My a-mom always plans her Thanksgiving dinner around Sharon.  Her name is always spoken with quiet reverence, and her wishes are always catered to.  She decides what time dinner will be, and the menu will consist of.  If  she has a last-minute change of plans, everything changes with her.  She is the determining factor in every decision about our Thanksgiving holiday.

Who is this Sharon?  The matriarch of our family?  An aging relative whose presence is anticipated by all?  A celebrity who must fly in from great distances to join us?

Nope.  She has never attended a single Thanksgiving dinner at my a-mom’s house.  In fact, I’m not sure if she has ever been inside my a-mom’s house.  She’s my sister’s mother-in-law.

I don’t usually care that everything is arranged around Sharon’s plans, but this year it kind of got to me.  As I mentioned above, Sharon is very much revered by my a-mom.  She puts extra special emphasis on her name, as in, “I spoke to SHARON about Thanksgiving…..”.

Like Sharon had Oprah on hold on the other line and took time out of her fabulous day just to speak to her.  This year, I had a problem.  I told a-mom that I wasn’t sure if we were going to be able to make Thanksgiving or not.  My husbands father is ill, and I’m just not making any plans right now.  My husband’s parents are older than mine, and they are getting to the point that they need some care.  I’ve told my a-mom that they have had some issues in the past.

A-mom then asked me if Juanita still drove.  My mother-in-laws name is not Juanita, not even close.  I’ve been married for 26 years, and I don’t think my mother has ever got her name right once.  For years she called her Margaret, that’s a bit closer, but not quite it.  I corrected her for about the first 10 years of my marriage, then I just kind of gave up.  It wasn’t like she was calling up my mother-in-law to make her own thanksgiving plans.

Somehow my mother-in-law just never had the sway over a-mom that Sharon did.

I’m not going to Thanksgiving at her house this year.  Though my husband understands about my a-mom, I’m not going to put him through that.  I can just hear it now, after I’ve told a-mom that my husband’s father is ill, that my mother-in-law hasn’t driven for years, that they are coming to a place where they may not be able to be independent anymore, “How are Jim and Juanita, are they still in Texas?”

Wrong names.  Wrong state.

I don’t want him to have to answer that.

No longer available…

http://www.adoptionassurance.com/home.aspx

Makes one wonder why.  Well, not really.  Though I do wonder who’s bright idea this was in the first place.

I don’t think you can insure against the actions of a specific person.  Unless they are an employee.  But then I suppose you’d have to form a corporation in order to adopt.

Oh hell, that’s next.  Forming corporations in order to adopt.  Sounds all warm and fuzzy and rainbow farty, doesn’t it.  Adopted by a corporation.

I’m still searching to see if extended child warranties are still available.

I made the mistake of discussing adoption with one of the uninitiated recently.  I always do that, you’d think that I would have learned by now.  Anyway, after I related some of my experiences she remarked that it sounds something more like  a true crime story than the fuzzy wuzzy experience of adoption.

No shit, Sherlock.

She seemed to think that instead of bringing up all of the things that are wrong with adoption, and how adoptees are perceived we should be looking for answers and comfort.

Again, no shit.

Answers and comfort would be wonderful.  Folks having a complete understanding of the whole adoption thing would be great, no argument here.  But I guess that it is all too shocking for the non-adopted to wrap their head around.

Guess what?  It’s pretty hard for us to wrap our heads around too.

Exactly how are we to be comforted when we talk about lack of medical history?  Patting us on the hand and assuring us we probably won’t die of some cancer that could have been easily found and treated if we had known to test for it, doesn’t really cut it.

Just exactly what are we supposed to be told when somebody assumes that we were so much better off because our adoptive folks could afford a pool in the backyard?   Can you imagine anyone casually debating what a non-adopted person’s childhood might have been like if they had been raised in lesser circumstances?

How do you make it OK to be abandoned?

Should the fact that we turned out to be attractive people make up for not growing up with anyone that looked like us?

Is there a greeting card for those that are denied basic human rights by the states we pay taxes too?

