Mother’s Day, pre and post

My actual Mother’s Day was lovely. The best it has been since I became a mother. The best it has been since before my pregnancy with Moonbeam.

Leading up to it was rough. I could feel it in my body. It simmered into a migraine by Thursday afternoon. Still…. not gut-wrenching pain; just an extreme tiredness, achiness, crankiness from holding it all inside, in anticipation of The Day.

But Sunday? It was lovely. Sunshine and hubby got me a beautiful jewelry box. Sunshine was so proud to give it to me. She’d helped wrap it. The box was as big as she is, so she had a hard time carrying it over to me, but oh she tried!

We had lunch at my mother-in-law’s. Good food, pleasant company.

We went to my mom’s afterwords. Good company again. Pleasant discussion.

I spent a lot of time with Sunshine yesterday: playing hide-and-seek, playing “monster,” spinning her around in circles, cuddling her, laying in her bed.

Every time a thought of Moonbeam flitted to mind, I brushed it aside–quickly. I can’t talk about this much right now, because it feels so disloyal, but I thought in fairness I should say that yes, thoughts occurred but I wouldn’t allow them to stay. At all. That was the coping skill that worked yesterday, so that’s the one that got used. Wrong or right–you make your own judgment, because I haven’t formed one yet–that’s what I did.

And so there were no vivid, overwhelming, intense images or memories to flood me, because I wouldn’t allow them to roost.

Tonight I posted on a forum that all my worries about Mother’s Day were for naught, because I’d had a wonderful day.

And then, after posting tonight, I went downstairs and my husband handed me an envelope. It was a Mother’s Day card from Moonbeam. It had just come today.

I didn’t want to open it, probably because my cells, my body, the deepest most physical part of me already knew what would happen. But I opened it anyway, because it felt like something I had to do.

There was a brief letter from her mother. They have agreed to the new contact schedule, but asked if I’d also like Mother’s Day and Christmas cards and photos. (Apparently, not knowing what to do for this Mother’s Day, since I hadn’t mentioned it specifically in my proposed contact schedule, they erred on the side of sending the card and pictures. Which is exactly what they should have done, and what I’d advise any adoptive parents to do if they’re unsure whether the first mom wants to be acknowledged on Mother’s Day.)

They also said that if Moonbeam ever has an unplanned pregnancy, they will certainly let her speak with me.

And they gave a small update. She is enjoying dress-ups, imaginative play, and her soccer club. She loves to read and write. She started taking piano lessons.

Finally, they said thank you for allowing Sunshine and my parents to continue a relationship with Moonbeam. I suppose that was nice but it feels rather unnecessary and off-the-mark. (I’ve never thought it my place to dictate which biological family members Moonbeam should have contact with. Moonbeam’s family is her family.)

Besides the letter from Moonbeam’s mom, there was a card. A little furry bunny on the front, putting an envelope in a mailbox. An actual Mother’s Day card, not a Birthmother’s Day card. Inside the card Moonbeam drew a princess and some birds and wrote the names of her immediate family, and also wrote herself “Happy Mother’s Day!” (With a heart for the exclamation point. And now I am starting to tear up again, writing this…)

Inside the card was a piece of orange construction paper with a story she wrote:

Once upon a time there was a old Queen. She was very kind. One day the Queen turned into Cinderella because her little girl the Princess made the Queen do all the work, and that’s how Cinderella was made. The End.

I Moonbeam made this up. It is the first Cinderella, how Cinderella became Cinderella.

Finally, along with the card, letter, and story, there were two pictures. One of her holding a bright green lizard, crawling up her belly, as she grins up at the camera. One of her eating an ice cream cone with her best friend.

Her bangs have completely grown out. Her hair is shorter, all one length, shoulder-length. It is still deep, rich red-brown. She has spring-time freckles on her nose. She looks like my mom, like her natural father, and like me.

So I read the letter from her mom, read the card, read the story she wrote, and glanced–just glanced–at the pictures.

And then I sobbed for half an hour.

I didn’t try to. I didn’t psych myself up for it. I tried to be casual about the entire experience of this card, letter, pictures.

