December 2011 | Rage Against the Minivan

on hating new year’s eve

posted on Saturday, December 31, 2011

I hate New Year’s Eve.

And love it . . . sort of.

But mostly I hate it.

It’s my birthday, which is actually part of the reason I hate it.

New Year’s Eve is one of the worst days to have a birthday. First of all, typically half of my friends are still out of town visiting family for the holidays. Sure, I never had to go to school on my birthday. That was a bonus. But I also grew up having poorly-attended birthday parties over Christmas break where I was the recipient of re-gifted presents in holiday wrap. My birthday was always a hastily-planned post-Christmas afterthought. (And now that I have a child whose birthday is two days after Christmas, I am repeating the same cycle of birthday neglect).

Me, on my first birthday. Notice the Christmas wrap?

I will never forget the Christmas of my 7th grade year. I had asked for nothing but a Casio keyboard for months. I was dying to have my own synthesized keyboard so I could carry it around and play Axel F But on Christmas morning, it was my SISTER who got a keyboard under the tree. None for me, but my sister, who could care less about a keyboard, was the one who got one. I remember crying in my room all day, thinking about how thoughtless my parents were . . . how unjust it was that my sister got a keyboard when I was the one who could play Chariots of Fire AND the theme song from St. Elmo’s Fire. The humanity! I was so distraught that my mom finally had to tell me that she’d saved the (bigger, better) keyboard to give me as a birthday present. But not until I’d wasted an entire day with lots of dramatic sobbing.

Christmas/birthday gift confusion aside, New Year’s Eve sucks as a birthday because it means double the build-up, equaling to double the let-down should the day play out in any kind of mundane way. I am not immune to the birthday blues . . . those pangs of disappointment when THE BIG DAY is less than stellar. When you add New Year’s Eve expectations to that, it’s even more problematic.

I feel like New Year’s Eve is this looming holiday we’ve given so much import to . . . that there is some underlying meaning we’ve assigned to how we spend ringing in the new year. (Right? Or is this just me?) I’ve always felt like I had to be doing something spectacular as the clock struck midnight . . . like if I wasn’t surrounded by confetti and music and kissing a cute boy, the rest of the year would inexplicably be ruined.

I would love to say that I’ve grown out of this, but that feeling is still present, if I’m honest. For many years, I mitigated these feelings by throwing a huge birthday party / New Year’s Eve bash. I think we did this for every New Year’s Eve up until my 30th birthday. We rented out community centers or ballrooms, we went big with music and karaoke, we invited lots of friends and served lots of champagne. It was always a blast. It was also always a LOT of work.

That tissue paper confetti? I CUT THAT BY HAND. And I didn’t even have Pinterest to show me how or brag about it later.

After a decade of hosting a big shin-dig, I decided I’d had enough. Throwing your own birthday party is hard enough . . . throwing a birthday party where you feel responsible for everyone having a thrilling moment all the way up ‘till minute? Way too much work. And while I love my husband, partying planning is not in Mark’s gift mix. Party merriment? Yes. Party planning? Not so much. And I was tired of feeling responsible for everyone’s countdown moment. So we stopped throwing the parties, and started looking for destinations.

Ah . . . but God forbid you try to go out to eat on New Year’s Eve with a small group. God forbid you actually want to ring in the New Year at an establishment that serves food or drink . . . because they will make you pay out the nose for the privilege of occupying a chair once the clock strikes. It’s insane and nearly impossible to find a place to go that is fun, that isn’t overpriced, and that doesn’t turn into a parade of cosmetic surgery cougars come 10pm.

Then there is the drunk driving, which means everyone is reluctant to go out, combined with the exorbitant prices and the fact that everyone is out of town and the insane length of time between a reasonable dinner hour and midnight and SHEESH. It is a really difficult night. I know I need to let go of my expectations, but I can’t seem to shake the pressure.

And yet . . . one year we decided to sit New Year’s Eve out . . . to just stay home and watch a countdown, and oh my word. I just felt so old and lame and lonely. I seriously remember thinking, “This is it. This is the year we are officially old.” Was I over-exaggerating and making too much of some symbolic milestone that really has no relevancy over my day-to-day life and well-being? Sure. I was. But I’m also the girl who named her blog Rage Against the Minivan. So.

Last year, we went back out there. We’ll do the same again this year, even though the idea of watching Anderson and Kathy’s awkward banter sounds kind of appealing . . . hmmm.

Maybe well just come home a LITTLE early.

In less whiney news – I’m turning 37 this year, but last year I thought I was turning 37 all week leading up to my birthday, when a friend from childhood reminded me I was only turning 36. So! I’ve already grieved turning 37. And the loss of my memory. Bring it on!

What are your feelings about New Year’s Eve? Do you believe the hype? Do you feel pressure to be doing something spectacular or are you content with some Chex mix and the remote?

what I want you to know: coping with miscarriage

posted on Saturday, December 31, 2011

What I Want You to Know is a series of reader submissions. It is an attempt to allow people to tell their personal stories, in the hopes of bringing greater compassion to the unique issues each of us face. (If you are new to this blog, regularly schedule programming will resume after the holidays, but you can check out the “Best Of” section in the meantime). If you would like to submit a story to this series, click here. This guest post is by Tiffany Pate.

What I want you to know about miscarriage. At 25 my husband and I found out on mothers day that I was pregnant. I had woken up at 6ish that morning stumbling into the bathroom, I hardly remember opening up the packing of the pregnancy test. Next thing I know there are two lines, running into the bedroom, literally kicking my husband yelling at him telling him to get up. "Get up, I'm pregnant, and going to store." I said. He said "huh? what? okay, wait why are you going to the store." He confusingly replied. "Did you not hear me" I quipped back. "I'm pregnant, I have to go to the store and get another test to make sure".

I know, it was a crazy thought process. But, I was told at 22 that I wasn't going to be able to have children after a bout with cervical cancer, so another test was needed. Honestly by the end of the day 6 test were needed.

I thought I had my fairy tale ended. I know I radiated with joy that day. Here it was Mothers Day and I found out that I was pregnant! I couldn't have written a better story! Little did I know that just 2 weeks later everything would be pulled out from under me. That two weeks later, I would be laying on the couch in more pain than I have ever been in, or have been in since, sobbing, trying to grasp that I had to say good bye to my baby. I was so devastated in a way that words just can't be formed. It's a kind of devastated where breathing hurts, thinking is impossible, and your days become a blur.

Little did I know I was going to get pregnant 2 weeks later. A pregnancy that I carried full term and now have an adorable, wildly curious one year old little boy. The doctors had said that since I had carried full term they seriously doubted I would miscarry again.

They were wrong....

