I featured a post on BlogHer Family last week that started out funny and eventually hit a chord with me.

And the same goes for Kindergarten. JP’s teacher will never get to know me the way his previous teachers’ have and she is the first of the many people JP will independently interact with outside of our home. From now on JP is in control of the message he sends to the world about who he is, where he comes from and what his family is like. All I can hope is that I’ve done a good enough job so that most people think he’s a good kid with caring parents who have taught him the importance of respect, manners and compassion. Parents who love him, man breasts and all.

Okay, so you have to read the whole post to understand the man breasts part, but the rest of it left me blinking at my screen. How very deeply I feel those words in the deep, hidden recesses of my soul.

It’s what I’ve been struggling with since BigBrother started Kindergarten. It’s why I haven’t met with his teacher to talk about our unique family unit. I’ve been absent from the classroom, knowing that BigBrother needs time and space away from me to be himself. When I am present, I am more of a distraction than a help. It’s just his personality (which differs greatly from LittleBrother, by the way). I’ve been letting him find his own way in his classroom, in his new reality. He’s been doing so well, and I am so proud of the boy he is growing into already.

He is in control of what he’s doing now. I think — I think — he’s doing a good job of showing what kind of family he comes from: loving, kind of quirky, funny, real. He’s a good boy. He’s a smart boy. He’s a loyal boy. He probably loves others a little too much, and that’s one of the crosses he has to bear. But I think he’s enjoying being himself, out from under my wing a little bit.

For those wondering, he hasn’t talked about his sister any less since starting Kindergarten. He specifically asked me when we were going to visit last week and he got mad at me when we were heading to YiaYia’s house instead of Munchkin’s house.

I’m learning from him as we travel this new journey together. If anything, I’m noticing — with joy — that he doesn’t seem to have my same anxiety about social situations. He has been diving head first into all number of new things lately without even looking back — except when he scores a goal to see if I’m watching.

And I always am.

The Message He Sends 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.

As if I wasn’t irked enough by the not guilty verdict in the Casey Anthony trial, I came across this gem of a tweet.

Perhaps the #caseyanthony trial will shine a light on #adoption as an option for troubled moms.

Oh yeah? Perhaps the Casey Anthony trial will shine some light on, I don’t know, not murdering your child. Or, since she’s “not guilty” of that, perhaps it will shine some light on actually reporting your child as missing sooner than 31 days after the fact. Just sayin’.

Yes, I’m coming off as a bit aggravated. But I am. Most of it is about the stupid verdict. But some of it is about the stupid “cause” that some have taken upon themselves to somehow make Casey Anthony’s now forever alleged murder of her daughter into some crusade for adoption.

I get the sentiment behind the idea. Kind of. I’m sure there are many who would jump on the bandwagon with those who think “if you don’t want to parent, give your child to someone who does.” However, it’s often assumed that I didn’t want to parent. That’s simply not the case. I was physically ill, unable to work and stressed beyond my capacity with regard to those financial issues. Hearing that Casey was having financial woes (more likely due to bad choices than a bum kidney), it makes me stop and pause.

Before you think I’m defending Casey, let me assure you that I am not.

I am simply debunking the myth that all mothers who think the thought — “maybe I don’t want to be a mom anymore” — should not be forced to give their babies to deserving couples. Quite honestly, it is those moms whom we should be helping with mental health care, support as friends and family and generally lifting up — instead of just ripping babies from their arms. It’s true that we cannot help people who do not want to be helped, but when we place such a stigma on mothers reaching out for help, especially mental health help, can we really blame mothers for being gun-shy at seeking it? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. I don’t like to play Russian roulette with kids lives either. And that’s the rub.

Children being harmed, in any way, is a sensitive button for me. But the answer is not to rip every child away from every mother who ever doubted herself. So, please stop making broad, extremely insensitive comments about how this is a call to all unexpectedly pregnant women to give up those “unwanted” babies. That is most certainly not what this case and the resulting verdict are about.

