin getting her evening exercise. The white maternity top that I was wearing was more for show than comfort; I still wasn’t very big due to my health issues, but I wanted them to see a pregnant woman when they opened the door.

We stepped inside the hotel and walked down the hallway. Hotels have a muffled silence to them, like you’re swimming past stock art above the ocean floor of carpeting. We stood in front of the doorway, everything still muffled.

I knew what they looked like; I had looked at their photos in their profile. Smiling on their wedding day. Happy in Disney World. Together in a hug. I knew their dog was fluffy and white, but he wasn’t waiting for me inside that hotel room. What was waiting for me was bigger and scarier than any dog: the parents who would eventually adopt my baby. I didn’t know that yet; I didn’t have a crystal ball. But we had matched over the phone with the cautious ears of our facilitator listening in, directing our conversation, making plans.

They had seen my photo as well. They had my information, knew that my eyes were brown. They had access to my health records, knew that my kidney was not working as it should… especially during pregnancy. They seemed nice on the phone.

But what if they took one look at me, in my white maternity shirt and khaki pants, and thought I looked too plain. Or saw my crooked tooth and judged me — and my parents — and assumed we didn’t care about such things. What if they just plain old didn’t like me?

I looked to him and he nodded. I must have knocked, but I have no recollection of the sound. While the hallway of a hotel may be muffled, the sound of their footsteps coming to the door caused shockwaves to beat through my heart, my soul. This was it. They were going to open the door and this was it. There would be no turning back; even without my crystal ball, I knew that. My heart caught in my throat.

The door opened. There may have been a hug. I have no idea. In the dim light of a hotel room, my life began to change.

– __ — __ —

Read more first meetings at this Open Adoption Roundtable.

Open Adoption Roundtable #27: First Meetings is a post from The Chronicles of Munchkin Land. Want more Chronicles? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, please contact me or @ me on twitter.