I couldn’t do it. My body wouldn’t let me. I fell apart and sobbed, and I am still tired and worn out and achy and black eyeliner is running down my cheeks as I write.

It is her. It is the pictures, it is seeing her. I saw the blend of my mother, myself, and her father in those pictures, and I fell apart.

So now… here we go again. Time rebuild, to start from scratch, one more time.

P.S. Dear Sunshine,

I’m sorry. I tried to keep this holiday about you instead of about my pain. I will try again next year. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I love you.

Dear Moonbeam,

I’m sorry to you, too. Sorry I’m not stronger. I am working on it. I love you.

 

Gas prices

Gas went up 15 cents/gallon in one day.

Which day?

The day Hillary announced she’s staying in the race.

Go ahead, tell me I’m wrong. What other reason is there for a price hike of that magnitude?

It’s infuriating.

 

Mythical mothers of loss

What is a “peaceful birthmother?”

Can someone please describe this mythical being?

Does she have a horn in her forehead? A long white mane? The strength of Atlas, shrugging her shoulders quietly as she readjusts the weight and meaning of motherhood?

How many times have I heard, and seen written, these words: I know a birthmother and she is at peace…

Who are these women?

The natural mothers in the blogosphere will say that we are more honest online than in daily life. We come to our blogs to exorcise whichever adoption-demon torments us that day; or to write the truth of our stories, so that other women might be saved from the fantasy of relinquishment; or to stir people to action on behalf of family preservation. We will say we do not reveal our deepest feelings to our hair dressers, our neighbors, our church friends, our inlaws, nor even (often) our families and mates. We explain that you cannot discover how a natural mother truly feels unless you are inside her heart… and sometimes, not even then, because we so often hide our hearts from even ourselves.

Still the refrain echoes: I know a birthmother and she is at peace…

And yet…

The people who say, I know a birthmother and she is at peace… What are these people hearing when they speak with a natural mother? What are they observing?

Adoption talk is present in daily life. There is always someone adopting, thinking of adopting, searching for a natural mother, or hoping their daughter might consider relinquishing.

Less often is there a mother who has surrendered. We keep to the shadows. Even the most vocal of us online often smile and nod quietly in daily life. And yet, once in a while, we make our presence known.

And I wonder… from the brief encounters with us the world has… from the few words we say about our experiences… what does the world hear?

In that moment on the playground Sunday night, the moment in which Maddy’s mom revealed Maddy’s grandma’s triad status, I did not see peace.

In a fifteen-second tale of relinquishment and a life afterwards, I heard the echo of relinquishment devastation.

Is that peace? Is it peace for a woman to spoil her granddaughter silly in an outpouring of thwarted maternal love?

When even the mother of her grandchild interprets this natural mother’s dotings through a relinquishment lens, is it true that this woman moved on with her life?

The casual conversationalist might think so.

But as a natural mom, what I see in that fifteen second tale of grandmotherly love is this: years later, decades later, a woman is still haunted by the ghosts of relinquishment.

Yes, we move forward through the tale of life. We battle villains and slay dragons and we complete epic quests. We find treasure and have once-upon-a-time weddings and nurse babies and marry our princes. We are women; we are strong; we do these things.

And we love our princes and our new babies and the buried treasure we find in life. We are happy, and joyful, and appreciative of beauty.

But the ghosts don’t leave. They haunt us still. And if you listen hard enough, you might hear them whisper.

 

You’ll appreciate it when…

Last week I was at a conference. My first opportunity to network, network, network for the new job.

At that conference, I found myself flummoxed about clothing. Dress up, because there were Important People everywhere? Dress down, because of (1) traveling, and (2) wanting to be approachable for other mental health consumers?

I settled on a mixture. Tuesday: jeans and a black shirt, black sandals, with nice jewelry. Wednesday: button-down top, skirt, and heels for the day; changed into jeans, flip-flops, and a sweatshirt for the nighttime peer specialist meeting. Thursday: loose and flowy black pants, heels, and a blue shirt.

On Tuesday and Wednesday nights, the president of the organization hosting the conference invited me, along with some others, to his suite for drinks. I of course accepted. That first night, I was the only one in jeans.

