i spent the morning doing the dishes with my son. there were some bubbles in some places. he got a few of them clean. he helped rinse the suds off. then he me unload the dishwasher. he also tried to eat some of the food that was dried on the plates from the night before. oh well. he's not even 20 months old yet. i don't know what i was expecting. but we had a great time and i was able to improve the cleanliness of the kitchen and watch him at the same time. who cares if we were both soaking wet by the end? that's why we don't change out of our pajamas until noonish. :-)
the question is, will the house look passable by the time the in-laws get here today at 3 p.m.? let's hope so. otherwise my MIL will start cleaning things. see, i don't care if she wants to help out while she's here with chores that were created by her existance. if we make a big dinner for them and she wants to do the dishes afterwards, great! but when she goes out of her way to find things that haven't been cleaned in a long time just so that she can clean up after us? (like the microwave?) that really really bugs me. i know it shouldn't, but it just does.
i try not to talk about my in laws on thesynergizer but it doesn't always work out that way.
:-)
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
I would fly you to the moon and back
Andrea loved this song.
She’s taking her time making up the reasons to justify all the hurt inside. Guess she knows from the smiles and the looks in their eyes, everyone’s got a theory bout the bitter one.
Mama never loved her much. Daddy never keeps in touch. Now she shies away from human affection. But somewhere in a private place, she packs a bag for outerspace. Now she’s waiting for the right kind of pilot to come. And she’ll say to him, I would fly you to the moon and back if you’ll be, if you’ll be my baby. Got a ticket for a world where we belong. So would you be my baby, yeah. She can’t remember a time when she felt needed. If love was red then she was color blind.
All her friends have been tried for treason. And crimes that were never defined. Love is like a barren place. Reaching out for human faith, it’s like a journey I just don’t have a map for. So baby’s gonna take a dive, push the shift to overdrive. Send a signal that she’s hanging on her hopes on the stars. What a pleasant dream ...
The thing is, I never could grasp why she felt that way. Her mama and daddy did love her much. There were no smiles and looks in their eyes. She might have been bitter, but it was her own choice. And her friends? They were never tried for treason. If she was the princess, I was her bodyguard. Her lady-in-waiting. Her everything.
It was never important that she love me as much as I loved her. It was fine that she let me hang around. Separations came and went. Sometimes she didn’t return my phone calls. When we were 15, she stopped talking to me for several months, and I was sure that was just it. But then on the fourth of July, I saw her outside. I was in my room, and I saw that she saw me. So I waved, and she gestured that I should come over. We walked to Safeway in our shorts, flip-flops and bikini tops and bought fireworks, even though legally you had to be 16 to do so. We looked 16. She looked amazing. The guys at the fireworks stand opted not to argue with her when she leaned forward over the counter and let her dark hair fall all around her.
We laughed at the look on his face as we walked back home. After that, we were best friends again for the rest of high school and into college. We went through boyfriends and other friends and parties together and apart. We found the worst sort of trouble to get into and stayed out very, very late.
For her 19th birthday, her boyfriend wanted to take her to Canada, and my fiance and I went along. She drank more than we could imagine a 110 pound 5’7’’ girl holding ever. She started to cry. She’d just returned from an exchange student program in Australia to find someone else wanted her guy. He hadn’t cheated, but he hadn’t exactly kicked this other girl, Dawn, to the curb either. They were “friends.”
“She’s prettier than me! You should just go be with her. I’m not good enough for you. Look at me! I’m so useless. Just get out of here. I don’t even want to talk to you.”
Her boyfriend, Chris, who was drunk, but less so, was lost and hurt. I shoved him away and held her. “Shhhhh. It’s OK, it’s OK. I love you. You’re wonderful. He doesn’t want her, he wants you. He’d do anything for you. Shhhhh. It’s OK.”
She cried and cried and cried and told me she loved me. It was the only time she ever did.