February of this year, I found out I was pregnant. Totally blindsided but so over happy! We packed up the baby man and headed to the doctors a few weeks later. We went in as soon as we could because I didn't know how far along we were. We when in and saw the little baby, heard the heart beat, that wonderful quick thudding noise, the noise that catching you in your throat. The noise that dreams, well mommy dreams are made of. Everything look great with the baby, so the twitter pictures were flying! Pictures of the Baby Man holding the ultra sound of his little brother/sister, pictures of me holding the ultra sound. The pictures of me holding Baby Man and the ultra sound were my favorite.

We scheduled an appointment for 4 week later to have our officially first prenatal appointment. We knew there was going to be some poking and prodding that time so my mom watch the Baby Man. When we went in the nurse couldn't find a heart beat, and started asking me about a titled uterus. I knew in that moment that my worst fears were happening. After sending two more nurses in, trying a ultra sound machine, they went in vaginally and found the baby. Measuring only 9 weeks, with no heart beat. There was my baby on the screen, the perfect side profile of a little one, but wasn't there anymore. How was my baby gone? How did I had not know?

The hardest part of it was how others just made it worst. People say things that really just don't help.

Telling a mother that you think there was something wrong with the baby, doesn't make anything better. No mother wants to think there is something wrong with their baby. Telling a mother that they can just "try" again just belittles the life that you lost.

Once we found out that our child was missing a gene, telling a mother that "well good thing you lost the baby, could you imagine the medical issues and bills?" Really? Your glad my life was going to easier. I don't want my life to be easier, I want my baby.

Telling a mother "Baby Man is such a hand full, could you imagine how busy and tired you would be if you didn't miscarry."
Telling a mother "Everything happens for a reason." Really? Then what's the reason?

This is what I know.

Saying anything to help, doesn't help.
Tell me it sucks, tell me you want to cry, heck cry with me, don't try and fix my pain.
Sit with me, hold me hand, hug me, those are all good things. Words aren't as powerful as actions. Act. Bring some one dinner, tissues, and flower, a card, pray, do something.

Listen. Listen when I want to talk, you don't have to respond just listen. Know that this doesn't make me a freak. That I'm not the only one this has ever happened too. Know that it happens way too often. Don't look at me like your waiting for me to break. Don't handle me with kid gloves. Just be kind and loving.

Think before you say or do anything. Many times, all of us, react before we put thought into what we're doing. Those are the times that when some one is in pain that you hurt them more.

Know that no matter what I will have to live with this pain. That I know have new hopes and dreams for those children, that my children that I lost are still in my dreams, my hopes, and my prayers. That they don't just disappear. They, no matter how short of a time, have made an impact on our lives. So don't try and 'speak' that way.

what I want you to know: being atheist in america

posted on Friday, December 30, 2011

I am an atheist.

I donate to charity. I volunteer. I adopt dogs from the rescue shelter. I call my grandma twice a week and wish my downstairs neighbors a Merry Christmas. I vote and recite the Pledge of Allegiance where appropriate (yes, I omit “under god,” added in 1954). I do these things because I was raised to do these things. And yes, I was essentially raised as an atheist, with a thin veil of cultural Judaism.

What does being an atheist have to do with this blog series? Well, I love my internet, and read all sorts of blogs. A good majority of them are written by and populated by Christians of all creeds. That’s cool with me. Everyone has a story to tell, and unless I feel actively preached to, I don’t mind people explaining how their faith helped them get through a tough time, or praise god when something went really right. Live and let live.

And yet, I’m here to tell you that I feel marginalized. Not by bloggers necessarily, but as an American. I know, it sounds crazy -- we all seem to be hearing about the “War on Christmas” lately, but I want the opportunity to tell you what it’s like to not be part of the “moral majority.”

Our former President (before he was elected) said in 1987 that “I don't know that atheists should be considered as citizens, nor should they be considered patriots. This is one nation under God.”

Can you imagine what it feels like as an actual citizen to know that because they aren’t a believer that their president doesn’t feel that they should be considered as such?

It wasn’t until 2009, in Obama’s heavily religiously influenced inaugural speech that a president even acknowledged that “non believers” are a part of the constituency.

I think we can agree that there is a wide spectrum of behavior and religious thought, and I’d rather not use this opportunity to defend or rail against atheists who are rude, belittling or hurtful, nor would I like to turn this into a platform for railing against misdeeds done in the name of God, or rant against “bible thumpers.” There’s kooks and jerks on all sides.

But there's seemingly a (sometimes not so subtle) shared understanding that it's only through faith that happiness is found. And maybe some really believe that's true, and that I am actually unhappy and will remain so until I find God, specifically Christ. I can't argue with that, of course - we simply have to agree to disagree.

But I can tell you a little bit about myself, and answer the questions I get most often.

I simply just … don’t believe. I don’t hate god, or Christians or Muslims or Jews or Hindus, etc. My only real issue with people who have religion is when they are unable to separate their personal religious beliefs from legislative issues at the voting booth. But I suppose that’s a different post altogether.

Yes, I’ve read the Bible. The whole thing – Old and New Testament, which is more than I can say for most people. I consider it wonderful literature and a great allegory with lots of life lessons. I don’t cheat, murder or steal. I live by the Golden Rule, and most of the Ten Commandments (exceptions for Sabbath days, Lord’s name in vein, etc.). I manage to not run rampant as a wild hedonist in the streets without the fear of a vengeful god.

I’ll raise my kids (if I have them) to do the right thing. Same as I was raised. What if they turn out religious? As long as they are good people, who aren’t trying to impose their will on others? Go for it! I’ll bring the matzoh, or decorate the hall for the baptism.

What if I’m wrong? Well, that’s a risk I have to take, I suppose. I’d like to believe that if I am wrong, God will just let me pass into those Pearly Gates because I was a good, moral person. But the real truth is – my faith isn’t a choice. I may be right, and I may be wrong, but it doesn’t matter, because I simply can’t “will” myself into believing in something that I don’t. And while sometimes I absolutely agree that it would be so much easier to believe in an All-Knowing figure who would comfort and love me, especially in a time of grief, I simply … don’t. And I’m okay with that. I like my life. I just want to be acknowledged, and for you to be as okay with my life as I am.

seven

posted on Tuesday, December 27, 2011

My oldest turned seven today. SEVEN! Man, that feels like a graduation away from “little kid” and into big kid territory.

In lieu of a birthday party, Jafta’s wish for his birthday was to go to Knott’s Berry Farm and ride all of the roller coasters with no younger siblings around to cramp his style. So, last Monday Mark took Jafta and two friends to Knott’s and did just that. Jafta rode every ride with gusto . . . even the ones that went upside-down. He’s quite the thrill-seeker.

Jafta’s big birthday gift was a pair of Heely’s – those shoes with the wheels on the sole. I don’t think any of us realized the learning curve that would be involved. He was like a wobbly baby deer, trying to stand up. It was comical.