Now, back to Casey. Documents released in 2008 show that Casey did consider placing Caylee for adoption, but that her mom told her that she “wasn’t allowed” or something to that effect. I’ve seen some other bloggers take on this topic and, when I can put my venom away for a moment, I realize that I don’t have a lot to say. Or, I do, but it’s not popular. The truth is that I really wouldn’t wish the lifelong grief and loss associated with relinquishment on too many people in the world. I really, really wouldn’t. It sucks. Big time. But do you know what sucks more? Precious babies who are killed.

So, for the sake of argument, let’s say that Casey Anthony really didn’t kill her daughter. And let’s ignore that big span of time where she didn’t report her daughter as missing. Let’s ignore all of this hoopla and pretend there was never a case against Casey. Let’s just say something really awful just happened to her daughter. Really awful things happen. Accidents. Kidnappings. Car accidents. If she was truly innocent and had considered adoption prior to giving birth, would we be arguing that she should have relinquished just so her daughter would still be alive? No. We wouldn’t.

Okay. That’s about as far as I can take my non-defense of Casey. I kind of made myself nauseated taking it that far. But I did it for a reason.

Judge Casey as you will. But please don’t make her case — as messed up as it was — a call for mothers to relinquish babies. Every mother experiencing an unplanned pregnancy brings a unique set of issues to the delivery room. Her story will not be like any other story before her or after her. Just because she’s considering adoption does not mean that she is an unfit mother. Just because she is unsure of herself doesn’t mean that she won’t be a great mom. Please do not let the actions and in-actions of one mom dictate how we treat those young mothers who will consider adoption in the future. They deserve better. Their children deserve better, no matter their decision to parent or place.

Please separate this case from the women out there who need someone to believe in them, someone to support them.

(And if you’re wondering, I believe she is guilty and honestly wish that Casey was busy enduring the lifelong grief and loss associated with relinquishment rather than smirking after a not guilty verdict in her daughter’s murder trial. So put away the pitchforks.)

Let’s Just Cool It with the Casey Anthony Adoption Talk, Okay? 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.

BigBrother has laid off the constant onslaught of adoption-speak and questions. Apparently he has processed his emotions from our recent visit and has fallen back into his normal processing of all things boy. We’re back to whining about how unfair I am for making him clean his room, wondering how far he can hit the ball at his t-ball game this week and what on Earth we’re having for snack tonight.

It’s not that he’s not mentioning his sister. He is. He occasionally asks when we’re going to visit her again. When pools are mentioned, he informs the pool-mentioner that his sister has a pool and we’re going to swim in it again this summer. He prays for her at night. He told me just yesterday that he misses her.

But the questions have stopped. For now.

They’ll be back. And, just like this time, I’ll suck it up and put my own emotion aside to answer, reassure and generally support his journey through all of this mess. It was hard. I won’t lie. There were times over the pat month and a half, that I really felt down on myself for everything that he was going through. I kicked myself when I was down. But I let him keep talking, let him keep asking, despite how hard it made it for me to find my breath, my peace. I was calm. I was patient. With him. Late at night, after he had been asleep for hours, I would let myself feel, let myself cry. The tears have slowed since the words have slowed.

It’s hard. I accept my responsibility for his questions, his grief. But it’s hard to allow him the grieving room while I still struggle with it myself. I find peace, however, in the fact that he can come to me — to either of his parents — with his questions, his statements. I find peace in the temporary breathing room.

Breathing Room — For Now 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.

Dee and I have both noticed that Munchkin and BigBrother are awfully similar. Not just in looks, though that’s there, but in their personalities. It has me thinking about birth order and how it affects our personalities.

Technically, in their everyday households, both Munchkin and BigBrother are “oldest” children. They act like oldest children. They are determined. They are confident. They’re leaders — which conflicts, by the way, when they are trying to play. They are eager to please. They like to avoid trouble. It goes on and on. As an oldest child myself, I recognize some of the pressures on BigBrother and try to find a balance in how I treat him, but he’s very typical in this way.

