Author: Sheila Quirke

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Adoption 101: A Tutorial in Heartbreak

So Mary Tyler Dad and I are adopting.  Yes, we surely are!  I’ve been keeping it on the down low, so this is our official “coming out,” if you will.  We are excited, nervous, tentative, joyful — a lot like we were at the prospect of the birth of our two gorgeous kids.  But now, after our first visit with a prospective birth family, we need to add heartbroken to the list.  The visit was so jarring and hard core, that I write this both for the opportunity to make some order out of chaos, but also to shed light on the bitter and cruel reality of so many of us in America. 

Just four weeks ago, we got a call out of the blue that a birth family, out of state, was looking for the best family for their soon to be born child.  Baby was due in October, but there was some distress in the family and the first family they had interviewed was not a good fit for them.  They were working hard to locate another family that basically “fit” better.  Were we interested in learning more?  Why, yes, yes we were.  BAH!  Because we had recently switched adoption agencies (a long and boring story), we were early in the process of applications and preparing for licensure and home study.  Our adoption counselor was supportive, though, and encouraged us to pursue and explore, confident that all the necessary hoops that adoptive families go through could be complete in time. 

And oy freaking vey, some day I will share more about those hoops.  But not today.

Looking back on this whirlwind four weeks, I am trying to make sense of the timeline and what happened when and how we missed what was so glaringly, patently, sock you in the gut obvious in our face-to-face visit.  It is exhausting.  Our first contact was with the birth grandmother, who was researching adoptions and looking for a family on behalf of her daughter, six months pregnant.  Birth mom has another little one at home, a toddler boy, just 16 months old.  She is 20.  Later, we learned that this is her third child, the oldest is in the care of paternal grandparents.  Birth dad is 30, unemployed, but actively with birth mom and in agreement that they simply can’t provide for another child at this time. 

Birth grandmother was our main point of contact, but from the get go, communication was complicated.  Sometimes I hate cell phones, especially in life and death situations.  The cutting in and out while talking about the welfare of a child smacked of the same kind of life and death calls we used to have with our daughter’s oncologist.  Those conversations should never be had on a cell phone.  Truth.

What we could piece together in those first few days was that neither parent had a cell phone, the family was in great financial distress, they were living (together?  apart?  who knew?) in sub-standard housing with too many roommates, too many holes, and too many termites, and wanted to move to a safer location.  All of that is not unusual in adoption.  I mean, if you can care and provide for your kids financially, there is really no need to offer them up to another, is there?  Living with that financial reality sucks, for both parties.  You become, in effect, the haves and the have nots.  They have a baby.  They have no money.  We have money.  We have no baby.  You see what I’m getting at?  If you want a crash course in American poverty, go through the adoption process.  It will wake your eyes up and fast. 

Following advice of our counselor, we each arranged for attorneys that were local to the birth family.  One for us, one for them.  What we were told was that the attorney for the birth family would represent the interests and needs of them, while our attorney would do the same for us.  The courts oversee all adoptions, private and public, so all of us were accountable to them.  It seemed clear cut and simple.  State law (mind you, each state is different) allowed for us to cover six months of pregnancy expenses and two months post-pregnancy.  We were skeptical, of course, but assumed that once we were presented with their budget, we would know if this was a scam or not, a money making venture, the baby a commodity traded to the highest bidder.  The truth is, you never know.  You truly never know until a birth mom signs over her child after birth.  It’s all a risk, a gamble.  You go all in, and hope for the best.

The first plaintive text came six days after our first contact.  They needed $ and they needed it fast.  No milk for the baby.  No food for the family.  Mama needed a bra.  This creates tension, confusion, fear.  You don’t want $ to enter into this conversation, but of course, $ is at the crux of this conversation.  They have none.  They need some.  After consulting some friends who have adopted and our attorney, it was decided and approved that we would wire some cash.  A good faith effort on our part.  An indication, that, yes, we are interested in moving forward and getting to know one another. 