Yes, it’s shocking, a little unsettling, and smacks of true crime.  To hear adoptees speak can sound like way too much information, but that’s what we’ve got.

I do find it very interesting that this woman chose the phrase “true crime”.  As if we the adoptees, the innocent little babies, are the criminals.   Are we vandals for tipping the sacred cow of adoption?

Should we charged with a misdemeanor or a felony?  Does one generally serve time for tipping sacred cows?  Would sacred cow tipping be considered a property crime?  If more than one person is involved, does it become a conspiracy?

Some folks are getting it, The Donaldson Institute has a very interesting report out.  It’s focused on international adoptees, but makes very good points for all of us.

Overheard, “Lakes are like boobs, if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”  This prompted by a print of wolves by lake.  A print that will be given away.  A print that my husband is in danger of winning, even though he didn’t agree with the commenter’s observation about boobs.

Just another reason to live in fear.  What would I do with a print of five wolves (my husband counted them) by a lake?  I can’t put it in a garage sale, somebody that knows we won it would see it.  I can’t re-gift it.  My family has decided to not give gifts for Christmas this year, and I wouldn’t give that thing to anybody I actually liked.  I can only hope that I don’t win this thing.

I just can’t figure out if I should wish for luck, in the sense I’ll be lucky not to win this thing, or start buying lottery tickets because I feel a lucky streak coming on.

I know that fear of bad art is a small fear, but it’s an annoying one.

In other news, it’s still National Adoption Month.  And I have an essay out in the new book PIECES OF ME;  WHO DO I WANT TO BE?.  Check it out.

Yep, it’s that time of year again.  Right after Halloween, and before the holidays get cranked up.  How I love it.

BTW, about Halloween, a good half of my trick-or-treaters were taller than me, and I’m not a short woman.  What is up with that?

So kids, what should we do for Adoption Month?  Any ideas?  I see Bethany Christian Services has already won the Demons of Adoption award, that’s a start.  How about we all get together and TP them?

I’m taking any suggestions.

This is for the Grown In My Heart Blog Carnival.  If you’d like to share just head right there and they’ll hook you up.

Me, I’d love to share.  But I don’t have much.  Being adopted and all.  Here’s a pic of my mom as a child…

That’s her standing in the middle.

Here’s a photo of me at about the same age…

That’s all I got.

Something was brought up  about conversations with your inner child not long ago.  I hate that shit.  What in the world would I have to say to my inner child?  I can just imagine how that conversation would go.

Big Me:  Hey, how’s it going?

Inner Child:  Do you have any pixie sticks?  I like Pixie Sticks?

Big Me:  Fresh out of Pixie Sticks, sorry.

Inner Child:  I like Pixie Sticks, just not the grape ones.

Big Me:  I’ll keep that in mind. Are you getting along alright?

Inner Child:  I hate Kathy.  She has a doll house with lights that work, all I have is a piece of shit Fisher-Price doll house.  I want a Barbie House too.

Big Me: Do you ever think about anything serious?

Inner Child: This is serious.

Big Me:  How so?

Inner Child:  I have my needs to think about.

Big Me: It won’t make any difference in 20 years.

Inner Child: It makes a difference now.  I’ll think about serious stuff when I get older.  Right now I want a Pixie Stick and a decent doll house.  Alright?

Big Me:  Alright.

I believe that you never know when you are in the middle of something until it’s over.  When I was a child I didn’t have a reference point to know what was going on.  I can’t go back and change anything.  Then as now, all I’ve got is mt experience up until this moment.  For all I know I’m fucking up royally at this very moment.

The only difference between then and now is that now I feel I have some responsibility for my actions.  I have more experience.  Back then I was pretty much flying by the seat of my pants.  I can’t change that.  There are no do-overs in life.  If there were we would never get anywhere.