Since we did the big birthday event several days before his real birthday, today was an inevitable let-down for his siblings, who hadn’t quite realized that his trip to Knott’s without them was the main event. It finally dawned on India today that she had not been invited to Jafta’s “birthday party”, and SHE WAS MAD. She spent a good hour in a huff, making explicit plans for her birthday that would not include Jafta, and then talking about what a mean boy Jafta was. I kept telling her that we were going to celebrate as a family at a restaurant, but Jafta’s decision to get sushi for dinner didn’t exactly quell her disappointment. Finally, I caved and took the kids to a drop-in trampoline place, just to sort of fake a birthday party to keep the family peace. This is not the first time I’ve been bullied into doing more for a birthday by a sibling, and probably not the last.

We ended the evening by going out to Jafta’s favorite restaurant – a sushi place down the street that knows him by name. I still can’t quite comprehend a child that chooses sushi over pizza, but he was thrilled with his bento box and extra ginger.

Last year I interviewed Jafta about some of his favorite things, and I decided to do the same this year, too. He also shares some of his best advice for six-year-olds, now that he has more wisdom and experience.

One of our birthday traditions is that we all give affirmations to the person of honor, and this morning as we went around the table, the recurring theme was Jafta’s kindness and compassion. I’m so proud of him and so grateful that he sets such a great example to his siblings as an thoughtful and loyal brother and friend. It’s such a blessing to be his mom.

merry christmas!

posted on Sunday, December 25, 2011

Merry Christmas from the Howerton family.

what I want you to know: a letter to santa from a foster child

posted on Friday, December 23, 2011

Dear Santa,

Please read this whole letter because it took me along time to write.

It’s LT… still the same skinny blond “kid” with messy hair. The one that has written a couple times before and who needs just ONE thing. I know people my age are asking for TVs or fancy computer things or clothes or money or lots of things….. but I don’t want any of that. I just want ONE thing…

You never came when I lived with my mom and dad. Maybe you couldn’t find us or maybe you were too scared to goto that neighborhood or maybe you were scared of my parents. I was too, so I understand. Maybe we were too bad. Back then I just wanted ONE thing too…. a stuffed dog that was soft.

Then I went into foster care. I was there for along time. Maybe you had a hard time finding me every year because I moved alot?

You never came when I lived with Mr. Ri–on. He used to dress up like you and make us give him presents… except those presents made me feel gross or hurt me; although they made him feel good. Back then I just wanted ONE thing too … a safe home with people that didn’t use me or my little body.

You never came with I lived with the Stocktons. You came for their biokids, but I was just “the foster kid.” I even spent that Christmas day locked in the basement, away from their holiday family gathering. Back then I just wanted ONE thing too … a family that wanted “the foster kid.”

You never came when I lived on the streets. Sometimes I saw you walking down the street going to parties or restaurants or sitting in shopping malls. But you never saw me. Back then I just wanted ONE thing too… a home with people that cared about me.

I know your big night is coming up and I really do understand that you have a tough job, trying to get to all the kids in the world. And I am not angry at you for all the times you didn’t come… honestly I’m not.

I’ve had a really hard year and I am still fighting. But there is ONE thing that could help make my fight so much easier. Just ONE, Santa. So, I am going to ask ONE more time… and if you could find it in your heart to give it to me, I promise I will never bother you again.

Ready?

Santa… ?

The ONE thing I need is something that won’t hurt me, won’t use me, and will help me…

The ONE thing I need is

A family…

what I want you to know: being bullied as a child

posted on Friday, December 23, 2011

When I was a kid, I was the victim of bullying. It started in Peru, where I was a target because I was Jewish and very awkward. I remember slander on the blackboards and having to pay other girls to be my friend with stickers and American candy.

I was thrilled to move to the United States; there I would make friends and escape being ridiculed. When I got here, I was the perfect target again -- this time because I was awkward, didn't understand American customs and because I barely spoke English. I would ride my bike home, throw myself on the bed and cry. There were moments, when I seriously wondered if it might be better to just end it all. Thankfully, I stuck it out. Junior High School was 100 % better. More friends, still teasing, but, I was able to escape it.. and as I learned to adapt (and learned how to get ride of my accent) in this country, I became less of a target. High School was again 100% better - and I grew confident in my ability to make friends (good ones that I could call when I had problems - friends that last a lifetime).. and even though I was heavy.... I stopped being teased for my weight. College, again better, and I have to tell you that life since just keeps getting more exciting, challenging and yes, better.

But, when I think back to that little girl who moved to the United States in elementary School -- I am so very grateful that the internet was not around! These days, a kid can't escape bullying by just going home and throwing themselves on their bed -- between Facebook, Twitter, Texting, cell phones, etc... bullying has taken on a whole new level of gruesomeness. How are kids to find a safe place when they are bombarded from every angle? I really don't know... But, I do hope that as adults who got a taste of what they are going through (because truly -- I can't even imagine the degree of bullying that is now possible), we keep our eyes open and stay diligent around the kids in our lives.

My hope is also that those same kids who see themselves attacked by bullies on the internet also turn to the internet to find comfort. The "It gets better" campaign that Dan Savage started is a perfect example. It was started as a reaction to the frightening rate of suicide among gay teenagers who were bullied - yet, it truly applies to anyone who is suffering at the hands of stupid stupid people that get their jollies out of making others suffer.

The first time I heard about this campaign, I immediately went on YouTube and looked up some of the videos and wept. The theatre community (did you know that there are gays in theater? Gasp!) has come out in droves in support as well with videos and monetary help to the Trevor Project, and now that Google has done a commercial -- I'm never going to be able to watch TV without crying again.

So, today I say -- It gets better.. thank you Dan Savage and thank you Google.

change a life this christmas

posted on Thursday, December 22, 2011

Jeannett is no stranger to philanthropy through blogging, Her blog is a regular host of guest posts that are matched with giveaways benefits a charity of choice. Last Christmas, she set her sights on something that could change one person’s life forever – a pretty lofty goal. Many bloggers joined Jeannett in sharing Cliff’s story and last Christmas, $5 at a time, readers made a difference for Cliff and raised almost $9,500 for his adoption.

Cliff is now Joshua and has a mama, a daddy, three brothers and a whole host of grandmas and aunts and uncles. He lives in a safe home with a loving mom and dad where he gets love and attention and the medical care he needs. He’s learning sign language and flourishing.

Jeannett wasn’t kidding when she talked about changing a life.

This year, Jeannett is attempting to fund the adoption of a little boy named Xander. He has Down Syndrome and lives in a country where children with special needs who have been abandoned by their families are relegated to life in a mental institution upon turning three. She learned about Xander through Reece’s Rainbow – an organization that tries to help place special needs children into adoptive homes.

The following are Jeannett’s words about Xander and her desire to fund his adoption. I hope you will read and consider helping.

Hello my sweet friends.

I’d like for you to meet Xander.