Later that night, Chris called our hotel room. She was puking in the bathroom and wouldn’t let him in. He was worried she could get hurt. I went up there, but she wouldn’t let me in either. She was sobbing again and wretching. The next morning, I combed her hair out for her and helped her put a cold washcloth on her eyes. She vowed she’d never drink again.
A year later, she was the maid of honor at my wedding. She came, she smiled, she wore a dress and stood in pictures. I was so glad she was there for me, even though really, she’d done none of the typical bridesmaid duties. Honestly, I don't think she even knew she was supposed to be in charge of a shower. Luckily, another bridesmaid, Katie, knew this about her, and just stepped in without making a deal over it. Andrea was flighty and we’re just glad she agreed to help at all.
That was really the last time we were friends. A year after that, I tracked her down and went to see her at the UW. We visited for a few hours. She’d gained a bunch of weight while Chris was in Iraq, and then lost it quickly when she heard he was coming home. She didn’t look well at all. It was like I was talking to the shell of her former self.
I talked to her on the phone after I moved to Idaho a few more times. Two perhaps. She said she’d love to come visit. Maybe in October?
She never returned another phone call or email after that. I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she had a new email and new phone number. (Her cell had a computer voicemail, so there wasn’t anyway to know if it was still her number.) I left her a message once every four months or so. I emailed periodically. Nothing.
Once, a guy answered her phone. When I asked for her, he hung up. That told me a lot. If it had been a wrong number, he would have said so, right?
When I was pregnant, I called her parents house. I realize now that talking to her dad was a mistake. He told me he’d give her the message, but he never really gave them to her when we were kids either. I should have waited and talked with her mom. Anyway, he did refuse to give me her contact info, which told me even more.
I asked my mom to find out what she could. (Andrea’s mom and my mom go to the same hairdresser.) I guess she’s living in Seattle with a guy named Gig. I guess she’s not interested in ever talking to me again.
But there’s still some part of me that wonders. What if she’s scared? What if she’s trapped in an abusive relationship with some over-controlling guy?
Sometimes I’m hurt, and consider her gone for good. But sometimes I miss her so much my heart aches for her.
Honestly, when I was a teenager, I used to wonder if I wasn’t maybe a little bit bi. But it wasn’t that I loved all women, it was just that I loved her.
I still have the same phone number I did in college when we last talked. My mom still has the same address and phone number she did when we were growing up. If she wants to find me, she can. But if she doesn’t want to be found, she doesn’t want to be found. (She’s ungoogleable. Andrea Clark. Ha ha ha ha!)
Everytime I think I’ve said good-bye for good, gotten all the closure I’ll ever need, something else happens. My son and I danced to Savage Garden the other day, and I wondered. Did she ever find the right kind of pilot? I hope so.
She’s taking her time making up the reasons to justify all the hurt inside. Guess she knows from the smiles and the looks in their eyes, everyone’s got a theory bout the bitter one.
Mama never loved her much. Daddy never keeps in touch. Now she shies away from human affection. But somewhere in a private place, she packs a bag for outerspace. Now she’s waiting for the right kind of pilot to come. And she’ll say to him, I would fly you to the moon and back if you’ll be, if you’ll be my baby. Got a ticket for a world where we belong. So would you be my baby, yeah. She can’t remember a time when she felt needed. If love was red then she was color blind.
All her friends have been tried for treason. And crimes that were never defined. Love is like a barren place. Reaching out for human faith, it’s like a journey I just don’t have a map for. So baby’s gonna take a dive, push the shift to overdrive. Send a signal that she’s hanging on her hopes on the stars. What a pleasant dream ...
The thing is, I never could grasp why she felt that way. Her mama and daddy did love her much. There were no smiles and looks in their eyes. She might have been bitter, but it was her own choice. And her friends? They were never tried for treason. If she was the princess, I was her bodyguard. Her lady-in-waiting. Her everything.
