Severance

 Today, little one, there was a hearing for your case. I honestly hate writing all those words. I hate that you have a case file, a case plan, a case manager, an attorney, a judge. Don't get me wrong, since you were born substance-exposed to a mother who can't care for you, I'm glad you are safe. I just hate that you weren't born safe and celebrated. 

Your mother hasn't been achieving any of her goals in order to reunify with you. She refuses contact with her DCS case manager, with her attorney. She willfully misses attending court hearings. She was not present today when the judge announced that she was granting the motion to change your case plan from reunification to severance and adoption. 

The judge, the attorneys, the case workers present: this is their job. It's a noble thing, to protect children and help families and I'm grateful they are all doing it. But it was hard to listen to everyone speak and for the mood in the metaphorical room (it was a telephonic hearing, so we didn't see any of them) to be relatively mundane and ho-hum. For them, it was just another day. But not for us. And certainly not for you. 

I am excited to get to be your forever Mama. I love you so much. I feel humbled and honored to be able to know you and love you and guide you and celebrate you for the rest of my life. My heart though, sees another mother losing her son. My heart feels this loss of yours, this separation from her. I cannot celebrate that. I cannot dance joyfully and hold you to my cheek and have pure happiness; that feels wrong. There is no joy without the pain, and there is no pain without the joy, and so we are all wrapped up together with this ribbon of duality. 

We still have a ways to go, sweet one. In a month, there will be an initial severance hearing. No knowing what comes next until we find out whether your mom attends that hearing. If she doesn't, the judge will sever her parental rights right then and there, and your case will move over to the Adoptions unit, and we can pursue your adoption date. We don't know who your biological father is, so the court is posting a 90 day John Doe paternity ad. His rights cannot be severed until that 3 months has elapsed. 

What I do know is that tomorrow and the next day and all the days after that, you'll be here. You always have a home with us; you are one of us already and nothing will ever change that. I know you'll be loved and cared for and safe. That's enough for me, until you can legally become a McGill. 

Broken Horses

Not only did we end up with 4 copies of Broken Horses by Brandi Carlile so we could attend a handful of the virtual book tour events, but I also downloaded the audiobook because she recorded 30 songs to include in it. We listened to it during a quick getaway to Flagstaff this weekend.

I was struck, as I often am, with how powerful it is to find myself in someone else's stories; to see myself reflected in someone else's song.  It reminds me of the power of marginalization. The power of making people feel "other." The microaggressions that on the own are inconsequential, but build up to such a heavy weight over time. It happens so slowly that you don't notice until you reach the breaking point and become "that angry lesbian" making mountains out molehills.  Or, like this weekend, you are caught unprepared by seeing yourself so clearly reflected back in someone else's experience, that you are able to set down the weight and know that you are not alone, you are part of a community. They weight is lifted, the isolation is broken, if only for a moment.

Brandi Carlile has provided me with moments like this for so long. I remember in 2008, as I was trying to get the courage to propose, I came across a video they recorded during their UK tour that included a cover of "I've Just Seen a Face." Hearing a woman sing those words changed the song forever. Sorry Paul, it is now a Brandi Carlile song. 

I've just seen a face
I can't forget the time or place
Where we just met

 
She's just the girl for me
And I want all the world to see
We've met, mm-mm-mm-m'mm-mm

 

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TgBpgOZr6-Q, start at 2:25)

 

Moments like this have taught me how much representation matters.  How much we look to the outside world for acceptance and value. I fight against this, I don't owe anyone conformity. So the excitement and comfort that come with each of these moments of community are tinged with guilt and self doubt.  

Being a parent is hard. A and I often appreciate that the lack of gender roles in our marriage takes away a layer of expectations, especially around parenting. However, being a queer parent can be incredibly isolating. To be reminded we weren't alone in our struggles to carve out our little corner in such a herteronormative space was very impactful. 

 

I am eternally grateful for the wonderful community we found in our birth center. I became a member of the community advisory board and we are now friends with the amazing nurses and midwives who helped E and C come into this world.  However, we were always "other." It was challenging to set aside the protective, defensive shell and see the families and medical providers in the group as our new community when our experiences were so fundamentally different. 

 

As we've connected with other LGBTQ families, it often feels like coming home. There is an ease, an unspoken understanding. This doesn't mean I don't value all of these other relationships, because of course I do. Rather, it reminds me of the value of things like our Rainbow Families group that met monthly before the pandemic. It makes me excited for the day we feel comfortable meeting in-person with the other queer families in our foster care agency. It makes me incredibly grateful for our new family that we adopted along with J.

 I have three children. One birth certificate lists me as "mother," another as "father," and the third should arrive in the coming weeks with me listed as "parent." A isn't even on E's. I often make a joke about this, but that is just to cover up the fact that it hurts. We were quoted $2000 from our lawyer to adopt E & C during J's adoption so we would both be listed on all of them as "parent," and not have to worry about the state recognizing our rights if something happen to one of us.  If we waited it would be $4000 to do it in a separate hearing.