The squishiest, sweetest, most delicious little face you ever did see.

Xander lives in an orphanage in Eastern Europe with no Mommy and no Daddy.

Those almond eyes, a sign of Down Syndrome…and likely much needed medical care.

Once when Henry was a bitty baby, I found myself in his nursery in the wee hours of the morning consoling his whimpering and kissing his feverish little forehead. I remember thinking: of all the people in the entire world, I’m the only one who can make him feel even remotely happy. All he wants is his mama. No one else will do.

And suddenly, out of the blue, in the glow of a new mom’s overwhelming love for her first baby, I was crushed at the thought of the orphan crisis.

How, if my life were different…if one of millions of things weren’t exactly the same as they are now…

I was devastated at the thought of a feverish and sick child whimpering in a crib alone.

No mama to stay up and whisper sweet nothings and coo in his ear.

No daddy to chase him around the house and throw him high into the air for no reason but to elicit squeals of delight.

No cherry flavored Tylenol and cool washcloths for his head.

In that moment, in the middle of the night, sitting in a gliding rocker, in a perfectly decorated nursery, I sobbed.

And truth be told, I’ve never really stopped sobbing over it, you know?

Something happened that night, or really the moment I became a mother, that made me look at the entire world differently.

The world is a much smaller place the moment you have children.

I think we all break in some way for the orphan crisis…but we have no idea where to start or what to do.

After all, little Xander is only one of 143 million orphans.

Read that number again. Roll it around in your brain.

Horrific.

And let’s not forget all of the other issues of our broken world. The cancer, the poverty, the dirty water, the child trafficking, the abuse, the wars, the AIDS pandemic, the….name it.

I’m tempted to shut down in an overwhelmed panic.

Because the truth is, we can’t save the world.

We can give and give and advocate and try, and it still won’t be enough.

Right?

But you know what?

It doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.

It doesn’t mean it’s a good reason to sit back and do nothing.

We must try.

We must do our part.

We must.

Do not buy into the lie that your portion does not matter.

Do not allow yourself to believe that you cannot make a difference.

Do not give yourself permission to throw up your hands in frustration and then cover your eyes with them.

Because today my friends, we will do something.

It may not be much, but we will do our part because it’s the right thing to do.

Because God calls us to do it.

After all, last Christmas, $5 at a time, we made a difference for Cliff and raised almost $9,500…Cliff who is now Joshua and has a mama, a daddy, three brothers and a whole host of grandmas and aunts and uncles.

I know your heart breaks for orphans. I know it does. And I know that it may not be possible for you to adopt. But a family out there would love to. And you can help.

Together we will combine our portions for Xander’s adoption fund. So that when a family steps forward to adopt him, a gift of funding will be awaiting them.

International adoption is expensive. And is hands down the biggest deterrent to would-be adoptive families.

Not desire. Not extra bedrooms. Not politics.

Just stupid, awful money.

So let’s bless a family today. Let’s bless Xander.

Let’s make this Christmas be about more than wrapping paper and twinkling lights.

Consider making a tax deductible donation to Xander’s adoption fund through Reece’s Rainbow.

I know life is expensive and times are tough. I know.

But ask yourself this: Can you afford not to?

Read HERE to find out more about an incredible matching grant and some absolutely MASSIVE giveaways. You’ll love it.

what I want you to know: regret over an abortion

posted on Wednesday, December 21, 2011

Though I believe that I have been forgiven for my past sins, one still haunts me almost daily. His name is Elijah Christian. He is my baby who never got to see my face or be held in my arms. Not because of miscarriage or illness...but by my own hands.

I have known that I wanted to be a mother since the day I was born. This has been a calling way stronger than any career path or talent. If I could have majored in motherhood, I would have. Instead I picked the next best thing, Marriage and Family Therapy.

At 19 years old, I was a mess. Though I was picked to join one of the most desirable sorority at my school, had a large group of friends, was known as a social butterfly, modeled etc., I never felt good enough. This was partly because my mother's nickname for me was "bloody bitch" and I was constantly compared to all the other children my mother knew and asked why I could not be like them since as early as I can remember. That, however, is another story all together. I hid my crippling insecurities by living a life on the edge. I partied hard, I loved hard, and I woke up every morning with the deepest depression. I had plans for suicide, had an eating disorder, and was a cutter. When the most popular guy at my school liked me, it made me who I was. I felt high and confident. We had an emotionally abusive relationship that consumed me. It became my identity to the point that I could not breathe with out him. I know now how pathetic this sounds, but at that time, it was my reality.

I was home on Thanksgiving break from college, my best friend and I were eating lunch and she commented on how big my boobs were. She asked me when the last time I had gotten my period was. I laughed and said that I have never been regular, so I had no idea. She urged me to get a pregnancy test.

I did . . . it was positive.

My world starting reeling. I called my boyfriend. He said we had to have an abortion because we were not old enough to be parents. I said ok, however I started taking prenatals, stopped drinking all together (which was a BIG deal for me), started eating healthy (also a BIG deal because I was anorexic), and really took pride in being a pregnant mother. I returned to school from Thanksgiving break. I continued to live a healthy life for the baby. I told him my plans to keep it. After hours and hours of being screamed at and threatened, his reasons began to make sense. I just submitted, halfheartedly, to the abortion he had scheduled for December 18. He drove me there. It was an out of body experience for me. I closed my mind to the procedure and let it happen. I was traumatized. I saw the blood in a trash can...my baby in a trashcan...The baby I already loved, however was too big of a screw up to stand up for... I left my body and was a shell.

I went home for Christmas break in a deep depression. I wanted to die and attempted suicide. I could not live with myself. I called my boyfriend for support, (his home was 5 hours away), he never answered. I did not shower, eat, sleep, all I did was cry. It took me a long time to get over that. This was actually the first time my mom and I got along. It was a turning point in our relationship. She saw how depressed and sick I was and even though I refused to tell her what was wrong, she supported me. I went to therapy and realized that I needed to leave my boyfriend. My therapist was so great, she helped me heal and forgive myself. She is why I am a therapist today. Recovery was a long and hard road.

It took me years of therapy to forgive myself and straighten my life out. I am now 32 and happily married to a loving, supportive, man. I believe that I have been forgiven. I don't even step on the wild side anymore, I am the nursery leader at my church, I am a therapist for children, I don't drink, I am not depressed in the least bit. I love my life. I am surprised sometimes that it is MY life. I never thought I would end up happy.

This one aspect of my life though continues to haunt me. I would have NEVER made that decision and if I had been strong enough to stand up for Elijah Christian, and... I would be a mother. As I start my first round of IVF after 2 years of trying to conceive, I can't help but wonder, am I being punished? I know that is not how God works, I just can't get that thought out completely...