It was never important that she love me as much as I loved her. It was fine that she let me hang around. Separations came and went. Sometimes she didn’t return my phone calls. When we were 15, she stopped talking to me for several months, and I was sure that was just it. But then on the fourth of July, I saw her outside. I was in my room, and I saw that she saw me. So I waved, and she gestured that I should come over. We walked to Safeway in our shorts, flip-flops and bikini tops and bought fireworks, even though legally you had to be 16 to do so. We looked 16. She looked amazing. The guys at the fireworks stand opted not to argue with her when she leaned forward over the counter and let her dark hair fall all around her.
We laughed at the look on his face as we walked back home. After that, we were best friends again for the rest of high school and into college. We went through boyfriends and other friends and parties together and apart. We found the worst sort of trouble to get into and stayed out very, very late.
For her 19th birthday, her boyfriend wanted to take her to Canada, and my fiance and I went along. She drank more than we could imagine a 110 pound 5’7’’ girl holding ever. She started to cry. She’d just returned from an exchange student program in Australia to find someone else wanted her guy. He hadn’t cheated, but he hadn’t exactly kicked this other girl, Dawn, to the curb either. They were “friends.”
“She’s prettier than me! You should just go be with her. I’m not good enough for you. Look at me! I’m so useless. Just get out of here. I don’t even want to talk to you.”
Her boyfriend, Chris, who was drunk, but less so, was lost and hurt. I shoved him away and held her. “Shhhhh. It’s OK, it’s OK. I love you. You’re wonderful. He doesn’t want her, he wants you. He’d do anything for you. Shhhhh. It’s OK.”
She cried and cried and cried and told me she loved me. It was the only time she ever did.
Later that night, Chris called our hotel room. She was puking in the bathroom and wouldn’t let him in. He was worried she could get hurt. I went up there, but she wouldn’t let me in either. She was sobbing again and wretching. The next morning, I combed her hair out for her and helped her put a cold washcloth on her eyes. She vowed she’d never drink again.
A year later, she was the maid of honor at my wedding. She came, she smiled, she wore a dress and stood in pictures. I was so glad she was there for me, even though really, she’d done none of the typical bridesmaid duties. Honestly, I don't think she even knew she was supposed to be in charge of a shower. Luckily, another bridesmaid, Katie, knew this about her, and just stepped in without making a deal over it. Andrea was flighty and we’re just glad she agreed to help at all.
That was really the last time we were friends. A year after that, I tracked her down and went to see her at the UW. We visited for a few hours. She’d gained a bunch of weight while Chris was in Iraq, and then lost it quickly when she heard he was coming home. She didn’t look well at all. It was like I was talking to the shell of her former self.
I talked to her on the phone after I moved to Idaho a few more times. Two perhaps. She said she’d love to come visit. Maybe in October?
She never returned another phone call or email after that. I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she had a new email and new phone number. (Her cell had a computer voicemail, so there wasn’t anyway to know if it was still her number.) I left her a message once every four months or so. I emailed periodically. Nothing.
Once, a guy answered her phone. When I asked for her, he hung up. That told me a lot. If it had been a wrong number, he would have said so, right?
When I was pregnant, I called her parents house. I realize now that talking to her dad was a mistake. He told me he’d give her the message, but he never really gave them to her when we were kids either. I should have waited and talked with her mom. Anyway, he did refuse to give me her contact info, which told me even more.
I asked my mom to find out what she could. (Andrea’s mom and my mom go to the same hairdresser.) I guess she’s living in Seattle with a guy named Gig. I guess she’s not interested in ever talking to me again.
But there’s still some part of me that wonders. What if she’s scared? What if she’s trapped in an abusive relationship with some over-controlling guy?
Sometimes I’m hurt, and consider her gone for good. But sometimes I miss her so much my heart aches for her.
Honestly, when I was a teenager, I used to wonder if I wasn’t maybe a little bit bi. But it wasn’t that I loved all women, it was just that I loved her.
I still have the same phone number I did in college when we last talked. My mom still has the same address and phone number she did when we were growing up. If she wants to find me, she can. But if she doesn’t want to be found, she doesn’t want to be found. (She’s ungoogleable. Andrea Clark. Ha ha ha ha!)