No.  I'm not going to spend thousands of dollars for something that we shouldn't even have to do.  To prove the legitimacy of our family. To tarnish the exciting addition of J to our family with the acknowledgment of the state's bigotry. Let's save that for another day.

The pain and guilt of this has been weighing on me lately. For a moment, while we drove down a mountain with such majestic views that you can't help but feel small, I heard another mother talk about how their family began with lawyers and awkward classes.  How she dealt with the internalized homophobia that convinces you that you don't belong in these spaces, you aren't really a mother. How she also surrounds herself with family, both biological and chosen, as a cloak of protection from these hurts, both big and small. I wiped away a tear and drove back to the real world, where these things fade into the noise of everyday and the weight finds it's well-worn spot on my shoulders.

 

To my family, my protectors: Thank you

I'm beginning to feel the years,
But I'm going to be okay,
As long as you're beside me along the way.
Gonna make it through the night,
and into morning light.

 

This Is The Start of Our Sweet Little Story

 After the birth of our first two children, I loved writing out their birth stories. When I was doing the birthing, I cherished hearing the memories of all the other strong women in the room. I loved knowing what all was happening while I was focused inward. I chronicled those experiences, for myself and for Mom and for E and C to read for themselves one day. This one is for you, my youngest son.

Your story began on an unusually cool day in August of 2019. It only reached 99 degrees Fahrenheit, in a month where every day easily surpasses triple digits. It’s not surprising to me that, as a lovely little morning creature, you were already hard at the work of being born as the day dawned bright. In my imagination, I can see your mother breathing deeply and concentrating as she pushed you out to greet the day. You were born in a little bathroom only two miles northwest of our home, and I didn’t even know that someone momentous was breathing his first breath of the sweet, humid air that’s found in every place life blooms.

If I close my eyes, I can hear the cicadas sing and smell the creosote hanging in the summer breeze. Zinnias grew in our garden that August, and we had a yellow-bellied Siskin finch visit often who loved to eat the aphids that gathered under the leaves. Maybe we’ll grow zinnias again this summer, so you can see what the garden looked like during your birth.

I regret that I cannot account for every moment of those early days and weeks for you. I do know that you were loved. You had people who couldn’t wait to meet you, to hold you and look upon your small crinkled face. I’ve seen pictures of you as a little babe – even then, you were a skeptic of this bright new world. Your first mother and father loved you. They loved you as best they could. But you also were loved by your grandmother, your grandfather and step-grandmother. Your aunt, and your incredible uncles. 

We are so grateful that we get to know your uncles and aunt, and that you will have them in your life forever. We are thankful for the opportunity to maintain your connections to your birth family. It is our hope that one day you can reconnect to your first mother and father, to know them and to have them know you. 

Your uncle B took you home with him in September, when your parents could no longer care for you safely. He and uncle A set aside everything to love you and raise you. I know from their stories that it was a year of duality. Utter joy at your small presence, while pushing the limits of pure exhaustion. They rejoiced in your growth, in your sharp intelligence and your easy laugh. You lived a life of love and cuddles and safety with them, but all the while your case, your future, was in limbo. Surviving in times of unknown answers and unending timetables is an incredibly stressful thing. Your uncles are two of the strongest people I’ve ever known. After many tears and long nights of discussion, they decided to see if they could find an adoptive family for you who would let them still be your uncles.

Meanwhile, we were pursuing our foster care license. We had one class left to complete, plus our home safety inspection before we could submit our application to the state. I received a text message one day from the worker doing our training classes, asking if she could call me later. I answered that of course she could and wondered why she wanted to talk. My brain offered up, “Maybe she’s got a baby for us…” and then instantly I laughed at myself because that was ludicrous. We weren’t even licensed. Later that afternoon, she called and wove a tale of two young men who were hoping to find the perfect family for their 11 month old nephew, a family who would accept them as a couple and also as uncles who wanted to remain in his life. It was all I could do to clench my lips shut long enough for her to finish the story because I wanted to shout, “YES! Yes yes yes!” to these young men and to this little boy who I had yet to meet. 

I wanted them all. Somehow, they already lived in my heart. 