We had a few more conversations, each leaving me excited, hopeful.  We learned the baby was a girl.  We started talking names, tentatively.  And there were signs — manufactured or not — they felt like good signs of good things to come.  We learned of the baby the week of Donna’s birthday.  The baby was due the week of Donna’s remembery.  That’s a sign, right?  The Universe is looking out for us!  All was nerve wracking, but good.  So very good.

There were some glitches, of course.  The birth family could not make contact with their attorney quickly, as she was on vacation.  Their first appointment  was scheduled for August 7.  While that made us nervous, we went ahead and purchased air tickets for a visit August 11-12.  The week before, I got a text from birth mom asking that I have no contact with birth grandmom.  Awkward, but understandable.  It felt bad, as she had been my primary contact, but I felt like I had to respect her wishes.  After that exchange, I heard nothing for almost a week.  Radio silence.  I texted and messaged, but had no response.  We came to embrace the thought that this was not happening, not moving forward.  Sadness.  Emptiness. 

And then, the day of the scheduled visit with her attorney, texts!  The family in total had sat down with the lawyer and all was well.  Oh, and they needed money.  Fast.  Could I wire some?  I generally hate the metaphor of  the emotional roller coaster, but damn, do I get it.  Up, down, up, down, twists, turns, up, down.  I have always hated roller coasters.  They scare the brownies out of me.  Elation to hear that the family was still interested in pursuing adoption, confusion and concern that they wanted money.  Again. 

We had naively and ignorantly thought that when the attorneys entered the picture, all the pesky things like budgets and legalities would be off our plate, leaving room to concentrate on getting to know one another.  Except they didn’t seem too interested in getting to know us.  I sent photos and a letter introducing our family.  Yeah, no confirmation it was received, or questions about us.  Of course not.  They had no food or roof.  How in the hell were they supposed to care that we value books and cultural opportunities for our little ones? 

With approval from our attorney, we sent more money.  The thought was that since we were moving forward, all of this would be accounted for with living expenses.  No harm, no foul.  A day later, I got another text from birth mom.  She needed more money.  Today.  But not a lot, just a little, enough for an ID so she could pick up Moneygrams (?!?!) and transportation to the doctor.  At first I ignored her request, hoping it would go away.  Then I said no. 

Me feeling pressured by these requests turned into our attorney feeling pressured by these requests, which would turn into her attorney feeling pressured by these requests.  Or so I plotted, thinking that if the lawyers could simply get off their esquire asses, we could establish a budget, bring these repeated requests out on the table, get the family linked to much needed services, and I would stop feeling so oppressed by the gaping needs of this family I had come to care for in so short a time. 

Tomorrow:  The Visit Begins

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Team Bullied: Mean People Can Suck It

You know when you meet someone and you just instantly click?  You like them, and not Facebook like them, but really like them.  Conversation never lacks and getting to know them is a joy.

That is how I feel about my friend Carrie Goldman.  We met through blogging.  She’s got a super terriffic blog on ChicagoNow called Portrait of an Adoption.  She contacted me last September after she started reading Donna’s Cancer Story.  She wanted to interview me for her blog and would I be interested?  Um.  Yes, yes I would.

We talked non-stop for over two hours that first day.  Turns out we had a lot in common.  She, too, has buried a child.  It’s no fun, folks, but it certainly provides a shorthand when you’re getting to know someone.  Carrie has known great and tremendous loss, but she is still joyful, feisty, funny, honest, open, loving, engaged. I love all of that about her.

When Donna’s Cancer Story sort of exploded last September/October, Carrie saw me through it.  She guided me and helped me figure out what it meant to be in the middle of a viral story.  She, too, had been in the middle of a viral story.  It’s odd when your life goes viral.  Surreal, really.

Carrie wrote a post about her oldest daughter, Katie, being bullied in school.  Apparently, carrying a Star Wars water bottle is not something a little girl should be doing and Katie’s first grade peers let her know it by bullying her.  Within days of publishing her post, Carrie was being interviewed by CNN.   Hundreds of thousands of people around the world became aware of Katie literally overnight.  The Star Wars community (who knew?) embraced her as its youngest hero and Carrie became the voice of reason about bullying.