Everytime I think I’ve said good-bye for good, gotten all the closure I’ll ever need, something else happens. My son and I danced to Savage Garden the other day, and I wondered. Did she ever find the right kind of pilot? I hope so.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
parenting nightmare
This is going here because I have this inexplicable urge to write about this incident but yet at the same time am so humiliated that I don’t really want anyone to know about it. I know I am often snarky about my husband’s parenting.
Yet, several times now, I, too have messed up big time. OK, yeah, my brain can say all the cheesy supportive stuff, like, “Oh, you’re only human” and “Everybody messes up sometimes” but this is my child’s well-being on the line here, and sometimes you don’t deserve a trite pat on the back, “Oh, it was an accident” you know? You deserve to be bitched out about it because you are 100 percent at fault, and that’s what you would do if the situation were reversed.
I left the bathroom door open. That has happened before. We’ve both done it. We remember to shut it like 99 percent of the time, but sometimes it gets left open. Well, my 19-month-old son wandered in there and came out chewing on something.
It was my razor.
And, what’s worse, his latest antics include running from you if you try to take something away from him. The more important it is to you, the faster he runs. I shouted, “Stop!” and he bolted. My husband and I took off after him and we both were screaming “No! and STOP!!!” at the ultimate intensity, the kind that should make your kid cry for like 10 minutes and make you feel like an ass for overreacting. Nope. My kid kept running. He even ran like he was scared of us. What on earth has ever happened to him in his short baby life to make him think that he should run from us? We don’t spank him ... we hardly even yell at him much.
We finally corner him in the kitchen and pry the razor out of his hands. He turns and looks up at me and I started bawling. Blood is oozing out of his mouth. He looks like a vampire baby from hell. Even my husband started to cry. At this point, the baby starts crying too. Who knows if he actually felt the pain or just decided to cry because we were crying.
So we went out of our way to try to make this as much of a lesson as possible. We show him his bloody face. We show him the blood on the sharp razor. We reiterate the words “SHARP” and “STOP” and “NO” and tell him he needs to listen or he could get hurt. We tell him that he got an ouchie because he ran from us. When we say “stop” he needs to stop or else more ouchies.
The problem is, he’s disturbingly fascinated with things that hurt him. He understands “hot” and will back away from something that’s very very hot, like when we were putting asparagus in the steamer and a bit of steam made him jerk his hand away. He started pitching the asparagus from afar. But within a week or so, he was back up at the stove, pulling on the oven handle and trying to reach the stuff that’s up there cooking. I’d like to think that it’s just because he doesn’t remember, but I know it isn’t true. The whole time he’s grabbing at the stove, he’s saying “hot hot hot” over and over again.
Same thing goes for when he got a slivers in his feet, just a few days apart. My husband had to use a safety pin to get them out, and the poor baby screamed and wailed the whole time. Later, we’d put a Band-Aid on his “ouchie” and he’d go off, being happy again. For days and days afterward, he’d shove his foot in my face and point to the infinitesimal scar and say “ouchie” and make me kiss it. And several times, when he’s seen the safety pin (it’s actually a diaper pin) on a table or something, he lunges for it. “NO. That’s ouchie. Sharp! Do you remember ouchie?” and he’ll make an upset face that shows me that he does indeed remember, and present his foot for another kiss. (My favorite part about this whole thing is that often it’s the wrong foot.)
But then he still wants the damn safety pin. Once, I found him with it in his mouth. (Thankfully it was closed.)
I mean, I know you have to child-proof your home when you have a toddler. But this kid can climb tables and scale walls and open cupboards and cabinets and he’s fast as lightning. You can’t leave anything anywhere even for a second.
I was also the one who left the razor by the side of the bathtub instead of putting it back up again in the shower caddy. So we fed the poor baby as much ice as he wanted (which is a lot, he LOVES ice) and he seemed to be fine. There are no scars and he hasn’t had any trouble eating.