In the waning golden sunlight of a July evening last year, the four of us waited with bated breath in our front yard to meet you. We had seen pictures of you, and we had done a video call with you and your uncles. But on this warm summer evening, I felt deep in the pit of my stomach that I was about to meet one of my children. It was surreal to think that I didn’t know you at all. I didn’t know what made you smile, what helped you feel safe, how you went to sleep easiest, or what your favorite food was. I suppose none of us know any of those things when babies are born into our families anyway. The uncles came bearing ice cream for all of us and carrying you in your car seat. For the first time in their lives, E and C abandoned their ice creams in favor of sitting in front of your car seat on the ground to smile at you and touch your wiggling toes. E brought out books and read to you, while C carefully examined your fingers and your nose and kept kissing your head. It wasn’t long before the kids dragged the uncles into our home to show them around. You demanded to be put down in C’s bedroom to investigate his cars and trucks and bookcase. I took a photo of the 3 of you for the first time, your heads bent closely together. It was then that I noticed your hair is nearly the exact same shade of brown as your siblings.

After that first meeting, we planned family dinner nights. We got to celebrate your first birthday together, and Mom and Uncle A baked and decorated your cake. 

We started to have you over by yourself for a few hours at a time. Our license was approved in late August, and we started having you for overnights the very next night. We were building many relationships. 

It is an experience unlike any I’ve had, to commit our lives to two adult strangers and a baby before we knew each other. We have all grown so close in such a short span of time. You were placed with us officially at the beginning of October, and that started the countdown clock to your adoption.

Now, as spring blooms and brings with it the Mexican gold poppies and orange globemallow, the last grain of sand in this hourglass has fallen into the base. Our time as your foster family has come to a close, little one.

 Today is Adoption Day. Today you are legally a McGill, a third child, second son, and fifth family member. You are cherished. Always.

This is the start of our sweet little story;
the part where your page meets ours.
No matter where the tale takes us tomorrow,
the story will always be of love.

The Photographer

Today I bore witness to some dear friends' adoption of their second child. These friends are pretty fantastic people, and we've adored them for a long time. But as tends to happen in adult friendships, once we no longer played rugby together, we saw them with decreasing frequency. The adoration remained. Over the years, we've seen them infrequently but always were reminded at each reunion how much we cherish the relationship.

Now these friends have two kids, and we have two kids. Since becoming mothers, we've seen each other way more often and it's been amazing. To hold each other's babies and watch our children begin to develop their own friendships is nothing short of awesome.

And today, I was honored to photograph the adoption of that second cherished baby. I was privileged to photograph the first adoption, too, and after going through hundreds of photos of their friends and family all gathered together to celebrate this small, new family, I am struck.

I am struck by their village.

Everywhere I turned, there were outstretched hands. Little chubby beckoning fingers. Older, calloused fingers carefully guided the gripping fists of an almost-walker. Growing teenaged hands tossed babies and cuddled toddlers and pointed at words in a book.

All shapes and sizes and colors and ages were there to show their love and support for this growing family. If I didn't already know them, I wouldn't even be 100% sure which children belonged to whom, or who the grandparents or aunts or uncles or family friends were. That's the most beautiful part of all.

I can only hope to translate their love for one another through my lens. I hope to do them justice. I hope they can feel my love and admiration for them.

December 18th

A young woman, belly swollen tight with a full-term baby, feels the beginning of her labor begin.  It hurts her body; it hurts her heart.  She fights against the contractions, willing her body to hold tight onto that infant for just a bit more.  Not yet.  Don't take her yet. 

December 18th is the day of your birth.

Heralded into this world a week before Christmas, enveloped in sorrow and love and regret, you were born and became your own person.  You were given a name that nobody alive knows (or will admit they know).  You were cradled in the arms of a young woman who loved you desperately, though she couldn't keep you for her own daughter.  

Placed into the arms of another mother, you were left with a new family to grow up and discover yourself.  

Still, after all these years, you aren't much for celebrating your own birthday.  I cannot imagine how this day makes you feel.  When I was younger, I wondered how you managed to shrink away from a day that is, by definition, a celebration of YOU.  Now I realize that you don't see it as a celebration of you - not the whole day, at least.  In part, it's the day that changed the path of your life.  It's the day that you were given up by the person who is supposed to love you unconditionally.  It's a reminder of how many questions there still are, a memo that there's a whole other family out there who share genetics with you - a family that we have yet to find.  How could you celebrate yourself on such a day? 

But if you can't celebrate this day, know that I can and I do.  

I'm grateful for my biological grandmother.  I'm grateful for all the love and sadness she had in her heart for you.  I think that even as you grew inside her, you were already becoming part light and part darkness.  

You are the golden light that bathes the world as the sun sinks below the mountain tops. You see the good in all people, even when it's a single grain in a sea of rice.  

You are the blackness that shrouds the earth while she sleeps.  You hold your loved ones close and safe, while you shield us from the storm.  

You feel deeply; emotion flows thickly through your veins.  Your highs are higher, and your lows sometimes lower, than most. 

On this day, this 18th of December, I want to honor the person you've become.  I will think about the forty eight other December 18ths you've already lived, and wonder about who you were on each of those days.  I will hold your birth mother close, and offer that young woman in my mind a fierce hug.  Her story grips me; the idea of giving up a child breaks my heart and knowing that baby was you crushes me.  She had to be strong.  She had to be courageous.