I will never know how their personalities might differ if Munchkin was being raised in this home and he was actually a middle child instead of an oldest. (As an aside, LittleBrother is most certainly a youngest… as is my husband.) It’s hard to imagine him as anything but himself, but I recognize that things might very well be different if she was part of our everyday family.

I’ve been asking other birth parents about their experiences with this topic: the technical discrepancy between being the oldest but still acting like the oldest. It’s not overly surprising that many other families have the same experience. They say that children born more than five years apart in the same household will show older/only child type personality traits. And so I’m not overly surprised that two children being raised in separate homes as oldest children would display those traits. It makes sense to me on a logical level.

But logic doesn’t always translate to the heart.

The good news is that BigBrother has stopped being so overprotective of the title “oldest.” I don’t correct him. He is the oldest here. But every now and then, when he says it, he’ll mention his sister. You can see his wheels processing it and thinking about what it means. It’s kind of amazing how his mind works, even at this age. I know he loves lording his birth order over his brother, but he doesn’t seem threatened by his sister at all — which is important to me. I will just have to continue reinforcing that he is who he is and that she is who she is and that we don’t always understand everything about personalities and why we are who we are. Of course, that’s getting a little ahead of where we are in our discussions.

He just wants to go first when we play Hungry, Hungry Hippos.

More Birth Order Thoughts 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.

Mandi and her two daughters were over. We were making food for one of our beloved friend who unexpectedly lost her mother on Friday. There was a sadness floating about, but children have a way of bringing bits of themselves into moments of grief and changing the focus a bit.

We served them a snack as our day drew to a close. Mandi and I were watching them eat and talking about the upcoming visit I have with the Munchkin. We forgot that little ears hear everything even when you think they’re having a conversation amongst themselves; they’re always listening.

“Who is Munchkin,” asked A, Mandi’s oldest daughter.

I will admit that I kind of panicked. My mind started racing as I tried to find an age appropriate answer. A’s younger sister, E, is adopted, so I knew she would understand the topic at hand. But I second-guessed myself as to what words to use and how to explain it best. As I was floundering for words, BigBrother spoke up from across the table.

“She’s our sister.”

Plain as freaking day. She’s. Our. Sister.

I just kind of blinked at him. I didn’t prompt him for that answer. I didn’t even manage to get any mumbles out. It was his instantaneous reaction. I kind of just stood and stared at him in awe as Mandi fielded A’s questions about “where is she” and “why.” Mandi used their own family and E’s birth mother as a comparison and A eventually accepted it at face value.

But I just kind of stared at BigBrother. My mouth was probably agape.

This is really what I’ve worked so hard to achieve: for my kids to be able to field questions about their unique family unit without even taking time to swallow the bite of ice cream sandwich in their mouth. He didn’t bat an eyelash. There was no hesitation from him. He didn’t second guess his words. He didn’t try to evaluate the person who was asking the question and their association to/with adoption. He just answered.

He just answered.

I am constantly amazed by children. And schooled. Totally schooled. My five year old handles the topic of adoption better than me because he’s not worried about being politically correct or nervous about being judged (by a six year old, mind you). She’s his sister. End of discussion.

I’m going to take a lesson from my oldest son. Or try to.

My Children Handle It Better Than Me 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 was early one morning. BigBrother was at the table, eating his breakfast. His brother was still snoozing in his bedroom, the deeper, longer sleeper of the two. I was blinking at my coffee cup, wondering how morning had arrived so quickly. Again.

“Can we go to Munchkin’s house?”

I choked on my coffee. “Well, yeah, Buddy. Soon.”

“Good. Because I miss her.”