But oh man, I just cannot get the sight of all that blood out of my brain. I’m eaten alive with guilt over an incident that produced no harmful long-term affects and my son will not even remember. Guess it comes with the territory.
read the parenting stories I’m not too embarrassed to share with my friends at thesynergizer on livejournal.
Yet, several times now, I, too have messed up big time. OK, yeah, my brain can say all the cheesy supportive stuff, like, “Oh, you’re only human” and “Everybody messes up sometimes” but this is my child’s well-being on the line here, and sometimes you don’t deserve a trite pat on the back, “Oh, it was an accident” you know? You deserve to be bitched out about it because you are 100 percent at fault, and that’s what you would do if the situation were reversed.
I left the bathroom door open. That has happened before. We’ve both done it. We remember to shut it like 99 percent of the time, but sometimes it gets left open. Well, my 19-month-old son wandered in there and came out chewing on something.
It was my razor.
And, what’s worse, his latest antics include running from you if you try to take something away from him. The more important it is to you, the faster he runs. I shouted, “Stop!” and he bolted. My husband and I took off after him and we both were screaming “No! and STOP!!!” at the ultimate intensity, the kind that should make your kid cry for like 10 minutes and make you feel like an ass for overreacting. Nope. My kid kept running. He even ran like he was scared of us. What on earth has ever happened to him in his short baby life to make him think that he should run from us? We don’t spank him ... we hardly even yell at him much.
We finally corner him in the kitchen and pry the razor out of his hands. He turns and looks up at me and I started bawling. Blood is oozing out of his mouth. He looks like a vampire baby from hell. Even my husband started to cry. At this point, the baby starts crying too. Who knows if he actually felt the pain or just decided to cry because we were crying.
So we went out of our way to try to make this as much of a lesson as possible. We show him his bloody face. We show him the blood on the sharp razor. We reiterate the words “SHARP” and “STOP” and “NO” and tell him he needs to listen or he could get hurt. We tell him that he got an ouchie because he ran from us. When we say “stop” he needs to stop or else more ouchies.
The problem is, he’s disturbingly fascinated with things that hurt him. He understands “hot” and will back away from something that’s very very hot, like when we were putting asparagus in the steamer and a bit of steam made him jerk his hand away. He started pitching the asparagus from afar. But within a week or so, he was back up at the stove, pulling on the oven handle and trying to reach the stuff that’s up there cooking. I’d like to think that it’s just because he doesn’t remember, but I know it isn’t true. The whole time he’s grabbing at the stove, he’s saying “hot hot hot” over and over again.
Same thing goes for when he got a slivers in his feet, just a few days apart. My husband had to use a safety pin to get them out, and the poor baby screamed and wailed the whole time. Later, we’d put a Band-Aid on his “ouchie” and he’d go off, being happy again. For days and days afterward, he’d shove his foot in my face and point to the infinitesimal scar and say “ouchie” and make me kiss it. And several times, when he’s seen the safety pin (it’s actually a diaper pin) on a table or something, he lunges for it. “NO. That’s ouchie. Sharp! Do you remember ouchie?” and he’ll make an upset face that shows me that he does indeed remember, and present his foot for another kiss. (My favorite part about this whole thing is that often it’s the wrong foot.)
But then he still wants the damn safety pin. Once, I found him with it in his mouth. (Thankfully it was closed.)
I mean, I know you have to child-proof your home when you have a toddler. But this kid can climb tables and scale walls and open cupboards and cabinets and he’s fast as lightning. You can’t leave anything anywhere even for a second.
I was also the one who left the razor by the side of the bathtub instead of putting it back up again in the shower caddy. So we fed the poor baby as much ice as he wanted (which is a lot, he LOVES ice) and he seemed to be fine. There are no scars and he hasn’t had any trouble eating.
But oh man, I just cannot get the sight of all that blood out of my brain. I’m eaten alive with guilt over an incident that produced no harmful long-term affects and my son will not even remember. Guess it comes with the territory.
read the parenting stories I’m not too embarrassed to share with my friends at thesynergizer on livejournal.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Links to help out my friends
I'm doing this thing called pay per post on my other blog, thesynergizer on livejournal where I get money for writing sponsored posts on products, services and Web sites. If you want to sign up for pay per post too, you can click on the ppp button on the side of my page.