And she imparted those qualities to her firstborn daughter.

You are kind.  You are generous.  You are loving.  You are empathetic.  You are passionate.  You are supportive. You are questioning.  You are enthusiastic.  You are interested.  You are selfless.


I admire you, Mom.  I love you dearly, and with each passing year I learn more about the depth of your personhood - and the more I learn, the more awe and respect I have.

Happy Birthday, mother of mine.  You are very special, and very important to me.  I hope you know that although this day is full of both darkness and light, I will always think of it as the day the world changed.  And I will always celebrate you.  

Donor Sperm: The Story Beneath the Baby

Lesbians across the country, nay, across the world may be dreaming of making babies of their own right at this very moment.  I know of several, personally.  As all of us know, two women cannot make a baby without "help".  So, these women make a decision about how to get this new family member here.  This is the first decision in a long line of decisions that will impact the rest of our lives and certainly our childrens' entire lives - and yet, many people using donor sperm (not just lesbians, there is a heterosexual couple faction as well as single moms) don't think about the lifelong repercussions.

I'm going to pause right here and mention a few things.
1.  These are my opinions, based on my experiences as the biological child of an adopted person, a lesbian, a soon-to-be-mama of a donor-conceived daughter and someone who has spoken to many others about donor sperm topics.
2.  I am not a professional, but I do believe strongly in what I'm about to tell you.
3.  Please feel free to discuss respectfully in the Comments section, as this is certainly a "hot topic" for some - however, if any rudeness occurs, I am the comment moderator and I have no qualms about not allowing inappropriate comments.

Now that's over with, let's talk it out!  As I mentioned above, the first decision is what kind of sperm donor to use.  That depends on your wishes and your family structure.  Are you looking for a co-parent, who is responsible for some parenting duties?  An "uncle" figure who is involved with the child but does not make parenting decisions?  A man who donated his sperm to a bank for others to purchase?  Do you want your child to have the option of learning this man's identity at some point?  Do you want him to always and forever remain completely anonymous?

There are thousands of combinations of ways people have brought children into this world using a donor, and I don't feel the need to outline them all, but the point I want to get across is that there are many more decisions to make, and it can be a daunting task.  I think some people just get overwhelmed with the sheer volume of information they're trying to process; some become lazy and don't want to do the research.  Some don't even realize how important this all is.

As a woman who has experienced the full-blown insane desire to have a baby NOW, RIGHT THIS VERY MOMENT RIGHT NOW NOW NOW!, I completely understand why there is so much focus on the pregnancy and on the newborn baby.  That's all I had in my mind's eye, for about a year of hormone-fueled craziness.  I wasn't thinking about when that baby started asking questions about her origins, or when she had a genetics project in science class, or when she found a person to fall in love and have her own babies with. I certainly wasn't thinking about how much her life would be affected, knowing she's missing half her family medical history, half her DNA.

The "baby-craze" somewhat blew over, as we took foster children in and tentatively began planning trying to conceive our own baby.  Life was big and hectic and busy and I didn't have a lot of available space in my brain for the politics of donor conception.

We decided to use a sperm donor from a bank, and we always knew we'd choose a Willing To Be Known Donor.  This means that the donor has agreed to at least one contact between offspring and donor after the child turns 18.  This is important to us because my mom was adopted as an infant, and we have only shreds of incomplete information about her family medical history.  Not to mention the distinct lack of information about her biological father whatsoever.  We don't even know his name, much less if he's still alive or what his traits are.

The issues surrounding donor conception have fascinated me from the start, and it was one of the reasons I attended the American Adoption Congress' conference a few weeks ago.  I mentioned in my last blog that there were a few workshops and a meeting all centering around donor conception.  Of course, I attended everything.  One thing that came away that impacted me was one presenter, Kris, said several times that whenever a person is separated from their genetics, there will be adoption-type issues.  Questioning, lack of a full family medical history, and wondering what the missing biological parent is like, just to mention a few.

The most important thing I brought away from these meetings and workshops is that honesty is always the best route to take.

A friend of mine, one whom I made easily and quickly right then at the conference, is herself both a lesbian and an adoptee.  Being both these things made her realize how important it is to provide her future children with answers about their biology (well, as much as is possible, considering she's adopted...) because she lacks it and sees its importance.  I think that as far as openness and honesty goes, for the child, the combination in my new friend is the most ideal one for a child to be brought into.  She's really got the right idea about things.  Tell the kids the truth, keep the biological father involved in their lives from the start, and raise them to understand that there isn't shame in their family structure.  Just like AAC's new slogan says, "No Secrets, No Fear".  I'm so looking forward to bearing witness to she and her partner's journey into parenthood!  And I'm so glad for them that they've got the perfect friend to help them make babies.  Bravo, ladies!

