spitting image

March 12, 2013 § 30 Comments

I mentioned a few posts ago, when C and L sent me an update at 6 months, that I had sent them a Happy Thanksgiving card and asked if they wanted the pictures from the hospital. In the letter, C wrote that they would love to get the hospital pictures. (At least, I am mostly positive that she is the one writing me and sending me photos. As a general rule, women do those things and men don’t.) I wish I hadn’t offered now. Of course I would like them to have photos of the first 2 days of your life. It’s a nice idea, in theory.

And then I open up the file folder and look at those photos. There are over 300 photos from the hospital. There’s no reason I should send them all 300+ hospital photos, or even all the ones that are in focus. They don’t send me every photo they take. Some are close-ups of you that would fit nicely into anyone’s photo album, no betrayal of the evidence that you used to be someone else’s. But then there are more pictures that are not so polite. Pictures spanning labor, delivery, the first hours of life in my arms, nursing, the two nights we spent in the maternity ward, me holding you, David holding you, my friends and family, our happiness and sadness. I can’t imagine they would want to see any of that. The first two days of your life are the only ones they didn’t get to have.  Looking at these pictures that I’ve seen hundreds of times, I selfishly don’t want them to see a single one. I didn’t even get two entire days with you, and that was all that was mine.

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More importantly, I don’t want to show them something they won’t care about, and I know they wouldn’t care about most of these pictures that mean so much to me. They don’t need to see the placenta or the blood everywhere, or the pictures of me and David, or my parents holding their grandchild who has ceased to exist as far as they’re concerned. When I offered to send them pictures, I really didn’t think it through. I didn’t consider that it may seem insensitive.

Adoptive parents who are reading, I would love to hear your experiences. Have you seen your child’s hospital pictures? Am I making too big of a deal?

I know the obvious solution: send them a few of the photos, the up-close ones of your sweet face, and save the rest for when you’re older. If you’re interested that is. I certainly wouldn’t force bloody placentas on anyone. Generally, I think the safest rule of thumb for me in this relationship is to approach them with the same level of openness that I’ve been approached with, i.e. write to them only when they’ve sent an update, with nothing deeper than small talk and a response to what they wrote to me. I can’t go wrong.

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mental noise

March 1, 2013 § 12 Comments

Since I received an update from your parents, it is a relief to know they will continue to contact me, at least for now. I do hold out hope that someday we become closer, although I don’t blame them for not wanting to be friends with me. It’s not what they signed up for, regardless of what I want. It wouldn’t surprise me either if they think I am inferior to them. I thought the same thing. I was choosing people who lived lives I craved, important and recognized people, not the boring or the ordinary. Not only did I think I wasn’t good enough, I thought I wasn’t classy enough, as if by having a baby at 23 (sooo young) I would suddenly be that aging party girl yelling at my kid in Walmart, wearing a belly shirt and pajamas. Oh, well, mea culpa.

I wasn’t a classless person before, but I am now, and that’s one thing that has me lying awake on so many nights. Now that I’m someone who had a baby and just gave it away like it was nothing, like I am nothing. That’s the way I see myself and no amount of feel-good adoption bullshit could change that. I realized after I lost you that I’ve been doing nothing but wasting my twenties. I’m not as bad as some in my generation, but there’s so many others who have real jobs, have real families, and have made something of themselves.  Already! I nervously want to hasten along life, to propel myself into real adulthood, if only so that I never again find myself in a desperate situation. But I don’t know how to.

I’ve talked about myself a little bit on here before (this post), and the big reason for doing so was to clarify: I’m not promiscuous, lazy, an idiot, or a substance abuser (except for marijuana, and if you count that as substance abuse, you’ve got some learning to do). I’m responsible. I live a quiet life, pay my rent on time, and no one has to take care of me. But I’ve fucked up a lot too. I’m not as far along in college as I should be. I’ve wasted too much energy in the past on my boyfriend, my thankless jobs, and my since conquered eating disorder. I have bad credit. I am poor and I do shop at Walmart, although I usually make my trips after work when I’m dressed in blazer, pencil skirt, and heels…NOT pajamas, for crying out loud. All of my work experience is in retail, and I have zero prospects for earning a decent income. My parents help me out with money.

I will argue until I’m blue in the face if someone says I did the right thing because of any aforementioned reasons. None of them are static.

I guess the present is something I need to accept. I want to kick up my heels and run, but to where? Where do I come across self-esteem? How do I escape the aimlessness of the 20s? How how how?

Where Am I?

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