My friends and I kind of have a deal going on where we help each other out as much as possible by posting links up everywhere. The more places your link is posted, the more money you can make!
My friend newsbean was the first to sign up, before I knew I got credit for refering her.
Then kikifitz did it too, and she was the one who discovered the referral program.
I convinced katielovesjoel to join, even though she signed up under kikifitz (they are friends IRL) I still felt happy that I could help her to support her family!
And ma2cuties was actually also a friend of kikifitz who accidentally signed up under me instead. What karma I have! So I have taken her under my wing a bit and helped her to get started.
If you are wanting to make some extra money, but kind of confused about how the whole thing works, ask me and I'll help you figure it out.
My friends and I kind of have a deal going on where we help each other out as much as possible by posting links up everywhere. The more places your link is posted, the more money you can make!
My friend newsbean was the first to sign up, before I knew I got credit for refering her.
Then kikifitz did it too, and she was the one who discovered the referral program.
I convinced katielovesjoel to join, even though she signed up under kikifitz (they are friends IRL) I still felt happy that I could help her to support her family!
And ma2cuties was actually also a friend of kikifitz who accidentally signed up under me instead. What karma I have! So I have taken her under my wing a bit and helped her to get started.
If you are wanting to make some extra money, but kind of confused about how the whole thing works, ask me and I'll help you figure it out.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
A day in the life
In case you just stumbled across this blog and are somewhat confused, my personal journal has entries that focus more on my daily life. That's where you'll find information about my son, my husband, my worklife, my friends and what I do all day. This blog is more for introspective thoughts and analysis on things.
So far. :-)
Anyway, check it out at http://thesynergizer.livejournal.com
So far. :-)
Anyway, check it out at http://thesynergizer.livejournal.com
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Saving the world, one political idea at a time
My beliefs are becoming more and more conservative as I get older. I am against pornography in all shapes sizes and forms for everyone always and I'm against abortion, not because I believe it should be illegal or that I'm not for a woman's right to choose, but just that all these pregnancies should be prevented in the first place, you know? I don't want it to be illegal, it just seems like there should be a better way.
I read an opinion piece called Two mommies can be better than one, which got me thinking about how so much more could get done if liberals and conservatives could just shut up and work together on some important stuff. One the one hand, we've got gay and lesbian couples who want children. We've also got "traditional" couples who want to adopt, either because they are infertile or because they think it's better to take in a baby who needs a home than to create one, or whatever. On the other hand, we've got like 97 trillion abortions per year. These women don't want their babies. Personally, I couldn't tell you why they choose abortion over adoption, in particular, other than the fact that I suspect they worry they'd want to keep the baby once they met him/her, and so they abort the pregnancy and try not to ever think of it as a baby at all.
One of the problems I see with the current adoption process is that it is very expensive to adopt a newborn baby. There are waiting lists and attorney fees and medical costs (the birthmother pays next to nothing for her pregnancy if she is giving up her baby for adoption) and a lot of people can't afford it. With the current process, we ensure only the very rich can adopt a baby if they choose to go that route. The middle class and the poor have to resort to having their own.
So why is it that insurance will pay for you to have your own baby, but won't pay for you to adopt one? I would like to see changes made that enable a woman who would like to adopt a child to place the birthmother's medical care under her own insurance, just as if she were the one who were pregnant. This will help more middle and working class people to afford adoption, and maybe if it were more commonplace, there would be less of a stigma about it. (You're ADOPTED?!?!?! WOW! I've never met anyone who was adopted before!) I believe that this is a factor in many adoption decisions. I've actually met people who are against adoption, and the only argument that holds any water with me is that it can be traumatic to a child to be so "different" and to believe they were unwanted. I guess it's true that if you are aborted, you don't have these emotional issues. But really, if you'd rather be dead than have issues, raise your hand.