I know I may be judged over this submission and that will hurt me. However, I know these words may hit home for others, so I write this for those people.

what I want you to know: adoption infertility

posted on Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Adoption infertility: it isn’t a real word. I made it up. Or maybe other people have coined an official phrase for attempting to adopt and not succeeding and I just don’t know about it. Because I don’t know anyone else that has gone through what we went through and I feel alone. But through this experience, I have learned important lessons and things I think you should know about the experience of not succeeding at adopting.

First, our short story. As a military family, we knew from the start that we had a limited time frame to complete an adoption. We knew that after my experience coming from a family with adoptive and foster care experience, we were most interested in adopting from the foster care system. We were assured that because we were willing to adopt the children that are hard to place (older children, any race, sibling groups, etc.) that our time constraint wouldn’t be an issue and we signed up to start training to become licensed foster/adopt family. The problems started almost immediately. Our social worker very clearly expressed her dislike of military families. After a very long, emotionally draining 18 month process (that “ideally” should have taken 3-4 months,) we became foster parents for our local county department and began the process to be matched with an available child. After being matched with a sweet 6 year old little boy, our social worker decided that since we were “transient” due to our active duty military status, she was going to deny us the possibility to continue the process to adopt. We could leave the program or take placements on a short term or respite basis. We chose to take short term placements and had almost 6 months of very rewarding foster parenting before we had to leave the program. We leave for our next duty station in South America next month and the door on adopting has been shut for us for at least the next two years.

What I want people to know about this experience is how much it hurts to have to set up a room for an unknown child and have it sit empty for 18 months. I want people to know that not all people who choose to adopt are doing it as “Plan B.” I respect those who do adopt because of infertility but, please, understand that when you tell me to “Just wait…all the people I know who tried to adopt got pregnant,” you invalidate our choice to add to our family through our adoption. I want people to know that it kills me to know that the rest of our military career will consist of moves every 2-3 years and I live in fear that this nightmare will repeat itself at the next duty station. I want people to know that their story of how they got denied the ability to give blood is not the same as not being able to adopt at this time. We wanted to add to our family by being the family for kids that did not have one, not just be charitable. We recognize that the chance may come in the future but I still look at the picture of the little boy that we were matched with initially because I know that he still is searching for his forever family. I want you to know that the feeling of loss is still poignant and painful.

Lastly, I want you to know that there are 115,000 children available for adoption in the United States. And, according to adoptuskids.org, it would take less than 1% of the US population stepping up to provide forever homes for those kids. Because, the number one thing I learned through this experience is how much more I believe in the necessity of people to be involved in the foster care system. Right now, I can’t adopt or be a foster parent. But you can.

what I want you to know: being asexual

posted on Monday, December 19, 2011

Part of the reason I’m writing this is because of one of your previous “What I Want You To Know” contributors. She wrote about being gay and a Christian. She also said she worried at one time “that I was asexual or developmentally stunted,” equating asexuality with being in some way underdeveloped, while arguing that being gay is natural. This is a very common attitude, and it's why I wanted to put some of my own thoughts into words.

I remember being in fifth grade, and sitting through sex ed classes. The boys and girls were separated, and most of us were pretty grossed out. We were largely united in our disinterest in having sex, and ready to move on with our lives (especially since many of us – not including my best friend who is adopted, and was quite smug at the time – were forced to come to the conclusion that our parents engaged in this behavior, or we wouldn’t be here!).

Fast forward a few years to ninth grade health class. Dudes and gals were tossed into class together and shown videos not that different from those in sixth grade (though the singing, dancing sexually transmitted diseases were a new experience!). Giggling and blushing ran rampant, and there was some whispering about how stupid this all was because we knew all this. We’d known for years. We didn’t need a video to tell us that we’re supposed to be horny teenagers fighting the good fight against sex and sexually transmitted diseases.

Well. They didn’t need a video. I did.

Health class was a new world for me. Instead of talking about how tab A fit in slot B, we were bombarded with messages of how we felt. You feel sexual urges. You want to touch other people. You want to touch yourself. You want to experiment with others. You want to date and make out and have sex. I was constantly bombarded with messages that sex was the center of my existence. Only, it wasn’t.

Most of my years in high school, I was helping care for terminally ill grandparents, so people didn’t really expect me to date. When I started college, I assumed things would change. I’d be older, I’d do new things, I’d meet new people. Eventually, I’d meet a guy, and I’d want to date him, and we’d get married and I’d get to be a mother one day.

Only . . . then college was over. I graduated. I was 23 years old. I’d never been on a date.

I started to worry there was something seriously “wrong” with me. For over a decade, I had been bombarded with messages that I wanted sex. I had to want sex, because everyone else did; but I didn’t, and I never said a word to anyone about it. I hid the knowledge of my “freakery” away for years. I came up with excuses for it, ranging from my weight (I’m a big girl), to my health (my ob-gyn could most likely retire just from my patronage), to my father’s early death (I was 4).

I’m 30 years old now, and it has taken several years, an unexpected providence in the form of an utterly biased and essentially derogatory television special on “asexuals,” and a dear friend who finally decided to speak to me about her own struggles to realize that I’m not a freak. I’m not broken.

I’m just not interested in sex.

Because sex is such a huge part of our culture, so integral to our modern identity, not being obsessed or even interested in it creates a huge social barrier. What do I talk about at church, where the emphasis is on women with families, the role of the wife and mother? What do I discuss with coworkers, who commiserate about their husbands, boyfriends, and sex lives? How do I answer when the inevitable topic of conversation becomes the only single woman in the room? How should I respond when many people assume that, since I’m neither married nor dating, I must be a lesbian?

For the last couple of years, I’ve decided to tell the truth. “I’m not interested in dating,” I say. “I never have been. Yes, I want to be a mother. No, I don’t know how I’ll pull it off. ” This isn’t a perfect solution, because this is so often met with the dreaded “phase” diagnosis. This comes in a variety of forms: You’re just not interested yet (really? I’m 30 years old; let’s get a move-on here!). You just haven’t met the right man (I had a crush on Egon Spangler when I was a about ten – maybe I’m waiting for him?). You’re just trying to pretend that you’re not gay (this from a couple of gay friends, and someone else very much homophobic; all three were hostile). It’s obviously a physical problem (in unrelated news, I suffer from severe endometriosis and am infertile; it’s hard to keep this under wraps when you have surgery every 18 months or so). You’ll like it when you try it (this is the most popular, as if you only know you won’t like gay sex until you’ve tried it, or you can’t figure out if monogamy is your thing until you’ve had a few affairs). Have you spoken to a psychiatrist? (Because a mental disease like being aromantic must only exist if a doctor says so). Maybe you have repressed memories of being sexually abused (yes, really, this is second only to “you’ll like it when you try it”). Never have I been told, “Really? You know what, I am too!” or even a simple, “Okay then.” That’s incredibly isolating, even when there are support groups on the internet. Not having to defend myself in real life would be such an incredible feeling.