So much so that she’s written a book about it.

Bullied Book

Bullied:  What Every Parent, Teacher, and Kid Needs to Know About Ending the Cycle of Fear will be published August 14 by HarperOne and I am thrilled for Carrie and anxious to read it.  Carrie, you see, knows her stuff.  If you need evidence of that, take a look at this list of resources on bullying she assembled.  It is definitive and exhaustive and after August 14, will be adding one more resource — her own.

As a kid, I was never bullied.  Well, there was one girl, a friend of a friend, who insisted on calling me “Ghostface” thanks to my pale Irish complexion.  But this girl was younger than me and had bad glasses.  Its hard to feel threatened by someone wearing something you don’t approve of.  Gratefully, I made it through childhood unscathed, despite having a last name that rhymes with jerk.

I was shunned, and not part of the popular crowd, but that is different.  Being shunned is to being bullied sort of like what neglect is to abuse — the absence of something (proper care) rather than the presence of something (physical, verbal, or emotional aggression).  I got used to being on the periphery of things as a child, and quite honestly, it is where I still reside and where I am most comfortable.

The closest I’ve come to being bullied happened on my Mary Tyler Mom Facebook page earlier this year.  I made the mistake of posting a photo of my kid that a group of moms did not approve of.  I have no idea who they were or where they came from or why they swooped in like a colony of flying monkeys, but for several scary hours, they made it their mission to bully me on the Internet by stealing images of my son and creating several Facebook pages with his image plastered all over them as evidence of my poor parenting.  Having already lost a child, seeing my other child made vulnerable by a pack of mean, threatening strangers was almost too much to bear.

I learned a lesson that day about Internet security.  And promised Mary Tyler Dad to publish no more images of our son.  Bullies will do that — threaten and restrict your normal actions.  But in the name of defense and safety, you do what you need to do to keep yourself and those you love safe.

Bullying is rampant these days.  And its gone hard core.  No longer is it simply the musclebound jock kicking sand at the 98 pound weakling on the beach.  Children are opting for suicide in reaction to the relentless nature of social media hazing and 21st century bullying, that has very few limits or boundaries.

Carrie recognized this and opted to do something.  Yet another reason I heart her.  Her book came as a direct response to her daughter’s experiences.  Reviews are in and they are positive — I think this is gonna be big.  Really BIG.  REALLY BIG.

Another reason I think this is because a video movement has started for folks like you and me to talk about our experiences of being bullied and share them with others in conjunction with the book release.  Some have already been posted.  You can watch them here.  They are powerful.  And Carrie wants more.

Bullied Banner

Please consider posting your own video to raise awareness about the devastating social phenomenon of bullying.  Or watch videos already posted.  Team Bullied will be archiving all posted videos as a testament to the harmful effects of being bullied — in the moment as it is being experienced, but also years later as you try and deal with the after effects.

I simply adore people who DO SOMETHING.  Truly.

I will be toasting Carrie as she launches her book at the Barnes & Noble Old Orchard on Tuesday, August 14th at 7PM in the Westfield Old Orchard Mall in Skokie.  Wanna join me?

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Oh, No She Didn’t: When the Babysitter Gets It Wrong

When you’re a working mother (and of course I get that all mothers work, yo, so don’t call me on that shit) and rely on someone else to provide child care, you entrust all that is precious to you to another.  That is a mighty tall order.

One thing I have embraced from the first day I dropped off my three month old daughter is that the sitter will never be perfect, but they will be good enough.  A hired sitter deserves the same respect and standards that I apply to myself — I am not perfect as a mother, but I am good enough, and good enough is good enough.

Today I picked up Mary Tyler Son at 5 on the button.  I rushed to get there, as he is often the second to last to be picked up and this morning he told me he wanted to be first.  Ugh.  You know I was thinking about that all day.  George W. taught me that no child wants to be left behind; watching all his playmates get hugs and kisses and trot home with mom or dad while he’s still waiting around is not fun.

I was feeling pretty good seeing three other kids walking down the sidewalk with my boy.  Good!  Not next to last today.  I pulled over, hopped out the car, and found “Auntie” who pulled me aside with a furtive glance.  You see, she had something important and private to say — adult ears only.