Yeah, that's what I thought.
So, the key is to normalize adoption, (much like breast-feeding!) so that these teen/single/poor/drug addicted/immature/whatever else moms with no where to turn can be praised for doing the right thing for their babies. If adoption were less of a burden for the adoptive parents than it is now, perhaps more people would want to do it.
I'd much rather see a gay or lesbian couple adopt a baby from a mother who would have otherwise had an abortion than create one using expensive, invasive and risky medical procedures. It seems like it would be an issue too, as to which parent is the biologically related one. If the baby is adopted, the parents would be on equal ground. I agree with the article that a child would be better off with good gay parents than with bad hetero ones, or a single mom. I don't believe there's any harm to a child who is raised by two mommies or two daddies. But lay off with the IVF and sperm donation and such. There are enough unwanted kids in this world. You don't need to spend $100,000 to make one of your own, just so it has your genes. Adopt a baby and donate the rest of the money to an orphanage or create a college scholarship for underprivileged kids or something. Heck, save the money to send your own kid to college.
It just seems so simple to me. Miss Pregnant-at-15, meet Mr. and Mr. Want-a-baby. You have a baby coming and don't want it. They are looking for a baby of their own but can't have one. Figure it out!
I read an opinion piece called Two mommies can be better than one, which got me thinking about how so much more could get done if liberals and conservatives could just shut up and work together on some important stuff. One the one hand, we've got gay and lesbian couples who want children. We've also got "traditional" couples who want to adopt, either because they are infertile or because they think it's better to take in a baby who needs a home than to create one, or whatever. On the other hand, we've got like 97 trillion abortions per year. These women don't want their babies. Personally, I couldn't tell you why they choose abortion over adoption, in particular, other than the fact that I suspect they worry they'd want to keep the baby once they met him/her, and so they abort the pregnancy and try not to ever think of it as a baby at all.
One of the problems I see with the current adoption process is that it is very expensive to adopt a newborn baby. There are waiting lists and attorney fees and medical costs (the birthmother pays next to nothing for her pregnancy if she is giving up her baby for adoption) and a lot of people can't afford it. With the current process, we ensure only the very rich can adopt a baby if they choose to go that route. The middle class and the poor have to resort to having their own.
So why is it that insurance will pay for you to have your own baby, but won't pay for you to adopt one? I would like to see changes made that enable a woman who would like to adopt a child to place the birthmother's medical care under her own insurance, just as if she were the one who were pregnant. This will help more middle and working class people to afford adoption, and maybe if it were more commonplace, there would be less of a stigma about it. (You're ADOPTED?!?!?! WOW! I've never met anyone who was adopted before!) I believe that this is a factor in many adoption decisions. I've actually met people who are against adoption, and the only argument that holds any water with me is that it can be traumatic to a child to be so "different" and to believe they were unwanted. I guess it's true that if you are aborted, you don't have these emotional issues. But really, if you'd rather be dead than have issues, raise your hand.
Yeah, that's what I thought.
So, the key is to normalize adoption, (much like breast-feeding!) so that these teen/single/poor/drug addicted/immature/whatever else moms with no where to turn can be praised for doing the right thing for their babies. If adoption were less of a burden for the adoptive parents than it is now, perhaps more people would want to do it.
I'd much rather see a gay or lesbian couple adopt a baby from a mother who would have otherwise had an abortion than create one using expensive, invasive and risky medical procedures. It seems like it would be an issue too, as to which parent is the biologically related one. If the baby is adopted, the parents would be on equal ground. I agree with the article that a child would be better off with good gay parents than with bad hetero ones, or a single mom. I don't believe there's any harm to a child who is raised by two mommies or two daddies. But lay off with the IVF and sperm donation and such. There are enough unwanted kids in this world. You don't need to spend $100,000 to make one of your own, just so it has your genes. Adopt a baby and donate the rest of the money to an orphanage or create a college scholarship for underprivileged kids or something. Heck, save the money to send your own kid to college.