The second night, I was in jeans again, but this time a few others were too. Also on the second night, some of my peers (fellow mental health consumers) were present, along with two County mental health admins from my home county–people I knew from my previous job. So Wednesday night, I was much more relaxed… and found myself talking about my personal life: how my daughter got her name, common music interests with other people in the room, and so on.

In the midst of this laid-back atmosphere, I spoke with one of the administrators from my home county about graduate school. This led to a discussion on our ages and our roles in the mental health world.

The president of the hosting organization overheard us and (comfortably, not inappropriately) asked, “How old are you, Nicole, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Twenty-nine in June,” I replied.

“I would have guessed much younger.”

I smiled and said, “Everyone does.”

And at that point, someone said, “Just wait, you’ll appreciate that in a few years.”

__________

The truth is, I have gotten to the point where in many cases I don’t mind being mistaken for a college student. Hopefully this means I’m still hot? (Honey? Hubby? Confirmation?)

Still… at that conference, my concern wasn’t being hot, you know? My concern was something else entirely. Something career related. Something political.

So I got to thinking about that sentiment: “You’ll appreciate looking young when…”

Do you think this sentiment says something about the role of women in society? Or how we see ourselves? I’m wondering.

Why should I appreciate looking younger than my years as the general rule of thumb? I am already married. Hubby is stuck with me, for better or for worse, without wrinkles or with. At twenty nine, happily married, mothering, and working full-time, being sexually attractive is not a high priority in most situations. I am not looking for dates.

What I am looking for is enough clout to help me move this Coalition forward. And that is easier obtained if I look twenty-nine rather than twenty-one. At this point in life, my career is much more important than my looks. But does the rest of the world think so, too? Or does the world think I, as a woman, should always be more concerned with prettiness and smooth skin than with clout?

Maybe next time I’ll show up in a pin-striped suit.

But then that wouldn’t be entirely authentic to the real me, either.

 

Adoption: like a cloud that won’t go away

The evening was perfect: sunny, warm, blue-skied and filled with springtime aromas. Dogs chased each other on the baseball diamond. Children called to each other from across the park.

In the midst of that perfect evening, two little heads bobbed back and forth. Two pairs of legs pumped up and down. Two little voices squealed “Higher! Higher!” Two mothers pushed their children on the swings and idly chatted.

Sunshine was flying high in her swing. She was feeling confident: she’d managed to climb all the toughest bars on the play equipment, a conquest she’d never achieved before. In the midst of an acrobatic climb up to the slides, she met another little girl: Maddy. Sunshine and Maddy climbed together. Maddy’s mom was spotting her from the ground; I was standing on top of the play equipment, watching Sunshine.

As Sunshine stepped from the bars to the platform, her foot slipped. I gasped and reached for her, and so did Maddy’s mom; but Sunshine steadied herself and jumped to the landing gleefully. Maddy’s mom’s eyes met mine, and we exchanged a conspiratorial protective-mommy look. And so our playground connection was born.

After climbing and sliding together for a while, Sunshine wanted to swing. Maddy followed her, and so Maddy’s mom did too.

So there we were, two moms pushing our four-year-olds on the swings, standing side by side. We started talking.

We talked about the girls’ interests. It turned out Maddy loves Disney princesses too, so we wondered together when that stage would end. From there, Maddy’s mom stated that Maddy’s grandparents are taking her to Disney World next week. Now this was a topic Sunshine and I could discuss happily! (We’re planning our own trip for next spring, and I’ve been reading Disney forums somewhat obsessively.) Bring it on!

A perfect evening: some mommy companionship for me, some preschooler companionship for Sunshine. A blue sky. Warm air. Disney vacation discussions. Perfect.

And then Maddy’s mom said this: “She’s so spoiled though, her grandparents even paid like $600 for her to be princess for a day. She gets a princess makeover and gets to ride in a coach and wear a gown and have sparkles in her hair.” I nodded along, thinking about the Bibbidy Bobbidy Bootique (yes seriously) and hoping Maddy’s mom doesn’t expand too much on this, because I want to schedule Sunshine a princess styling session (minus the $600 coach), but I want it to be a surprise…. I relaxed, and like Sunshine climbing up the bars to the landing, I let my mind wander…

Then Maddy’s mom says, “Yeah her dad’s parents just really spoil her. I wish they’d adopt me!” (She and Maddy’s father aren’t together; she’s a single mom, working hard to make it.)