We hope that as E grows older, she cannot remember the first time she was told about her conception.  We hope to weave her beginning into her life story as simple truth.  We hope we can be open enough and fearless enough to let her ask whatever questions she has, and tell her what we know.  We hope that she never experiences a moment when she feels as if she's "finally told the truth".  I realize this means we're likely going to be talking with our daughter about sperm and eggs and penises and vaginas and uteruses a bit earlier than most families, but I sense this child is going to be far too smart for us to ever even want to lie to or try to deceive.  I suspect 'the stork' is simply not a good enough answer.  I just hope the parents of her friends can manage to not hate us too much when E tells their sons and daughters what she knows about sperm and eggs.  I'm sorry in advance, if your kid is ever friends with my kid.

For me, I don't hold any resentment or embarrassment within myself that we had to have the help of a man to get our daughter.  I'm glad.  I'm glad for that man, and for men who donate their sperm and enable women to have babies they couldn't have otherwise.  That being said, I do know that there are many people, men and women alike, who are upset about having to use donor sperm.  It's embarrassing, for some men, to have to impregnate their wives with another man's genes.  It's angering to some lesbians that they HAVE to put sperm inside themselves to grow their families.  Sometimes, I think the anger and resentment and sense of loss (of one's full biological child) is astronomical and these are the families who either lie entirely about the donor conception, choose anonymous donors so their kids can never threaten to leave them for their "real dad", and resist any line of questioning about the child's parentage*.  This is ultimately the choice of each family, and it is not my place to tell another family how they should parent their children.  Everyone does the very best they can.

*This is absolutely not to say that every single family who falls into the above categories will behave this way, and is more a generalization than accusation.

In my family, we place great importance on E knowing whatever she wants and whatever she can learn.  We are committed to not only doing our best for her as an infant, a child, an adolescent, and a teenager... but also looking out for her best interests as an adult.  And to us, that means as much information about the other half of her genetics as we can possibly give her.

I think our only regret is not having the right person in our lives right now who could be our donor and be involved in her life, someone she could know from the beginning and ask her questions to.  We knew that asking someone to be a donor for us was an immense burden and potentially a lot of heartache, and we just didn't feel anybody like that was in our lives.  I commend anybody who is fortunate enough to have that right person; I'm quite jealous.

We can each only do our best by our kids.

I hope that maybe my thoughts might help someone think about some issues they hadn't considered before.  I hope that everyone does think of their offspring not only as that deliriously desired pregnancy and brand new little squeezeable baby, but as their own person with their own rights to their own information.

My greatest hope is that one day, all donor-conceived individuals have access to their donors and their information.  But things won't change until we change them.  And here I am, asking you to help me fight for our kids' rights by demanding Willing To Be Known Donors from banks, and for not tolerating any banks dropping the ball in contacting the donors for our kids.  This is the first step, until our kids all come of age and can really begin to affect change.

 And one more thing: if it ever comes up, help other people to see why this is so important.

April 23rd-29th : The Conference

I feel terribly disorganized and unsettled lately, and I think the first thing to do is to fix these problems within my own mind.  Often, that means writing everything down.  I fear this is going to be a rather long and jumbled post, so if you feel like going on an adventure, then by all means, keep reading.

You're still with me?  Thanks, friend.  :)



Wow, even now you're still reading.  I haven't bored you yet.  Just wait.

Things have felt totally crazy since last week.  The beginning of last week.  First, I want to mention that the lab I work for has been planning a move into our new building for several months now.  This move was carefully calculated to happen over a weekend so that none of our clients were negatively affected in any way and we got all our specimens processed in the regular timeframe.  This was complicated by the fact that the owner, Dr. S., chose THE. SINGLE. WEEKEND. all year that I was going to be out of town, to do the move over.  I'd already requested off several days to attend the American Adoption Congress' Mile High Expectations annual conference in Denver, CO.  And of course the move got scheduled for while I was gone.  For me, that turned out pretty great because I didn't have to do the heavy lifting or put in the fourteen hour days that my coworkers did... except that I was trying to help them and feeling really guilty that they were to be shorthanded on the ONE weekend they needed me most.  But I'd already paid my entrance to the conference and had plane tickets, so I was not present during the laboratory move.

Last Wednesday, April 25th, T drove me to the airport after two solid days of both of us working our fingers to the bone to get enough product ready to sell.  I was taking STAR necklaces, pins, and bookmarks to sell at the conference and represent One Little Starfish, LLC.  (www.onelittlestarfish.org)  It was actually the very first time I'd flown by myself.  Odd.  Needless to say, I managed fine and caught all the right planes and didn't get kidnapped by rogue taxi drivers or anything of the sort.