So what do I want you to know? I want you to know that asexuals exist, no matter what spell check says. We exist in all kinds of forms (my dear friend is romantic, but asexual; I’m aromantic as well). I want you to know that children shouldn’t feel forced to be sexual. I want you to know that telling us we’re going through a phase denies who we are. And I want you to know that we’re just people, not freaks, not religious nuts, not repressed weirdos: just people, with all the beauty and variety that implies.

The Sixth Annual Blogger Christmahanukwanzaakah Online Holiday Concert

posted on Sunday, December 18, 2011

For the sixth year in a row, Neil Kramer of Citizen of the Month is hosting an annual online concert featuring bloggers performing their favorite holiday standards. Neil’s intention in the concert was to bring the blogging community together, regardless of race or religion, for some holiday fun.

Last year was my first time to participate, and I used a slideshow to tell the story of waiting for Kembe to come home for three Christmases in a row.

This year, the song was a family affair. I’m singing Little Drummer Boy while the kids play the drums. I taught the kids a simple rhythm for their djembe – unfortunately, instead of playing the rhythm on the drum, Karis decided to just call out the rhythm, loudly and on the wrong beats, while the rest of us tried to play. You can hear her yelling BASS tone tone tone, BASS tone tone tone as if she’s conducting the whole operation. We finally pull it together about mid-way through . . . with me pounding out the rhythm for the kids on the piano. You can go watch us here.

My kids and I have been watching the concert at Neil’s site all morning, and there really is something fun and magical about hearing people sing their own holiday songs, even (and maybe even especially) when their voices are not perfect. Head on over to this link for the rest of the show.

what I want you to know: if I were a poor black kid

posted on Saturday, December 17, 2011

Today’s guest post is a bit of a departure for this series in that it is a cross-post response to a Forbes.com article from last week. In case you missed it, Forbes published an article in which a middle-aged white man offers patronizing advice to “poor black kids” about how they could be successful if they would only use the right tech tools.

The Forbes piece really got me ranty, and I think in part because the racism in the article was so subtle. In my opinion it was racism masquerading as helpful advice. Helpful advice that basically insinuated that impoverished black youth should just go out and buy a laptop, apply to and attend a better magnet school, and “be smart enough to go for it”. The author seems to have no regard for the actual problems faced by inner-city youth.

But one of the biggest clues to the underlying racism of this article: poor black kids are not reading Forbes. So what is the author’s real intention behind this piece? Is he hoping to aid black youth, or is this article merely a manifesto from one rich white guy to another on why we don’t need to give a crap if black youth are underperforming in school? This is the kind of stealth racism that I find most disturbing today.

The Forbes piece garnered a lot of outrage on twitter (and spawned the hilarious #ifIwereapoorblackkid hashtag), and some thoughtful responses as well. I especially appreciated this thoughtful response from Liz Dwyer (and also enjoyed this satirical post by Jason Avant). The following response was another I read that I found deeply personal and moving.. It’s by Chris Stevens and he was kind enough to give me permission to repost it here.

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Forbes article proudly parrots bootstrap mentality

“It is a cruel jest to ask a bootless man to lift himself up by his bootstraps.” - Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

I wish I could have the upbringing that Forbes magazine contributor Gene Marks admits to having in his recent piece “If I was a poor black kid.” Then I could say all the things I could do if I were a white kid with a middle class upbringing. But I can’t. I AM a poor black kid from one of the worst neighborhoods in Wilmington, Delaware, which is why the aforementioned article/opinion piece annoys the crap out of me.

Mr. Marks says that President Barack Obama’s most recent speech in Kansas highlights the fact that inequality on a economic level is the most pressing problem the United States is facing and that I can agree with, catchphrase of “99% vs. 1%” notwithstanding. Where it takes a turn for the damned ridiculous is when Mr. Marks starts talking about how his kids are no smarter than inner-city Philadelphia black kids and how EVERYBODY has a chance to succeed. That would be a big fat “NO,” Mr. Marks and I’ll tell you why shortly.

More into the article, Marks talks about all of the programs that poor black kids can take advantage of to help cure this recent digital divide, which is fine. But when you’re worried about where your next meal is coming from because your mother has been branded a welfare queen despite working two jobs to keep a roof over your head and you feel more obligated to make some money for yourself and your family than trying to learn all the latest gadgets. When no one in your family can afford healthcare and every damn body is running/limping/ambling around with some sort of illness, you really aren’t concerned with iPads and other trinkets because you don’t want to worry your folks with trivial stuff when you’re all trying to stay alive.

Mr. Marks goes on to say it takes a certain combination of factors for poor black kids to some how rise above, and to a degree he’s correct. Growing up in a single parent household that was better off than most of my peers, we still lived below the poverty line and we never got too comfortable even though my mother busted her ass to routinely come through in the clutch for me and my younger sister on Christmas and our birthdays. I in turn learned how to make the most of what I was given and what I could take.

Yet at 30 years old, with a college degree and a career some folks envy, I’m still scraping the poverty line, and I accept that (for now). What I can’t accept is the myth that poor blacks are given every opportunity to succeed when HBCU’s are still the best (and in some cases ONLY) option for our kids to continue their education, and they’ll still go broke doing so because the federal and state funding for those schools is – well – unequal. This is Brown vs. Board of Education is the most misunderstood Civil Rights case of them all. This was NOT about integration, not about the chance to hold hands with white kids on the playground and attend the same classes. It was about black schools, black businesses and black neighborhoods given the EXACT SAME RESOURCES as their white counterparts, but that somehow got lost in the movement.

It kills me that people still think that all it takes is a can do spirit, this “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” mantra when the numbers of who’s poor/who’s going to college/who’s employed are disparate as night and day (no pun and intended).

Gene Marks closes his article by saying “Technology can help these kids. But only if the kids want to be helped. Yes, there is much inequality. But the opportunity is still there in this country for those that are smart enough to go for it.”

Too bad he never stopped to realize that being smart sometimes isn’t enough when you’re a poor black kid. You’re too worried about survival. And that’s why the economic divide will continue to grow wider, because once again, the 1% just doesn’t get it.

what I want you to know: adopting a child is the hardest thing I’ve ever done

posted on Friday, December 16, 2011

Adoption isn't always easy. It is actually the hardest thing I have ever done.

I have a child with special needs. Most people do not know she has special needs. But, she does. To any outsider who does not live in our home she looks like a normal, well adjusted, four year old little girl. If that same outsider came into our home and spent a week watching and observing they would see that there are some big challenges to overcome for our daughter and our family.