She says this twice during the course of the conversation. And as always, the word “adopt” catches me up short. I tense a little, then relax again. It’s practically a figure of speech, really… no need to start dwelling on adoption.

She talked then about her ex’s parents, rambling a bit, and she said, “They really take care of her though, they love her to bits. Well she’s the only granddaughter, so there’s that, but also my ex’s mom gave her daughter up for adoption when she was fourteen–they’re reunited now and–but her parents made her do it, you know, they made her, she didn’t… And so now she is trying to make up for it with Maddy, she sort of tries to relive having a little girl and loving a little girl through Maddy. They really love her though, I’ll tell you that, if something ever happened to me she’d be in good hands. Really good hands.”

And then she rambled some more.

That was it. We jumped from “Which Disney princess is your favorite?” into “my ex’s mom gave up a baby girl” in three minutes flat.

And so the adoption cloud found its way into our perfect, blue-skied evening.

I nodded along and said intelligent phrases like “Mmmm” and “Ooooh,” and Maddy’s mom never noticed my shoulders tense. She never knew she was standing next to a natural mom. She never knew her explanation about the parents making their daughter relinquish was unnecessary because I, of all mothers, would not judge, and that I’d already done the mental math and figured it was a Baby Scoop family sundering.

No one knows, when they meet me. No one. To the casual acquaintance, I am just another mother.

They don’t see the adoption cloud hovering there, far on the horizon and deep in my soul. The unescapable black cloud.

 

About protection

When I became sexually active, at the age of 20, I did not know where to get a condom. In fact, at that point I’d never even seen a condom–not in or out of the package. I didn’t know what the packages looked like.

Go ahead, call me stupid, an idiot, a liar, whatever you want. But that’s the truth. I was a college student, in the USA, who did not know where to get a condom.

Could I have figured it out? Yes. Obviously. I could have asked someone.

So obviously there was a deeper issue involved in my not using protection. And the deeper issue was that if I purchased protection ahead of a sexual encounter, it meant I was planning to have sex. Unmarried. And that was something I could not admit to myself, for several reasons.

Still, the fact remains that at age 20, I was a woman in the USA who did not know that condoms were sold at the drug store, Walmart, and the grocery stores. It was not until I started dating Moonbeam’s father that I learned condoms are sold at those places, and which aisles to find them in. It was not until I was engaged that I learned how to ask the doctor for prescription birth control. (And that only happened at hubby’s urging. I swear to you, engaged to be married, already having birthed a child, I still felt dirty asking for that prescription. I never would have done it without hubby’s help and urging.)

The first time I slept with Moonbeam’s father, he pulled a condom out of his pocket and this wave of relief hit me: Oh is that a condom?, good, he got one, where’d he get that? Hopefully he’ll take care of this, then…

At age 22 I gave birth to our daughter.

Guess what they taught me in school?

That’s right: abstinence.

…Guess what I’ll be teaching my daughter?

 

Work and school

I’m back from the psycho-social rehab conference. It was wonderful and exhausting. I networked my heart out: out the door by 8 AM each morning to chomp on a bagel and mingle, and didn’t return to my room until 10 or 11 PM at night. (Whew!)

Wednesday night I facilitated a meeting for peer support workers. That went well.

Came away from the conference with two firm “you-scratch-my-back, I’ll-scratch-yours” deals; and MIGHT have managed to get an “in” to Philadelphia County. (We’ll see. That’s a tough one to crack.)

I have a lot to learn. More leadership skills, more facilitation skills, more refined networking skills, more more more. But I think I did okay, for my first crack at this. My boss said Friday that my ears should be ringing, because every where she went all week, people were talking about the coalition and throwing around my name. That’s a good sign–it means people are becoming aware of the coalition.