It just seems so simple to me. Miss Pregnant-at-15, meet Mr. and Mr. Want-a-baby. You have a baby coming and don't want it. They are looking for a baby of their own but can't have one. Figure it out!
Friday, May 25, 2007
Relay for my mama
I'm working on our special Relay for Life section that we put out every year. Apparently, our own relay began just one year after the first relay ever, which was in Tacoma. Each year, our relay makes more money per capital than any other city our size. My editor told me its about twice as much per capita. I guess that can be somewhat expected, because our cancer rates are also much higher than other counties in Washington.
Part of me feels like I should get more involved in things like this, like I owe it to G-d and to the world to give something back, since my own life turned out to be so blessed. I can close my eyes and see my mom and I walking arm in arm down the track for the survivors lap. People would cheer for her. I would too. She is so strong.
But whatever part of her it is that makes her strong, also makes her private. She doesn't like people to know she is a survivor. She doesn't participate in fundraisers or in any type of cancer-themed event. She won't go out of the house without her prosthesis on, even just to get the mail. She is very proud, and doesn't care for anyone to know where she is weak. So because of this desire for privacy, I do not participate in awareness-raising events. She would not like it if everyone in our county knew she'd had breast cancer. The most I do is save the little pink lids that come on the Yoplait containers. And even that I haven't done this year, since we've started feeding yogurt to Benjamin, we just get the Safeway brand in the giant tubs.
Sometimes I find myself forgetting the details of all that she went through, and how scared I was. My mom is my rock, and I don't know what I would ever do without her.
I'm supposed to be designing a photo page with last year's photos from the relay. Right now, I'm at the point where I'm opening each photo and editing the cutline to say "at last year's Relay for Life" instead of "Friday night at the Relay for Life." It also gives me a chance to take a mental overview of all the photos that are available and start designing the page in my mind. I have to select a little less than half of them to use on this page. The rest will be put elsewhere in the section. This would be going much better right now if i wasn't tearing up a little more with each and every photo I looked at. They are very well done. Candles, memorial walls, little kids having fun, speakers, 24-hour walkers (I couldn't believe how many people do this!) and of course, the survivors' lap.
My beautiful mother deserves a little applause. Maybe she'll never stand up at the stadium, but at least her story can be told.
Part of me feels like I should get more involved in things like this, like I owe it to G-d and to the world to give something back, since my own life turned out to be so blessed. I can close my eyes and see my mom and I walking arm in arm down the track for the survivors lap. People would cheer for her. I would too. She is so strong.
But whatever part of her it is that makes her strong, also makes her private. She doesn't like people to know she is a survivor. She doesn't participate in fundraisers or in any type of cancer-themed event. She won't go out of the house without her prosthesis on, even just to get the mail. She is very proud, and doesn't care for anyone to know where she is weak. So because of this desire for privacy, I do not participate in awareness-raising events. She would not like it if everyone in our county knew she'd had breast cancer. The most I do is save the little pink lids that come on the Yoplait containers. And even that I haven't done this year, since we've started feeding yogurt to Benjamin, we just get the Safeway brand in the giant tubs.
Sometimes I find myself forgetting the details of all that she went through, and how scared I was. My mom is my rock, and I don't know what I would ever do without her.
I'm supposed to be designing a photo page with last year's photos from the relay. Right now, I'm at the point where I'm opening each photo and editing the cutline to say "at last year's Relay for Life" instead of "Friday night at the Relay for Life." It also gives me a chance to take a mental overview of all the photos that are available and start designing the page in my mind. I have to select a little less than half of them to use on this page. The rest will be put elsewhere in the section. This would be going much better right now if i wasn't tearing up a little more with each and every photo I looked at. They are very well done. Candles, memorial walls, little kids having fun, speakers, 24-hour walkers (I couldn't believe how many people do this!) and of course, the survivors' lap.
My beautiful mother deserves a little applause. Maybe she'll never stand up at the stadium, but at least her story can be told.
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