In a concerned tone, Auntie revealed to me that she had put Mary Tyler Son’s boots on a little girl close to his age during puddle time this morning.  He was wearing girls’ boots, you see, and Auntie takes her gender politics serious, yo.  Ladybug boots were the offending footwear.

I took a breath, smiled calmly, and explained that, yes, they were girl boots, as they were his sister’s.  Yep, Donna wore those boots first, so um, yeah, technically, I guess you could say I put girls’ boots on my boy.  Bitch, please.

If there is one thing that is a certain in my life, it is that any time I bring up Donna as justification for anything, ain’t nobody gonna argue with me.  I know that to be a fact, and still, I went ahead and said it.  I wanted to shut Auntie down.  Who in the hell cares that a three year old little boy is wearing ladybug boots?  And if you do care, well then, let me give you a quarter so that you can call someone else who cares, cause it sure as hell isn’t me.

Ladybug Boots

This is not the first time Auntie has taken it upon herself to school me on what is gender appropriate for Mary Tyler Son.  All last winter I had to suffer through her telling me that every time one of the other moms saw my son’s winter coat, they thought that Auntie had taken in another little girl to watch.  The offending coat was green and gray.  Yep, apparently girls have now cornered the market on pink, purple, and lime green.  Full disclosure:  the coat was also Donna’s.  I mean, why pay for another winter coat for a kid when there was a perfectly good one in the closet?

When we got home this afternoon, I asked my boy if Auntie had talked with him about his boots.  “No,” he said.  “She didn’t tell you they were girl boots?,” I asked, knowing full well it was a leading question.  Objection!  “No,” he said again.  Well, good, there’s that.

Last year, I thought Auntie had shamed the pink out of my boy.  For the longest time, pink was his favorite color.  It was a whole big deal for me last year.  I had to search far and wide to find masculine looking pink shirts for my boy.  I was fine (sort of) with him wearing pink, but I drew the line at all the ruffles and lettuce edging that came with the pink tee shirts at Target.  When I finally found pink shirts (thank you, American Apparel), I bought two.  Mary Tyler Son wore those proudly for months.  And then one day he stopped.  He refused, telling us that pink was for girls.  Hmmmm . . .

Overall, Auntie is good enough.  She serves fresh fruit and vegetables and reads to the kids and doesn’t have a television for the kiddos and has a sweet dog and teaches the little ones how to weed her garden.  She is relaxed and old enough to have seen enough to teach me a thing or ten about child rearing.  Her home is clean and well maintained.

All of those things are in her favor.  But every once in a while I hear something coming out of her mouth that makes me want to write a blog post with the words, “Bitch, please,” liberally sprinkled throughout.  She tends to shame the kids that develop more slowly than others.  She calls out the boy in the green coat and ladybug boots and pink shirt.

I don’t like that.

In six weeks, this will be a non-issue.  Mary Tyler Son will move on to pre-school and I will have a whole ‘nother set of folks helping to care for my boy with tics and quirks that are different than mine.  They will rub me the wrong way and I will make my peace with them as best I can.  In the end, Auntie is good enough.  She’s not perfect and her odd need to masculanize a three year old boy is beyond me.

But there will be no show down at the Auntie Corral.  I don’t have the fight in me right now.  When you trust another human being to help you care for your child, you must learn to embrace the good with the bad, while ensuring there is much more good than bad.  When you isolate and identify the bad, you compensate and teach and correct, just as you would any other outside influence.

While I don’t like Auntie genderizing my boy, I have learned to live with it.  It punches me in the gut when she brings her gender mandates into the lives of one, two, and three year olds, but not enough for me to look for another sitter.  And what does that say about me?  Am I settling for my boy?  Ugh.

And more than calling out a three year old for what their parent dresses them in, I’m angry that the saga of the ladybug boots makes me wonder what else she does that is unacceptable that I don’t know about.  Such are the worries of the working mother.  It is a leap of faith, my friends, every day that I leave my boy with another.