Can you imagine actually being able to go back to childhood knowing what you know now?  How would you deal with knowing that your best friend in the first grade was going to die of a drug overdose in her late twenties, that your uncle was going to get lung cancer, or your dog was going to get hit in the road?  Even if you could stop these things, could you actually pick a better path for yourself?  I not sure that I wouldn’t be more conflicted, and as a result really screw things up, if I had that kind of knowledge.  Imagine the pressure.

I wouldn’t want to go through life considering every move based on where I find myself now.  As I said before, you never really know how you’re doing at the moment anyway.  I could fuck things up way worse.

I’m going to go and have a Pixie Stick now.

It’s blog carnival time again, Join in right here….

http://blenza.com/linkies/links.php?owner=pickel&postid=07Oct2009&meme=3616

I know you have something to say about this.

I was a willing participant in a campaign of disinformation.

That’s complicated way of saying, I lied.

But did I, really?

I’ve told you my name.  It’s not the one I sign checks with, but it’s the one that was given me at birth.

Does that mean you don’t know me?

Certainly not, when I’m here, I’m Melanie.  I’m just somebody else most of the time.  We’re both real.  One of us just got lost for about 30 years.  You can’t blame me, they told me I was someone else.  I believed them.  I didn’t have any reason to doubt.  I didn’t even know that I had another name.

I wonder why they didn’t tell me?

Did they think it would hurt me?

Did they think that she was still in there and might come out at the mention of it?  That was good thinking.  Birth names are like magic words.  Knowing just that one little thing can change everything.

I knew I was someone before I was adopted.  I knew that I didn’t start to exist when the adoption papers were signed.

I was real.

Does changing the name of something make it any less what is was before?

Maybe.

It changed me.  I wasn’t what I was before.  I was something different.  It was far from inconsequential.  But it didn’t change who I had been.

She was real.

What am I now?

I don’t really know.

Check it out.

Grown In My Heart

Every time I packed a suitcase something was up. We didn’t go on vacations or visit relatives for fun or a need to be connected. The last time I had been told to get packed up, mom, my sisters, and I, had stayed in a motel in Hannibal for a week. When we came home there was a half finished swimming pool in the backyard.

The swimming pool wasn’t a good thing. My sisters and I were excited, but mom didn’t want it. Even though dad had commissioned the pool, without telling anyone, it was decided that we would teach swimming lessons to pay for it. I was the only one old enough to tech swimming lessons, and I didn’t like the water.

Now my sisters and I were going to Aunt May’s house. Mom didn’t like Aunt May, I was the only one that was allowed to stay with her. Aunt May was coming to pick us up, I knew this had to be a big deal. I wondered if my folks were getting a divorce. I was sure I couldn’t get that lucky.

I could hear my sister, Lisa, screaming from her bedroom. She didn’t want to go, she didn’t like Aunt May either. Mom was laying it down, she was going to go and she was going to take care of Cheryl. Mom never talked to Lisa like this.

I headed downstairs as soon as I saw Aunt May’s New Yorker pull in the drive. It was obvious that Aunt May wasn’t going to visit before we took off, mom wouldn’t let her get passed the entry hall. I was told to go get in the car. I sat right down in the front seat. Lisa always got to sit in the front seat, she got car sick. I knew mom would be too preoccupied to notice with actually getting Lisa in the car. I was right, she screamed, she fought, she kicked, but somehow mom got her in the backseat and managed to shut the door.

Without much in the way of conversation Aunt May got in and started the car. I pointed out that Cheryl was still standing in the driveway behind mom. Aunt May left the car running and collected her. Mom didn’t seem to notice, she just stood there waving.

Aunt May lived about 150 miles away. This was going to be a long trip. I knew Lisa would not shut up and now she was kicking the back of the seat. We had just got out of town when Aunt May stopped the car, right in the middle of the road, turned around, and told Lisa that she was going to put her out right there is she didn’t knock it off. It was effective, Lisa quit kicking and shut up immediately.

When we started moving again, Aunt May asked me if there were any good radio stations. By good I knew she meant rock and roll, so I tuned it in, and she turned it up loud. Maybe the trip wasn’t going to be so long after all.