But once we were back home and the boys were asleep and the calm settled down and around, I picked up the phone to call Dee back. She had texted a Happy Mother’s Day message earlier in the cacophony, and I wanted to return the sentiment.

She was busy with JD and reading, so we exchanged a quick “Happy Mother’s Day” and “I love you,” and then she handed the phone off to the Munchkin. After the “hellos” and “how are yous?” and “did it rain all day theres?,” a slight pause happened — as does when talking to children on the phone — and she said, “Happy Mother’s Day.”

I had a brief moment where I had to stare at the corner of the ceiling and blink rapidly — but instead of trying not to laugh, it was to keep from becoming a complete blubbering mess on the phone with this amazing, fabulous, best little girl ever. Once I composed myself, the conversation continued as you might imagine with some “thank yous” and “I miss yous” and “I love yous.” Then she asked to speak to my husband so she could tell him Happy Birthday. He also had a moment. She is, quite honestly, the best little girl on the planet. I don’t care what you say.

There are little moments along this open adoption journey that stand out as big, important things. Maybe not to the rest of the world, but to my heart. My daughter told me Happy Mother’s Day.

I can count this year as not only having survived, but having enjoyed Mother’s Day. That, in itself, is a huge milestone.

Write to someone else in the adoption constellation (someone specific or a general group). What do you want to say to them on Mother’s Day?

I want to write three very brief letters to my three favorite adoptive moms this Mother’s Day. They are all very different letters as each of these adoptive moms are vastly different. But all three of them are my friends. I always get offended when I hear that adoptive moms and birth moms can’t ever be friends. I’m all, “Pfft, whatever. I do what I want!” I don’t deal well with being told I can’t do something, so I seem to collect adoptive moms. And, of course, you know, that one that comes with the territory of being a birth mother. I do kinda like her too. (But, let’s face it, she also just kinda fell in my lap.)

Without further adieu, my letters. (Be forewarned, one of these is very irreverent. Because friends can do that.)

– __ — __ –

Dear Dee,

Thank you. You are a strong, amazing, compassionate, loving, funny, great mom. I love that you trust me with parenting questions. I am thankful for the way you love the Munchkin. I am also thankful that we can make fun of stupid people together; what would I do without you?! I wish the world for you in the coming months. I’m always here for you. Can’t wait to see you soon!

Happy Mother’s Day!

Love,
Jenna

– __ — __ –

Dear @2princessmama,

Thank you for proving that adoptive parents are equally crazy by getting a divorce and then shacking up and living in sin. You make birth parents look good. Thanks for taking the time to go to that celebration of stupid crackwhore birthmoms this Saturday, though I know it’s because you want to see for yourself that we have a day that qualifies us as less than you. Also, you owe me wine.

(Don’t you love making people gasp in horror? I do. We’re awesome.)

Happy Mother’s Day — you really are a great mom. Don’t let the young’ns tell you otherwise.

Love,
Jenna

– __ — __ —

Dear @fouragainsttwo,

I won’t be as irreverent as I was with our other Amanda-named-friend, but know that I think you are a fantastic mother to all of your daughters. I am thankful for our friendship, for your mothering, for the way our stories have intersected. Thank you for tolerating me and my noisy boys.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Love,
Jenna

– __ — __ –

I promise you, innocent readers, that none of these letters, even that one in the middle, are written in a mean way. I am super thankful for each of these amazing mothers. They have all taught me something about mothering, about birthmotherhood. They have all laughed with me, cried with me and been angry with me. And, well, uh, probably been angry with me. They have all forgiven me. They are friends. And they are moms who deserve a high five this Mother’s Day.

And wine.

Happy Mother’s Day.

How do you feel after a visit?

After a visit is always a hard time. It takes a few days, sometimes a few weeks, to step back and evaluate the larger picture of a visit. The immediacy of “after a visit” is always fraught with deep emotions and anxiety and tears and the general “missing” of my daughter. I am often quiet and introspective, because I fear opening my mouth and saying or typing the things in my head. To be honest, I’m often afraid of feeling the things I feel.

