Maternal Pride

I've been pondering the pheonomenon of maternal pride, specifically pride surrounding the nature of one's birth (we are all supposed to be Very Brave and have Quick, Unmedicated Vaginal Births as the Good Lord Intended). It is, in fact, all Leery Polyp's fault that the trauma of my very medicated, emergency cesarean has come to the surface.

Looking now at my two and a half year old son, contorting himself into weird positions on the sofa and answering Steve on Blue's Clues with a fanatical devotion unrivalled by the studio audience of Jimmy Swaggart, I know that he was the point of the whole Birth Exercise. But for those of us who "fail" at giving birth, it is easy to be jealous of the woman who can say: I slogged through it all, and I made it. I had the birth I intended to. The agency, the moment, were mine. I perservered.

I gave birth to Compaíto in a small clinic in the Latin American Country which Dare not Speak its Name (although I am thinking more and more of giving up on this whole "anonymity" thing). It was tiny, and clean and had an Exagerated Hospital Smell.

I had been in labour for ten hours by the time I went in, and would be in labour for twelve more before before I finally gave birth, by emergency cesarean. The official story of why he had to be born by cesarean was because he was not descending or turning properly. I asked if forceps could be tried, and the ob/gyn said no.

When my water had broken earlier, it was greenish yellow. One of the attending doctors had been worried, but the only OR was being used by another woman having a cesarean. When Compaíto was born, they told me his umbilical cord was wrapped around his foot. He stopped breathing almost immediately after being born, and had to be recessitated (sp)?

I was given a mandatory IV, shave prep and enema (which they didn't tell me they were going to do. They just said "roll over".)

They didn't bring my son to me for six hours (they said it would be five.) I was positive he was dead. Even after they brought him to me (I was unprepared for how motionless sleeping, swaddled babies look).

I KNOW the point of giving birth is to have a living, breathing baby. I know how lucky I am- the most unbearable moment was thinking that my son had not survived. But I also know that I'm not the only one who was left with a lingering doubt that maybe it could have unfolded another way.

Grieving your infertility

A friend of mine's mother is an adoption placement worker with CAS. My friend says of all the aspects of her mother's job, the part that she understands least is the fact that all prospective adoptive parents, regardless of their fertility status or sexual orientation, must take a course called "grieving your infertility" before adopting.

That is to say, you may have birthed and parented a whole housefull of rugrats, and you are still expected to grieve your fertility. Because making your own decision on how to expand your family is so very TRAUMATIC, you see.

The other thing is, were I infertile, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't want to grieve my infertility alongside people who were clearly not infertile. I'm pretty sure it would piss me off.

When I let people know we plan to have a second child through adoption, the first question seems to be if there is some reason why we can't conceive the child ourselves (i.e. are we infertile). When they find out we are not, they don't know quite what to make of us. They bring up things like genetics, that people who are adopted have a far worse chance of x and y, and the whole obnoxious attitude of "they're so cute when they're little, aren't they? But when they're older, watch out..." as though adoptees were some sort of ticking time bomb, just by nature of the fact that they were adopted.

Here's what I think: genetics are a crapshoot either way. Señor Chickenlegs and I both have various mental and physical ailments represented on each side of the family, but we aren't sitting with baited breath waiting for our son to explode. We know it will happen in good time :)

As for having a child that looks like you. as I may have mentioned, my son, while breathtakingly gorgeous, doesn't look a hell of a sight like me. Granted, he looks much like my breathtakingly gorgeous Chickenlegged Man, but that's not why I love him. I love him because he is my son, because I hoped and dreamed that he would be the wonderful person that he is, just as I am hoping and dreaming that our second wonderkid will find its way to us, in due time.

What do you think, gentle readers? Do fertile potential adoptive parents have reason to grieve their infertility?

ps. To the reader who asked whether posting a comment would reveal her identity or link to her blog- not unless you want it to. You are free to post as "anonymous" if you so choose. I would love to hear from you, so de-lurk, de-lurk, wherever you are!