Hubby is amusing me. He told his coworker I’d been networking for 15 hours a day and added, “That’s not the girl I married! To tell the truth I’m a little intimidated…” Ha. Get used to it, babe. Told him when we got married that I won’t be a wife who gets swallowed by the patriarchy…

Still torn up about grad school. Long story. I can still start in the fall if I want, but am leaning towards closing out my application (at least for now) and looking into other mental health degrees instead. Not convinced counseling is my end goal anymore. If I do choose counseling, it’s going to be with an eye towards a PsyD. Because I’m seeing no point in trading in a job like this for a counseling position making less or the same salary. But beyond that, I’m just less sure about direct care being my ultimate goal now. Want to check out some MHA programs.

Man. Do I EVER have anything settled? Been talking about this graduate degree since this blog’s inception, and still not much closer to figuring it out.

Oh well. I’m happy. Really happy.

 

Movies and mundane musings

Tomorrow morning I’m leaving for State College for a quick conference. What’s the weather like there now? Anyone live there? In January it was about 15 degrees colder than at home (and it was FRIGID here, in the teens). Is it colder in spring, too? Because, um, it was chilly here today.

________________

Sunshine falls asleep to movies lately. Yes, I’m a terrible mom. But you know, it’s the only thing that helps her get to sleep right now. Her legs are almost quiet if she has a movie to watch. So flog me, whatever… she’s still getting her movie. (And yes, she has a tv in her room. Yes, we’re truly evil parents.)

Anyway tonight it was A Bug’s Life. So at least it was a reprieve from Princesses.

__________________

About television and parenting: my husband was allowed to watch whatever he damn well wanted from the age of about seven. Seriously. He was sneaking into horror movies by the age of nine or ten. He’d watch HBO for hours by himself. (Yes, go ahead and call his parents evil too. And no, I’m not saying we’ll follow in his parents’ footsteps exactly. But…)

Anyway, when we were dating and he first told me this, I was horrified. He, in turn, was horrified that I’d not been allowed to watch Nightmare on Elm Street and Halloween and John Carpenter flicks. (Oh and he practically died laughing when he discovered my sister and I were not allowed to dress up like anything scary on Halloweens. Just ballerinas and fuzzy mammals and princesses.) As a kid I was allowed a few Saturday morning cartoons (Long Live the Smurfs!) and The Cosby Show on Thursday nights. His endless hours of HBO-viewing in elementary school fascinated me. Shouldn’t he be half brain-dead? A moral degenerate? Something?

He’s not. He’s pretty damn smart. No actually he’s really damn smart. And his morals are just fine.

But besides that, he’s developed this absolute love for movies. And I don’t mean for mindless entertainment, I mean as a form of art. He’s got an eye for editing details that’s amazing. He picks up on subtleties of color, filming techniques, direction, sound effects, and cinematography.

He watches movies the way other people stare at a Picasso in a museum.

I do too, but I’d only just started when we met. Much of my movie appreciation can be credited to him. And he’s better at it. He’s really got an eye.

Furthermore, guess which one of us had nightmares as a child? (”But that’s not fair!” you say. “You have bipolar, and you’ve told us nightmares are part of bipolar!” True. But before I met hubby, and when we first started dating, the occasional horror flick viewing would give me nightmares 100% guaranteed, villains straight out of the movie. NOW–after watching a thousand of them with him–they don’t. And anyway nightmares are pretty common for schizophrenia too.)

Yes this is all anecdotal evidence, (and no, we don’t let Sunshine watch Nightmare on Elm Street), but the point is I now cannot believe, no matter how hard I try, that television is guaranteed to ruin a child.

Maybe if Sunshine weren’t so active otherwise… riding her bike, playing on the swings, climbing slides… I’d be worried. But I just cannot relate to the “no television!” rules some other moms have. Not saying there’s anything wrong with it, just saying it’s not the rule of our house, and I wish I didn’t have to feel GUILTY about that. What is wrong with wanting my daughter to appreciate movies? (That’s rhetorical, don’t answer it.) They are beautiful, they combine visual design and color theory and sound and emotion all into one experience.