Our daughter J was adopted two years ago. It was one of the happiest times in our lives. It is hard to put into words the excitement and anticipation one feels when they are about to meet their daughter who is two years old and who you have only seen a picture of. We knew that her first two years were hard ones. Neglect and abuse should never be a part of a child's story. Unfortunately, they were part of hers. The day I met her is still one of the happiest days of my life and one I will never forget. We made some special memories that first week during our transition to bring her home. There were also a few times during that first week that I cried myself to sleep because I was catching glimpses of just how hard of a road we had ahead of us. Our first night alone in the hotel with J was spent holding her as she cried, wailed, sobbed, for hours. I held her and prayed over her. I sang to her. I told her I loved her. She cried herself to sleep after a long night of sadness, fear, and anger. She was grieving.

Children that are adopted all have one thing in common. They grieve what they have lost. And they have lost so much. Because we adopted our sons as babies we may not see that grief come to the surface until they are older and have a better idea of their story. We are not naive to the fact that day may come. For J however, she was old enough to know what was happening. Old enough to know that her life was changing. Everything she knew was being taken from her and she was leaving that life behind, headed toward her new life, in a car full of strangers.

The last two years have been a struggle to say the least. Our first week home, I cried every day. Everything was a battle and a fight. J would take food from the pantry and hide it under her bed. (this is a common behavior for kids who know what it means to be hungry, to starve), J asked me for food all day and her hunger was never satisfied. She begged from strangers in the store for food and told them she was hungry, she hugged and kissed strangers anywhere we went and told them she loved them, she wouldn't let me put her in a car seat without screaming because she was so afraid of the car, (the car ride from her foster mom's house was traumatic for her. she didn't want to get in a car again), She didn't want hugs or kisses from us but would give them if she wanted food. We discovered quickly that J knew how to use affection to get what she wanted. As soon as she had what she wanted she shut off emotionally. Most days she had a blank look in her eyes. I can't tell you how hard it is to see a child, your child, in so much pain and not know how to help them.

The funny thing about adoption..especially when you adopt an older child/toddler is that not many people are all that anxious to give you support during the transition. I have watched many times over the years as friends gave birth and the flood of people that surrounded these moms with home cooked meals, home visits, offers to watch the baby so the new mom could get some sleep. We were offered no help. No support in those first few months. I know I am loved and supported but I don't think anyone really understood the magnitude of what was going on in our home. I'm not saying this so that someone will pity me or to make anyone feel guilty..I tell you this to help you understand how emotionally, physically, and spiritually drained I was. I felt isolated. I felt alone. I knew J was grieving and she needed time to settle into her new family but I also knew I didn't feel equipped to give this child what she needed. Especially with the demands of two more small children who were completely dependent on me. My cries for help were met with statements like, "Oh she will come around", "Oh she is just stubborn", "Oh you are just tired from a long week away and all these new changes." I was literally drowning and I didn't know how to communicate what I needed. It was more than just sleep, and help changing a diaper or cooking a meal. I needed God to intervene. I needed God to show me what to do. I needed God to heal my little girls broken heart. I needed God more than I have ever needed him in my life.

Despite feeling very overwhelmed and depressed, we found our groove as a family after a few very hard months. We had many good days. We had many bad days, too. J had so many behaviors that were challenging. Too many to go into here. Some that are to personal to ever put on a blog or even speak out loud. She had to be watched every minute of every day for her own protection and for the protection of my other kids. I was having a hard time attaching to my daughter because there were so many behaviors we were dealing with, I couldn't get to the heart of who she was. I had no love tank to pull from . . . we had no foundation of those sweet moments you share with a baby while you rock them and feed them. The moments that fill your love tank. We went straight into some very challenging and scary behaviors all while trying to bond to our little girl. And, she wasn't bonding or attaching to us, either.

It took us about a year to discover that most of these behaviors had a name. Reactive Attachment Disorder.

"Reactive Attachment Disorder (RAD): An inability to form normal relationships with others, especially the child's caretaker. RAD begins before age 5 and requires marked pathogenic neglect in the first three years of life. Children with RAD exhibit three specific problem areas: 1) They are unable to form attachments; they form relationships only on the basis of need with little or no regard for one caregiver over another. 2) They exhibit developmental retardation in that they have difficulty with conceptual thinking (lack of cause-and-effect thinking). 3) They show poor impulse control and are especially aggressive. The most disturbing feature is their total lack of remorse. These children do not allow themselves to be parented; they need to be in control."

J is on the lower end of the spectrum of RAD. I am thankful for that. But it has been hard and it still is hard. We have made some great strides in the last two years. Some of the scarier behaviors are now non existent. The attachment and bonding is still a process for me and J. We are bonded and we love each other but it's still a "two steps forward, two steps back" process.

Believe me, I am no saint. I am still learning. RAD has taught me many things about myself and has brought to the surface the ugliest parts of my character. God is still working in me. God is still working in J. I love her and I believe that God has amazing things in store for her life. We still have a long road ahead of us as we work through the neglect and abuse baggage that causes J to act out, to protect herself, to push away. The one thing I know is that J is a fighter and she is a survivor. That girl has some serious survival skills. Sad, yes. But God is going to use that fighter in her to do mighty things. We are trying to show her that she is worthy of love, that she doesn't have to be in control to feel safe, that she will never be hungry again, and that we will not hurt her the way others have. My darkest days do not compare to hers...but it has been a hard journey, nonetheless. So thankful that God's strength is made perfect in my weakness. I have had many weak moments as I learn how to help J heal...but God is faithful to his promises..and I know that He will finish the work He has begun..In both of us.

If you are an adoptive parent struggling with how to love and attach to your child, don't lose hope and know that you are not alone. If you are considering adoption, please know that your journey to bring a child into your family may require some hard work and may stretch you beyond what you think you can bear, but the miracle of seeing a child heal and become whole (regardless of how long it takes), will bring you more joy than you ever thought possible.

2nd MD: online access to the world’s best doctors

posted on Thursday, December 15, 2011

Thank you to 2nd.MD for providing me with a $200 stipend to test-drive this revolutionary online medical service.

A couple weeks ago, I was asked to try a new online service called 2nd MD. It’s a service that provides a consultation with a medical specialist of your choosing. Using face-to-face video chat, you get to chat with a specialist about your medical concerns.

I was pretty intrigued with this idea for a couple of reasons. First, because making a doctor’s appointment is always stressful for me. It’s hard to find a window where I am without the kids, and it always seems to eat up half of the day, between driving there and sitting in the waiting room. I’ve been dealing with health stuff since October and yet still couldn’t seem to find the time to get in for an appointment. It also doesn’t help that my doctor’s office always seems to be scheduling appointments several months out.

I also like the idea of 2nd MD because, at present, Mark and I do not have traditional health insurance. The kids do, but the two of us are using a co-op that really only activates in the case of a catastrophic health crisis. We pay cash for most minor issues, and I really like that the pricing on 2nd MD is up-front. As a cash-paying client, I’ve found it really frustrating to never know what I’m going to pay for a 20-minute appointment.