The American Adoption Congress (AAC) conference began on Wednesday, but I didn't arrive in time to participate on Wednesday.  Thursday was my first full day of conference activities.  (Interesting note: I'd never been to a conference of any sort, either!)  The conference went all the way through Sunday afternoon. My parents had flown into Denver on Monday, as my illustrious mother is on the AAC Board of Directors (she's also an author!) and they had meetings prior to the conference.

The mere idea, right now, of going through and recapping each day in chronological order, is boring and exhausting to me.  If it bores me to THINK about writing it, I'm certainly not going to subject anyone else to reading my summation.  Therefore, I now present you with: AAC conference "snapshots" of A's mind!

Preface: It'll probably seem weird to many of you that the experiences I had that stick out most prominently aren't memories from workshops.  Maybe it *is* weird.  But this is my experience, and my thoughts on why these things affected me most.

*On my flight home, I was seated next to one of the U of A men's rugby players - he slept the whole way.  Somehow, I'd managed to score a seat in the first row, in a wider seat with "stretch" legroom on my Frontier flight.  I didn't pay extra for this, or specify it ahead of time.  I just got amazingly lucky.  (The rugger next to me made sure to say hello to the rest of his team as they boarded the plane!  They were all quite jealous of his prime seating.)  So on this extra comfortable and convenient seat, I took out a small journal and began jotting down things I wanted to remember.  I'd attended only three full days of conference, and yet it felt as if I'd been gone from my wife for weeks.  I surprised myself with the things I remembered and wanted to write about.  Here they are (some of them), in the order I wrote them down.

*Carol - the only 15 year old boy in a 66 year old grandmother's body I've ever met.  This woman, my Carol, spent much of our time together blowing my mind.  Truly, Carol, I love you dearly and you made such an impact on me and I have such fond memories of you!  I met Carol in the Book Room, which was my father's contribution to the conference.  Carol was selling her adoption jewelry and a book she wrote, which regrettably didn't make it from the printer in time to be sold at the conference, but yet she did manage a few presales.  Carol is youthful and energetic, full of stories and life and exuberance.  She wore me out, and I'm 25.  She was a drinking, cussing, hula-hooping, dancing fool!  Carol also has a wit that'll splice a hair in half, and a sense of humor so dry you'll need lotion if you're spending an extended amount of time with her.  The things that came out of your mouth shocked me into silence a few times, Carol, and that is a major accomplishment.  Kudos to you, my dear!  I hope I'm half as lively as you when I'm 66.  (The lighting wasn't great, which is why mostly we've just got blurry cell photos - that and Carol never holds still!)

Yep, that's actually a single hula hoop that has a collapsible "travel" feature!  Go Carol!


*Mom punching Leah in the nose.  A friend of my mom's, Leah, was making the rounds and saying her goodbyes at Saturday night's dance party and apparently my mom was overly exuberant, and instead of throwing her arms around Leah she managed to land a fist right on Leah's nose!  I glanced over at them and saw them both crying - bear in mind, crying was not abnormal at this conference, so I wasn't concerned.  But then I noticed they weren't sad... they were laughing so hard that they could scarcely breathe.  Tears streamed down their faces and only increased as they shared the punching story with everyone else.

*Zach's song and hearing him sing karaoke.  A newfound friend of Leah's - Zach.  An 18 year old man with a kind and friendly face.  Zach and his birthmother, Michelle, were attending the conference together for the first time.  Zach is an amazingly talented songwriter/singer/musician, we came to find out.  He allowed me the pleasure of listening to a song he'd written and played and sung and recorded himself - I was moved to tears by its raw honesty.  Prior to hearing his song, he had snuck up to the DJ booth and signed up to sing Matchbox 20's "Unwell", so as he began to sing we didn't realize it was Zach.  Our group had spent the evening mocking the horrific karaoke singers we'd been cursed with so far, so this fresh and talented voice was like cool water.  Once we realized it was our Zach, the performance took on a new level of intimacy within our group.  Zach has the ability to be so incredibly truthful and real, and he transferred it into his rendition of  "Unwell".  As some of you know, the lyrics go like this,
"I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell
I know right now you can't tell
But stay awhile and maybe then you'll see
a different side of me."
Which I thought was a very appropriate song to sing at the end of a very emotional conference, particularly for Zach, who it seemed had made a lot of discoveries about himself and life over the previous few days.  It was a shockingly impactful performance; it moved many of us to tears as we watched his soul pour out of his body.  Zach: you are an amazing person.  I am so excited to see what comes next for you.