The truth is that I miss my daughter all the time. I miss when she’s not here, doing the everyday things that we do every single day. But after a visit, it’s very much so in my face. I am face-to-face with the lack of her presence in our home. I am forced to acknowledge some of those feelings that I otherwise am afforded the right to ignore. It’s not that I ignore my daughter, but most days I am able to avoid dealing with the sadness, the grief, the loss, the guilt simply because I have too much else to do. The end of a visit brings all of those things to the forefront and I am forced to sit in them, to dwell amongst them. I am forced to take account of them, to feel them. I am forced to reevaluate where I was after the last visit and how I have grown or stagnated or even regressed since the last visit in terms of healing and emotions and appropriate responses to negative feelings toward myself. I am forced to answer the question, “Am I still doing this for the right reasons, even when it is hard. Am I continuing to place my daughter first in these decisions? Am I soaring or falling? Am I winning or failing? Am I enough?”

In short: the “after a visit” time is absolutely exhausting for me.

It’s more exhausting than keeping up with four children, multiple adults and, if we’re over there, multiple pets. It’s more exhausting than answering questions all the way to the Munchkin’s house. It’s more exhausting than being put on the spot with questions or statements that you couldn’t even imagine to expect. It’s more exhausting than worrying about a visit in the days before it arrives. It’s more exhausting than traveling, alone, with two very active little boys and a “60-year-old back.” The self-evaluation that happens in the immediate aftermath of a visit is just draining.

But, of course, firmly worth it as well.

Because eventually, the dwelling is dealt with and I come to a personal conclusion about the emotional work I need to do before the next visit, and I am able to step back and look at that larger picture. It is almost always a picture that I want to remember. And as I said in that post, after that emotional work is done — whether it takes a day or twelve, I come back to what keeps me going, to how I deal with this thing called open adoption:

I know I’ll remember that heavy weight of sadness that washes over me as we walk out the door to go home, but as I always do, I’ll remember the good stuff first. It’s how I function, how my brain works. I can’t focus on the negative. I can realistically accept the bittersweet aspects of visiting and how it’s never easy to leave. But we made some good memories on this visit.

And I will carry them with me until next time — until forever.

We’re gearing up for a visit at the end of May, so I’m doing some emotional work to prepare myself for the post-visit blues knowing, full well, that they’ll still sideswipe me, that I won’t really be prepared. And that, in the end, it will all be okay.

I logged onto Facebook late the other night for a last minute look around before forcing myself to head to bed. In between the links people had shared to something that had moved them and the shameless self-promotion (which there’s nothing wrong with) and the whining about the weather and the bragging about the weather and the political whinging and the pictures of cute kids and the woe is me and the omg! and the game updates (which I have mostly hidden, but the Internet keeps churning out new games all the time to hide) and the everyday stuff of Facebook…

was a beautiful picture of my daughter.

I immediately messaged Dee to see how she had fixed her hair like that; it was new and different and, of course, stunningly beautiful. She told me and we marveled over how awesome that child’s hair really is; and, without a doubt, it most certainly is the best hair. Ever.

It was an unexpected glimpse into my daughter’s life. I most often always know the big stuff, the important stuff: when she’s sick, when she’s struggling with something. Dee tells me these things without fail as she is dedicated to keeping the relationship alive. Also, we act as bouncing boards for one another. (Last night’s topic of discussion was: “How DO you get really bad vomit smell out of the carpet?”) We talk, a lot, about our kids and what to do and how to do it and why on Earth do they do what they do and so on.

But I miss some of that in between. The stuff that isn’t extremely good or extremely bad. That in between stuff that is just the normal everyday of life, like a new hairstyle.

Getting to see it, to hear about it, to marvel at her beauty for just a bit was a beautiful moment for which I am quite grateful.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.