____________

Speaking of movies: we saw two this weekend. There Will Be Blood and Sweeney Todd. Loved them both. (Okay I did, hubby has a hang up about musicals, even Goth ones apparently.) Blood was slow-moving, so I’m not surprised there are some negative reviews in the blogosphere. You have to go into it understanding Paul Thomas Anderson’s work. If you go into it already knowing his body of other work, you don’t expect the movie to move fast or in typical Hollywood fashion, so you aren’t disappointed. You can revel in it and soak it all in.

Sweeney Todd was just as beautiful as There Will Be Blood, but in a completely different way. Tim Burton + Johnny Depp + Helena Bonham Carter + that musical = genius. I’m ashamed to say I’ve never seen the musical before, so not sure how it compares. But I now am dying to. The song in the middle about turning various upper-crust Londoners into meat pies had me laughing out loud. Very, very witty way to comment on social stratification.

_____________

Oh yes, Sunshine saw Moonbeam on Saturday. Mom and Dad and sis met Moonbeam and her family half way between here and Moonbeam’s home, and they took Sunshine with them. They spent the day picnicking and playing in a park. Apparently Sunshine had fun. She’s not said anything about Moonbeam or Rain, though, since returning… which is a little surprising. Thought I’d get some kind of report from her about playing on the slides, or in the creek, with them.

All right, I’m off to finish packing.

 

Searches and answers

Some random search terms that have lead here:

bipolar the pill worse

Oh man, I am soooo with you. Sometimes the “cure” is worse than the “disease.” Sometimes.

do we overmedicate mental patients

Yes.

life sucks

Yes, but it’s possible to be happy despite that. Really, it truly is. Please don’t give up.

chances for getting disability with bipolar

It’s all in how good your disability lawyer is. And just so you know, it’s somewhere between 70-90% of mental health disability claims are denied the first time around. That doesn’t mean you should give up on it if you really need it; it just means it’s practically standard procedure for them to deny you. So you have to try again.

“robust debate”

Plenty of those here… hope you enjoyed yourself!

bipolar disorder career loss

Sigh. Yeah, I know. But do not give up hope. It’s possible to find a new career, one that you love and helps you stay well instead of making you sick. Really, it is.

how to diagnose psychologist bpd

All psychologists are BPD. Kidding!

depakote with zoloft

Unless you’re extremely lucky, the depakote will win out and you’ll gain weight, not lose it.

mother-in-law tits

Ewwwwwww.

are bipolar people apologetic

Actually bipolar people are polka-dotted. With purple stripes. And we all like to blow our noses with exactly three tissues, no more, no less. WTF?

is diagnostic labeling necessary

Yes and no. Yes because insurance companies say it is, so if you want services, you need a dx. No because it accomplishes nothing, tends to make people feel demeaned, hopeless, and stigmatized, and often gets people stuck on trying to figure out “Do I really have this?” instead of “How can I get better?”

how does bipolar feel

Like a rollercoaster through hell, with brief detours into heaven.

dealing with axis ii clients

Go away. Please. Come back when you start searching terms like “Helping people with trauma backgrounds.”

“my birth mother” + “nicole”

(Oh wow. I’m not her–my lost daughter is only six–but I hope you find her.)

relinquishment adoption mental health

The short answer is… relinquishment will cause your mental health to suffer. It can be overcome, but relinquishment is hell, so don’t do it if you don’t absolutely have to.

are bipolar children always ungrateful

Yes, and polka-dotted, too.

what do bipolar patients want?

Tootsie roll pops. We. all. want. tootsie. roll. pops. We are going to take over the world with our tootsie roll pops.

fell on butt hurts to poop

Man, that sucks. Sorry, no help here.

 

Veteran suicides

I’m sick to my stomach. Sick. Sick.

I just saw a news bit on veteran suicides.

Apparently 1,000 suidice attempts occur PER MONTH.

The military has known this and has been covering it up.

When is this country going to take post-traumatic stress disorder and depression seriously? When?

Are people informed of this when they sign up for the military? “We’ll pay your college, but in the interest of disclosure, please know that you are 2 to 7 times more likely than the general population to kill yourself?”

Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god. My heart is just bleeding for these men and women, and their families.