101 Things

I am technically a permanent resident of a Latin American country, although I haven’t lived there in over two years.
I make a mean guacamole
I have a curly-headed son
My son looks very little like me
My husband is quite the attractive chickenlegged person
I have written a number of songs
I graduated cum laude
I love peanut sauce- Señor Chickenlegs doesn’t even want peanut butter in the house
I enjoyed the time that Señor Chickenlegs was a Stay At Home Dad- perhaps a little too much. The floors were so shiny.
My sister in law was my maid of honour
I am trying to lose 25 lbs.
I am the proud owner of one orange kitty
I am a skilled ocean canoeist.
I have a relatively debilitating math phobia
I drive a cute and cheap little car
This is my first blog
I am inordinately proud of my book collection, and secretly wish more people would casually pursue the titles when they are in my living room
My idea of the perfect vacation is a backwoods camping trip ending with a night at a bed and breakfast at the end.
I worked at a summer camp for six years. I think that’s why parenthood didn’t totally freak me out. J
I have a bad habit of staying up to watch the Daily Show.
I am a virtual tea-totaller.
I am a political animal.
I blame my cellulite on my son- he’s too little to be offended.
One of my goals is to become a doula
I don’t like doilies of any kind
I own one of those dorky back massing chair-covers aimed at the over fifty set
I am most definitely not over fifty
I find the whole idea of Brazilian Waxes (as opposed to people from Brazil, which I think is a more apt description to suit the word Brazilian), quite creepy.
I have no desire to ever start my own business.
I have a terrible back.
I have been in a rainforest on each coast
I have seen the Northern Lights
I occasionally have fantasies about going to grad school
I desperately need to buy myself a new set of gee-tar strings
My son was born by emergency cesarian, with his umbilical cord wrapped around his foot.
I speak three languages and understand four
I have rather ugly, calloused, feet which, when left to their own devices, sport hairy, unseemly toes.
For some reason, there are about fifteen different bottles of shampoo in my bathroom cabinet.
I prefer red wine to white
I have never smoked a cigarette
I am currently trying to toilet-train my son
I am a bit of an insomniac
I have nice writing when I concentrate on it
I have lived in four provinces: British Columbia, Quebec, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia.
I am capable of eating a disturbing amount of ice cream when provoked
I took my son to the zoo at 6 weeks old. A bobcat stalked him around his enclosure, and the monkeys were fascinated with him
I get cold easily.
I have grown dependent on paper towels
I know how to finger spell in ASL (American Sign Language)
My favourite drink is the Chai Latte.
I get depressed in winter
Against my better judgement, I have allowed a TV in our bedroom. Because I love Señor Chickenlegs.
I have a deep desire to rip up the wall to wall carpeting in our living room.
I want to be a good gardener, but in fact am a rather crappy one. It would seem I am only capable of tending to beings that object when you don’t tend to them (babies, cats, etc.)
I use Q-Tips to clean my ears. Every day. And I know it’s wrong, it just feels… so… good.
I desperately need to clean out my desk.
I just got an ironing board- BOO YAH, wrinkles, you can kiss my ass. I be ironing sheets, towels, underwear. I be MAD ironing. And ironying.
I laugh at the word “weinerschnitzel.” If indeed that is the correct spelling.
I always stop to smell the wild roses
I have a cell phone that I wish I could get rid of.
I knew my baby was going to be a boy before I was told. So did everyone else.
I laugh at friends who say things like: “if I had some extra money kicking around, I would buy an adult tricycle”, and are completely serious.
I have a terrible weakness for ice cream
I can’t stand it when people use “heart” as a verb. It’s a noun, people. NOUN.
I desperately want another child.
I am an intermittent leg-shaver.
I am a dirty hippy at heart, who makes regular perfunctory attempts at cleanliness
I love the smell of seasons changing
I have had four cats in my life, and all of them have been female. I do not like spraying. Who is housing all the male cats?
I rarely if ever wear makeup.
I am uncomfortable in high heels
The last play I went to see was the Vagina Monologues.
I am thoroughly sick of eating chicken, in all its forms
My son is not. In fact, it is his favourite food, and he requests it frequently.
I have now withdrawn all diaper privileges, in an attempt at shitting or getting off the pot re: toilet training. We shall see how this goes.
In the past year I have run into three childhood friends who, it would appear, now have raging cocaine habits. Nothing could make me sadder.
My father was a clown when I was a kid. Literally. There is no cooler profession for a parent to have at that age.
For some reason, we own a pair of binoculars that we never, ever use. I can’t figure out if they were given to us as a gift, or what. We really don’t do that much spying.
Can you tell I’m looking around my living room in search for things to say about myself?
I have never tweezed my eyebrows.
And while we’re on the topic… I only have about twenty armpit hairs under each arm. I’m a freak of nature, people, what can I say.
Pen stealers are the bane of my existence
I would like to be a trucker for a day, just so I can say: See you on the 10-4, buddy into a crackly communication device.
I look terrible in glasses. And hats.
I think men look wonderful in sarongs. All hail the sarong.
I always wake up with pins and needles in my arm. Always. Without fail.
I have an unendearing tendency of burning food, because I have a short attention span and always wander off to do something else.
I have a very bad back
Am I starting to repeat myself?
God, this is boring.
Okay, back on track, Compa: I floss infrequently but brush religiously
I enjoy watching KidsCBC.
My son looks like Poko.
I don’t like fish.
I own a used rowing machine which is gathering dust in my son’s closet.
There is Chinese writing in chalk on the underside of my coffee table.
It was like that when we got it.
And then I left it there.
99. Oh God I’m almost finished.
100. Do I get a shiny gold star for this?
101. YAAAAAAAAY!