I was also anxious to try 2nd MD for personal reasons. As I mentioned, I’ve been struggling with my health since October. I have always had asthma and allergy issues, but this year it got to the point where I was barely functioning for several days a week. I was in an endless cycle of allergies that triggered post-nasal drip, that triggered nausea, that triggered a migraine. I felt like I had the flu for several months. Yet, I was having a hard time finding a doctor who really took this seriously. I’d leave the office with a prescription, but never with an explanation of why this happens to me every fall and what I can do to prevent it.

I was excited to try 2nd MD, and immediately went looking for a specialist in allergies. I was surprised at the selection of doctors on 2nd MD. Most of them appeared to be prominent specialists in their fields – many of them employed at nationally-recognized hospitals, and a number of them department heads. I made an appointment with Dr. Kaufman – a board-certified Internal Medicine, Allergy and Immunology specialist who practices in New York. His credentials looked ideal and I was hopeful that he could offer me some good feedback.

I’ve mentioned before my disdain for making phone calls, so being able to make an appointment online was pretty ideal. As the appointment time came, I loved that I could just have the kids watching a video in the next room instead of paying for a babysitter. There was no waiting room time – we started right on time. Dr. Kaufman was warm and friendly, and was the most knowledgeable doctor I’ve met with in terms of the issues I deal with. He understood what a big deal it was . . . and how debilitating it can be. He explained the environmental AND anatomical issues I’m dealing with (I have a deviated septum) and also gave me some recommendations I’ve not been given before. Namely: I’m going to start on allergy shots and a new cocktail of allergy meds, and also get a cat-scan to investigate my deviated septum further. He took extra time with me even after we hit the 20-minute mark, and made sure all my questions were answered.

My experience with 2nd MD was positive overall. I really liked that I could choose a specialist and get upfront pricing. I will most likely use it again, because the time and babysitting money it saved was pretty worth it for me. But aside from the conveniences it offered me, I also like the fact that it allows families with very serious illnesses a way to see a specialist from anywhere in the world. You can check it out in the video below.

2ndMD - Our Story from 2ndMD on Vimeo.

Thank you again to 2nd.MD for sponsoring this blog post. Please click here to learn more about 2nd.MD. I was selected for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective. All opinions are my own. #Clever2ndMD #spon

what I want you to know: blindness isn't a tragedy

posted on Thursday, December 15, 2011

There are many things I'd like the whole world to realize about me. I'm young but determined. I'm an advocate for the underprivileged and disadvantaged who have no voice in the education system. I love a wonderful man who works so hard, and someday we want to provide a home for a child who has none. I love to dip my fries into my chocolate milkshake, (don't lie, you know you do it too).

The reality is that most people never get to those parts of me. There is one obvious characteristic of me that is always seen first and very few people move past it to the obvious determination that I am a capable, independent, accomplished woman.

I'm blind.

Yes, blind. As in my retinas didn't develop correctly so I can't see like most others in the world do.

This doesn't keep me from leading a life that looks remarkably just like yours. I hate the lines at the bank, I swear when the metro is too crowded and there are no seats left, I spend more money than I should on shoes. I'm your average 25-year-old living in a city, hoping to make a difference for children in the world.

The difference is that most people don't stop other 25-year-old women who are wearing a suit and heels on the street to ask if they know where they're going. The difference is that people see my cane or my guide dog and immediately start thanking God they have cancer and aren't blind, (yes, someone said that to me once). The difference is that random strangers don't touch other women in the street, steering them in the direction in which they think they want to go.

I could deal with all of this. I really could. I know not everyone has encountered a blind person before. What is a characteristic to me, (just as your brown hair or left-handedness), is a tragedy to some others. I also know that there are plenty of blind people in the world who haven't been blessed to have the training and opportunities that I have had. I can do anything every other sighted person can do, even if I accomplish it differently. I have dealt with this ignorant treatment all of my life and so it doesn't phase me most of the time.

What I can't deal with is doctors and "professionals" telling me that it wouldn't be "safe" for me and my blind future husband to adopt a child, or God forbid, bring a child into the world that would have "your disease". We've been told we'd have to pay "extra" to an adoption agency because it would be more difficult to place a child with us. We've been told that we can't have a foster child in our home unless there is a sighted person living there with us.

Excuse me?

Are you kidding me? My home is clean, neat, hell it is even reasonably decorated for people our age on our budget. We have good jobs, goals, the means to support a child, (not to mention a child with needs others don't want to deal with). We have college degrees, I'm pursuing a master's, and you're basically telling me that I'm incapable of protecting a child because I can't see?

This kind of discrimination is not only illegal, it is disgusting and dehumanizing. I have no problem with an agency asking a million questions about how we would do X Y or Z. I know that most people can't comprehend ever leaving their homes again if they lost their vision. But I can give a list a mile long of blind parents who have children, (both babies and adults), who are happy, healthy, well adjusted children. None of them have ever burned themselves because their poor blind parents were so oblivious that they didn't know their kid was playing with the stove. None of them have ever got run over by a car because their parent couldn't keep track of them when outside. None of them have ever suffered from poor hygiene or dirty clothing because the parent couldn't "see" the child's appearance. These are all problems that have seriously been suggested to me about dangers for a child in my home.

I don't want a pat on the back for being an amazing super human who has overcome something so dark and horrible. I haven't. I'm blind. It is what it is, and it isn't any different than anything anyone else deals with. there are people with painful, debilitating diseases in the world, people who struggle every day to get out of bed. That isn't me or my life. Is blindness inconvenient sometimes? Sure. I don't drive, so I live in an area with excellent public transportation. Would it be easier if I could drive? Sometimes, sure. Is it an insurmountable hardship? Certainly not. Is it inconvenient to be short? Sure. Do short people have to use a step-stool or ask their tall spouse to reach things for them? Certainly they do. Are adoption agencies telling short people they have to pay extra to adopt a child? No, because that would be ridiculous.

Some might say I sound angry and I'm not being patient with the "system". I don't think you would be "patient" if your fitness as a parent was being questioned because of an aspect of yourself that you can't change. I wouldn't change it if I could and I want to bring a blind child into my home so I can teach them the same things I've learned. They are worth it, they are smart and beautiful and deserve love and a chance to succeed in whatever they want to do. I want to teach them to climb trees, explore the world, to love God and their family.

If it is up to the "system", I'll never get that chance.

What the world needs to know is that blindness isn't a tragedy. I am not a tragedy. My life is not a tragedy.

The tragedy lies in that there is a child out there that is being kept from loving, devoted parents because the "system" is too "blind" to see their own prejudice.

That is the tragedy.

31bits party

posted on Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Last week we got to go to the 31bits holiday party. 31bits is an amazing organization on many levels: they make gorgeous recycled jewelry, they bring jobs to women in Uganda, and they throw really fun parties where we get to dance like fools with our kids. Here are a couple shots of our family from our big night out.