*Dinner at La Fogata.  Thursday night, Dad and I found ourselves to be 2 out of a party of 6 people for dinner.  It started as just Leah and us, and then Leah ended up making several invitations and before we knew it, we were having dinner with 3 strangers and one person we'd met only the day previously.  Ohhhhhkay, sure.  (Carol is from Maine, Zach and Michelle are from New Hampshire, Leah lives outside of D.C., and Dad and I are of course, from Arizona!)  Actually, it ended up being a super fantastic time, everyone at dinner was so different and interesting and HILARIOUS that I don't think any of us particularly wanted it to end.  Except that some films were being shown that evening back at the hotel, so we had to get back somewhat quickly.  The three young'uns (Me, Leah, and Zach) had walked over because Carol's little rental car only seated five.  But we didn't have enough time to really walk back so... what to do?  Myself, Leah and Carol had shared a pitcher of margaritas among the three of us (AMONG, not BETWEEN because BETWEEN pertains to only two people - thanks Leah) and none of us were fit to drive.  Dad and Michelle had beers, which left Zach.  The only one too young to drink.  He became our designated driver.  Dad sat in the front seat with him to navigate.  I sat "on the hump" in the backseat, Leah to my left and Michelle to my right.  There wasn't any room for Carol in her own rental!  Before I could suggest some kind of solution, here comes Carol, diving across our laps.  She ended up laying on her back over the three of us, Leah holding her head so it didn't hit into the door.  Zach carefully drove us back to the hotel in this ridiculous arrangement.  We were all laughing so hard, it's a miracle we didn't cause Zach to drive over several curbs.  We did manage to make it back in time to view the films, too!  All's well that ends well.

*Meeting people in the Book Room.  As I mentioned before, Dad was running the Book Room - which is a room, full of books, incidentally.  Okay, really it's a place where people can sell their books/CDs/films/whatever that is associated with the adoption community, but they have to be an attendee at the conference in order to sell their stuff.  I was selling One Little Starfish stuff, and had arrived Wednesday night to set it all up.  Thursday there wasn't much going on, workshop-wise, that I was interested in, so I spent the day with Dad, officially opening the Book Room and helping however I could.  "Helping" turned out to mean more than I'd bargained on, but I was really happy I could be useful rather than a bump on a log.  As people began to filter through the Book Room, I got to make several new friends.  I met so many people through the Book Room, it was incredible!  M.J., who encouraged me to attend the Michigan Womyn's Festival in 2013 and do a workshop with her about donor conception.  Casey, with the most incredible blonde ringlet-ed curls and brightest blue eyes - and who could forget her awesome black leather jacket and tie-dye skirts?!  Carrie, who has written her own memoir but was struggling with what to title it.  Kris, one of the women giving workshops on donor conception.  Amanda, who is an artist and sells inspiration-themed work (www.theinspiredpaintbrush.com) and gave me one of her wonderful "Mental Block"s.  Phyllis, another presenter focusing on donor conception and infertility.  Tall and hilarious red-headed Macy, a friend of my mom's.  My dad worked so hard on the Book Room, and it really showed.  I loved dearly that I was able to spend so much time working alongside him.  I think my favorite part was when I got to tell people who my parents are.  Brings a smile to my face!

*Being so proud of my mother.  My mom is an author.  She wrote a memoir about learning she was adopted late in life (a Late Discovery Adoptee, or LDA) and even more difficult than that, she continues to promote it and herself.  My mom has always been a writer, for as long as I can remember.  It's only been recently that she's authored a book and gotten it published, but I always figured the book part was a foregone conclusion.  She loves to write, it fills up her soul.  However, she doesn't love self-promotion.  She isn't a lover of the spotlight, or a saleswoman.  I know she has to convince herself to get out there and promote the book.  When people ask her to sign their copies of her book, she finds it extremely odd because, like she says, "I'm just one of you guys; we're all the same."  When I stepped foot into the Denver Tech Center for this conference, I felt like hundreds of people already knew me.  I felt so special, so privileged because my mom is the Secretary of the board!  My mom wrote a book!  My mom tells everyone about me and T and our baby!  My mom, whose heart has a never-ending amount of space for new people and new stories.  Whose love is limitless.  Whose selflessness is staggering.  Whose work ethic is incredibly strong.  My mom, who helped to make my body, who helped form my spirit - she's mine.  Her DNA is part of my DNA.  Her roots (or lack of roots) are mine.  Mom, I'm so proud of you and all your accomplishments and I'm SO proud to be YOURS!

* The Mom Mafia.  My mother has a group of birthmoms who she is incredibly close with, whom as a group my father has affectionately nicknamed "The Mom Mafia".  She wouldn't be where she is right now without all her Moms - thank you all so much for taking my mother in under your wings!  I had such a wonderful time meeting many of you.  I hope to see you all again soon.