I choked on my coffee again. It was too early for post-placement parenting guilt and grief. I hadn’t even swallowed three consecutive sips of coffee yet. Surely my oldest son couldn’t expect me to think about and deal with thoughts about how his sister’s relinquishment has affected his reality.

“Me too, Buddy.”

Three days later, on the way to preschool with just enough coffee ingested to maneuver the mile long drive to school in the pouring rain, LittleBrother piped up from his car seat.

“Mommy, I want to go to Munchkin’s new house.”

I swerved a bit. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. We haven’t seen her in so long. I miss her.”

I sighed. “I miss her too, Bubba.”

These two conversations happened without knowledge that the other had happened. I find it interesting that they’re both expressing the fact that they miss their sister independent of the other. Normally LittleBrother will parrot what BigBrother said, but he wasn’t present for the first conversation. This was of his own accord. Considering that, being the younger brother, he has had less exposure and time with his sister in general, I’m feeling kind of caught off guard by his request a bit more than his older brother’s early morning, coffee-snort-inducing comments.

We are going soon. In April. I’m excited, though typing that sentence — “We are going soon.” — makes my stomach flip and flop and generally drop. So much emotion is involved in the process of a visit, from the getting ready to the thick of visiting to the leaving. It’s very difficult for me to stay centered and focused when the high emotional level makes me want to shut down. So, if I seem quiet or shut down in the upcoming weeks (and weeks following the visit), it’s just my normal reaction.

Post-Placement Parenting Conversations Are Better After Much More Coffee 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.

Today my sons have a soccer game.

Today is the monthly meeting of the Ohio Birthparent Discussion Group.

Originally, I said I wasn’t going to go to the meeting. After some soul-searching and inner woe and discussions with a few trusted friends (adoption and non-adoption), I decided that I should go — to the meeting.

That sentence was hard to write. While I do not place my entire self-worth on my perceived parenting perfection, I still find it difficult to admit when I don’t place my children first. Even knowing that the healthiest and best moms among us have priorities and obligations and a true need to take care of themselves, I always have this deep pull to put my kids first. Above even taking care of myself. And I know that’s not healthy. That’s why I decided to go.

It wasn’t an easy decision. I love to watch my sons play (indoor right now) soccer. Our oldest son adores the sport. The pure joy that crosses his face when he scores a goal, blocks a goal or maneuvers a fantastic defensive move is something that makes my heart soar. Our younger son is new this season and is improving. When he looks to us after he misses a kick or just doesn’t know quite what to do, I know that my “thumbs up” and a positive reinforcement make a difference. I love watching them together; when our older son takes his brother’s hand to lead him out of the court, I am just so moved. I love being their mom. I want them to know that I am there for them. Always.

But I also need to take care of me.

Sometimes I miss bedtime because I go to the gym for yoga, zumba, hip hop cardio or to get a run in for the day. (Note: They don’t put themselves to bed. They do have a dad.) Sometimes I can’t play with them when they want to play Hungry Hungry Hippos because I have a conference call or an immediate deadline. Occasionally I get sick and have to sleep and let my body heal itself. This is no different; going to this birth parent meeting is part of my emotional healing process.

However, unlike the bedtimes missed for physical fitness or the games missed for career work or the sleep due to physical illness, allowing myself to prioritize my healing — for this issue in specific — is difficult for me. I don’t ever want the relinquishment of the Munchkin to make the boys feel like they are somehow less than — that the loss of their sister somehow makes them less important than the elephant in the room. They are so important to me; anyone who knows me understands that fact. So admitting that I need to skip a soccer game to participate in a once-a-month group is hard for me to do. They are important. I am important. I don’t want their sister’s placement to take away from their childhood. But I need to do things for me so that I can be the best mom I can be.

And ’round and ’round it goes.

Despite going and knowing that it was the right choice, I will fight guilt over the choice for days and weeks (and months? and years?) to come. This is just one example of a difficult choice I keep facing in the weird world of parenting post-placement. I don’t suppose they’ll ever end.