Meant to be?

Just when I think Señor Chickenlegs must come from another universe, never mind another planet (ahem, hello Mars), he comes out with something that makes beautiful, perfect sense. Out of the blue today, he said: I'd like to get two things, once we have a little money saved up. One is a dishwasher, and the other is a decent matress (we sleep on a suckay-suckay futon).

And I looked at him and thought: My God, there may be hope for this man afterall. ;-P

I can't begin to describe the respect I hold for people who think exactly like me... heh heh.

Hey CanadaAdopts!

I just wanted to say Welcome! to the CA folks, and remember: comments are a blogger's best friend :-)
I hope to write some posts about my adoption journey soon- our adoption journey will begin with the arranging of our finances to save for a house. Step numero uno... wish us luck.

Lullabyes

I am suffering from a wee bit of insomnia of late and of course my son is kindly participating in my anxious effort by being difficult about going to bed. Suddenly every night he wants "LightON!" and "Medidin!" (although he hasn't needed it for a week) and he insists on pulling up his blind and leaving the door open. Lord knows what dark monsters lurk in the recesses of the two-and-a-half year old's mind. In any case, it has got me thinking about lullabyes.

Now that he is a bigger guy, I read him a story and sing him a sweet song every night before he goes to bed. When he was a littler person, and slept more erratically, I would sometimes have to make him laugh before being able to make him sleep, particularly if he was teething. I used to sing (or "shout") him this punk lullabye before he went to sleep:

BEDTIME BEDTIME BEDTIME
It's time to go to BED
It's time to LAY down
And rest your sleepy HEAD
BEDTIME BEDTIME BEDTIME
It's time to go to bed-HEY!

What ridiculous lengths do you go to help your kids sleep, gentle readers? And how does one rid oneself of the cylce of insomnia?

Mmmm ceviche

Well, I'm jonesing for some ceviche, having had a sink-related plumbing accident that derailed our dinner plans- we wound up eating at Wendy's. So rather than cook the stuff at midnight, I'll write about it (a fabulous if highly unproductive compromise, if I do say so myself). Here is Señor Chickenlegs' Top Secret Ceviche Recipe.

1 package pre-cooked frozen shrimp ring. (Thaw it and shell it, my friends)
4 tomatoes
4 limes
1 red pepper
1 green pepper
1 big ol red onion
ketchup
mustard
salt and pepper to taste
garnish with popcorn and/or plantain chips

Enjoy!

Jumping off

So I thought I would make this initial post and jump into the abyss that is blogland. I'll keep my blog anonymous for now, and see what becomes of it.

Like many people, my blog will be about my life generally: being a parent, expanding or not expanding my family, birthing or adopting, trials and tribulations at work and reflections on life in the "rich cultural tapestry" that is my home.

I look forward to getting to know you out there in blogland.

La Gringanadiense