*My new friend, Sukari.  I met Sukari and Leah both on Wednesday night, as my parents and I were finishing up dinner in the hotel restaurant, Garrity's.  Sukari, I learned, is a Late Discovery Adoptee.  She also is gay.  She and her partner are talking about trying to have a baby of their own in the somewhat near future, so as you can all imagine Sukari and I had a TON to talk about.  We spent many workshops together and had several dinners together.  She and I went to all the donor conception workshops, and my mom even tagged along to the "Let's Start a Donor Revolution" panel discussion Friday night.  Sukari is tall and expressive and gorgeous and funny as shit.  Lady, I had such a great time with you and I hope there's a baby in your belly sooner rather than later.

*Feeling out of place.  I've learned that there are a lot of ways to "fit in" at an adoption conference - it's all about your connection to adoption.  When I introduced myself, it typically went like this, "I'm A from Arizona and I'm the biological child of a Late Discovery Adoptee as well as the soon-to-be mother of a donor-conceived individual."  Though I have a two-pronged entrance into Adoption-Land, still I felt like an outsider.  I never got around to discussing this with Dad; I wonder if he feels the same.  By the end of the conference, I was struck by the number of attendees who had life-altering, mind-blowing incredible personal growth experiences.  I was even more struck by the fact that I hadn't.  That, in and of itself, was fine - but I felt like a stranger poking my face into an intimate family affair.  I got to witness all these terribly emotional and personal journeys that people are taking, and the best (and maybe harshest) analogy I can come up with is that it's like a larger-than-life version of going to the zoo.  I see the animals, I read their placards about where they're from and what they eat, but I don't live their lives.  I get to leave the zoo at the end of the day.

Adoptees are forever adoptees.  Their feelings of loss and abandonment and betrayal aren't only felt once, or even only once a day.  These are their lives.  Being an adoptee, or a birth parent, or an adoptive parent... those are experiences that make up the fabric of life, of each and every moment of every day for the rest of the days they're fortunate enough to walk this earth.  It's not something to simply be "dealt with" and then move on.  I guess that's the biggest thing I learned; not to say that I didn't know it before - but to know it isn't necessarily to live it.  I feel it on a different level now than I ever did before.

I can account for every day in my life.  Every day, I've known who my parents are.  I know who felt my first kicks while I grew in my mother's womb.  I know who saw me be born into this world.  I know whose laughter and funny voices taught me about the humor in life.  I know whose lips kissed my face as a baby.  I know who soothed my cries, who dressed my wounds, who changed my diapers and put up with my trouble-making as a child (and as an adult, for that matter!).  These examples are just a drop in a bucket full of things adoptees don't and probably won't ever know about themselves.  And these things are NOTHING compared to the big-ticket items, like someone's original birth certificate, family medical records, and other things equally important that many adoptees don't have access to - my wonderful mother included.

I don't know that I'm trying to make a point.

I have felt overly full this week, since returning from the conference.  Full of every emotion imaginable.  While I was gone, I thought about my wife and unborn daughter all the time.  I thought about how lucky I am, to have them both.  I developed a huge fear of air travel - what if the plane crashed and something happened to me?  I'd lose my wonderful T, and my darling daughter who I haven't even gotten to meet yet.  The idea of that even now brings tears to my eyes.

I contemplated often what my mother's life was like, as an unborn baby and then an infant and then a child.  She grew up all the way to the age of 43 without anyone telling her that oh yeah, someone else contributed their genetics to her and someone else grew her in their uterus and someone else gave birth to her and someone gave her away and someone entirely different from the first someone had her in their home for her first three months, before she ever went to live with her adoptive family.  I feel such a loss that those pieces of my mom's life are question marks.  Who held her at 2am when she cried?  Did anybody kiss her face and tell her she was beautiful and amazing and miraculous?  Did anybody take pleasure in her sparkling blue eyes and revel in the magic that is inherent in all babies?

What was the name you were first given, Mom?

Someday, we're going to find out.



I've been asked a lot about the conference.  "Oh, how was the adoption conference in Denver?"  I never know what to say, but I do know that nobody really wants to spend two hours talking with me about it, and so I just end up smiling and saying, "You know, it was good!  Thanks for asking."

Because what do you say about being privy to so much personal loss and grief and sadness and the celebration of life that comes anyway, despite all the pain?  I'm not even sure that it's my place to recount the lives I learned about, the stories that break your heart, and the joy that binds everyone.  Or maybe it's all of our places to do that for one another.  



This conference was so FULL.  I could never write a long enough blog to cover it all and the range of emotion to accompany it.  Well, I could, but I don't want to and I doubt you want to read it.  There were a thousand little things I'd like to remember, but most of them are jotted down in my airplane journal on the pages behind my Everleigh Jane doodle.  I guess this is it for now!  I have other actually pregnancy-related things to write about, and now that this is out of the way I'll be able to do it.  I hope you're all doing well.

Top row, left to right: Carol, Leah, Zach, and Michelle
Bottom row, left to right: me! Dad, Mom, and Sukari