But I’ll be really glad when indoor soccer ends and t-ball begins. T-ball is on Thursdays. The decision won’t have to be made, and I’ll feel more at peace with allowing myself some me-time.

Difficult Choices 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 have lied to my sons by omission. Actually, no. I just haven’t corrected them, which is a sort of lie by omission. But it’s just kind of cute.

You see, when we took the boys to see Disney on Ice, our oldest son exclaimed, “This is DISNEY WORLD! I LOVE DISNEY WORLD!” And he keeps talking about how he went to Disney World. Who am I to rain on the kid’s parade, you know? I mean, look at the kid’s face:

We have prolonged this white lie because they don’t watch television with commercials, including the Disney channel (I know, I’m a horrid mother). Eventually he’s going to figure it out, tell his brother and then our jig will be up.

Alas. I’m running with it while I can.

Enter a conversation the Munchkin had with Dee last week.

Dee asked Munchkin and JD if they wanted to go to Disney World again with their female cousins. JD replied in the affirmative, but Munchkin had other ideas.

Munchkin: Well, I do want to go to Disney World, but not with my female cousins.
Dee: Who do you want to go with?
Munchkin: It’s a secret, but they’re boys.
Dee: Munchkin, we don’t really have any friends with boys.
Munchkin: Mommy, they’re my brothers!
Dee: Oh, duh.

Dee said that sounded fun and “maybe next year,” referring to 2012.

Well, you see, I have been hoping and slowly planning to take the boys when they are 4 and 6, which will be in 2012. My husband isn’t 100% in agreement with next year as he really wants our youngest son to remember the trip. But I’m working on him. I think he’ll be most grumpy that we’ll likely have to forego our annual beach trip to go to the real Disney World. I’m sure he’ll ask if we just can’t go to another Disney on Ice type thing.

Uncertainty on the exact “when” of it all, I cannot explain how exciting it feels — in the deepest depths of my core — to know that I’ll be taking my sons (and my husband!) to Disney World for the first time … with my daughter and her awesome family present. I get excited just thinking about it.

Of course, as it’s a year — or two if my husband has his way — away, I need to make sure my kids believe that they’ve been Disney World. So hush up, will ya?

We’re Going to Disney World (Eventually) 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 thought I was doing better on the overprotective front. For the past month or so, I’ve been taking a book to read at the playground while they run and laugh and play. I was feeling kind of smug.

Silly me.

I intervened in a situation where a slightly older boy was not so much bullying my oldest son, but he was being a real buttface. That’s right. I just called a not-quite-six-year-old-boy a buttface. Not to his face. Not even to my son’s face. I don’t even think I said it aloud to my husband. But the kid was being really nasty. And, in the end, I didn’t even say anything to the kid. I just walked over and removed my son from the situation.

It’s not that I don’t want him to ever experience hardship with other kids. He’s going to. I know this. He has to learn how to deal with it, how not to be a buttface right back and other important lessons. But I could tell that he was trying, so hard, not to break down in tears. I could tell that he just wanted the scenario to end. And so I made it end sooner than it would have otherwise. Sue me.

I felt upset with myself for intervening. But it kills me to see my children treated poorly, even by their peers. I like to think my husband and I treat our children quite fairly, praising them when they need it and dolling out the appropriate discipline when necessary. And so when I see someone else, child or adult, doing or saying something not-so-nice to my kids, my hackles get all kinds of raised.

As I look back on the situation, I realize I can’t do this forever. It would not be in his best benefit if I swooped in, took his hand and lead him away when he was, say, 15 years old. He’d get beat up after school if I did something like that. We’ve been working on teaching him to walk away when someone is mean to him, but like someone I know, he just wants people to like him and doesn’t understand when they don’t do so.

I’m working on my tendency to hover, to be up in my sons’ grills. I’m failing a lot. But hopefully I get there before they know to say, “Maaaaaaa, you’re doing it again.”

Overprotective Me 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.