I have spent a lot of time in the last few months proudly proclaiming that I would be perfectly happy if this year just didn't exist at all. That really what I would like to do is go straight from last year to next year and just forget that good old 2010 ever happened. I mean, let's just catalog the reasons why this would be a good idea, shall we? Come with me on a trip down Misery Lane as we discover why this year should be made a gap in history.
1) I found out I am infertile. Now, I want all of your out there to try this for me to understand the weight of this statement. Imagine that you are a 29-year-old woman, who has been "trying"- as they say- to conceive for almost 2 years. Every month you think, "Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the month we got it right." And every month, you're still not pregnant. You begin to wonder if you've done something wrong. Something you don't remember doing and you're not sure why you're being punished. Every month you scrape yourself off the floor and try again. Along the way, you try to keep your marriage together and keep your husband from feeling like an unwilling participant in some sick biology project.
Finally you ask for help and seek out a specialist. Surely this person can help, can't they? This is what they do. Look at all the thank you notes in the office. Look how many people have been helped so far. Surely this is the right place. Turns out, it is the right place, but there is no help for you. And there you are, a young, vibrant, eager, hopeful mother-to-be, in an instant reduced to broken, flawed, helpless, and useless. This thing that so may people do by accident, you can't do at all. These people who take for granted that they can have children (of course they can... who can't?) all around you. Your friends who are trying to decide if they "want to have another one" and you'd give your right arm to have just one. And as a bonus, you find out you get to have menopause 10 years earlier than anyone else around you. And no, you can't have a hysterectomy, even though you now have a reminder every month of that worthless lump of muscle in your abdomen.
2) Our adoption application almost got stopped because I have epilepsy. I have had epilepsy for going on 5 years now. I've been seizure-free for 4 of them. I was up front on our adoption application about this condition. Our social worker's supervisor wanted a guarantee from my neurologist (who had already written a letter saying that there was no reason I couldn't be a mom, that she considered my seizures very well controlled, and that I was a compliant patient who did everything I was supposed to) that I would never have another seizure again. This is, of course, impossible and we told her as much. We ended up going to HER supervisor with our case, and suddenly the doctor's letter was just fine, application approved.
3) Ryan's pay got cut 15%. I know we've all heard about the State budget and how in debt we are. One of the ways the government has chosen to alleviate this debt is by cutting State employee pay. This is because MOST State employees are paid from what is called the General Fund which is the pool of money the State has at its disposal. It does save a lot of money to cut the pay of employees who are paid out of this Fund. However, Ryan is not paid out of this Fund. His department generates their own salary from the citations they write. Therefore, it makes NO SENSE to cut his salary. But cut it they did, and we spent most of this year wondering how we were going to pay our mortgage.
4) I took a pay cut when I was unceremoniously fired and took my present job. I took the first job that came along because the job market in my chosen field is not good right now, and it is a managerial position. The responsibility was a step up, the pay was a big step down.
5) We had our children returned to their convicted-felon birth parents. And the social worker on the case had the balls to say she understood who hard this was for us. A woman with her own children who treated us as if we were nothing but a thorn in her side the entire time we dealt with her. She was rude, she was unprofessional, she refused to give us information we asked for, she didn't return phone calls or e-mails in a timely manner. She didn't understand anything, let alone how hard this was for us.
6) Car and house projects abound. These things are always around, but added to everything else, replacing the roof on the back patio, 2 car radiators, some broken sprinklers, and a couple of broken door handles were the sprinkles on the cookie of disaster that was this year.
However...
1) My sister got married this year to a wonderful man who treats her with all the respect and tenderness she deserves. Their wedding was such fun and seeing the family we don't get to see very often was a blast.
2) My new job is a fabulous one with a staff of people who care about each other and the practice so much that I don't miss the money (much). My boss is the best one I've ever had. He appreciates the staff, and has our back no matter what happens. The associates are fun to work with and ask for opinions rather than dictating orders. The staff genuinely likes each other and it shows. And when I needed to take time off both when we got the kids and when we had to give them away, they were so understanding and helpful. And when I came back to work, no one forced me to talk about anything. I wanted to get back to life as usual and they understood that.
3) In the face of this year, my marriage has gotten firmer and richer. Things I never would have been able to be honest about before, I can now. Conversations I couldn't imagine happening do.
And here we are, staring another holiday season in the face. What do I do? I have a choice. I can be angry and bitter and depressed, or I can be hopeful, positive, and a little wiser as I go forward. I choose the latter.
Bad things happen. I know that better than most. If I don't choose to learn from them, I can never figure out why they happened. So maybe I still wish this year hadn't happened. But the lessons I learned and the wisdom I gained are a small but rich reward.
"'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord. 'Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future.'" -Jeremiah 29.11
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Facebook | Gaelic Storm Concert
Facebook | Gaelic Storm Concert
So here it is people! Pictorial proof that I have met Gaelic Storm. In fact, fiddler Jessie came before the concert and taught me how to use the credit card machine. I had a dorky-fan moment because she came up to the booth and asked if anyone had taught me how to use it yet, and I said, "Oh my gosh, you're Jessie Barnes!" Like she doesn't know who she is!
I worked with a very nice young man named Scott and his dad Les who was kind enough to watch the booth so that Scott and I could go see the show. And what a show! During "Me and the Moon" Steve and Patrick divided the crown into 2 groups (difficult with no center aisle): the whiskey group and the light group. I was in the whiskey group. During the line "I brought the whiskey" we shouted out the line and Bob Fossey'd the heck out of our little jazz hands. The other group got the line "he brought the light" and they sang the line and waved their cell phones. In the end my group won the enthusiasm contest based on pure bias, I'm sure. Whiskey? Light? Seriously, who would win that bout?
I was totally enlightened about Patrick's Russell Crowe story. All this time I've been telling it wrong! I owe Paddy a deep apology because all along I've been telling people he punched Russell Crowe in a pub brawl without really knowing who he was. I WAS SO WRONG! Not that he'll ever read this, but I'm sorry, Patrick Murphy, for ever implying that you would have gotten into a bar fight with Russell Crowe. The real story is so much more interesting, and I'm hoping I get enough of the details right here to do it justice.
Patrick used to manage a pub in Santa Monica called O'Brien's and back when L.A. Confidential came out, Russell Crowe, and his people were all there for the wrap party. Mr. Crowe (I can't call him Dickhead, as much as I would like to, since his people might be trolling Internet looking for people who do such things to sue for Defamation of Character, even though everyone knows he IS a dickhead) sat at the bar and lit a cigarette. Now this was right after the law passed that prohibited smoking in bars in California, so Patrick told Mr. Dickhead - I mean Crowe - that he had to either put his cigarette out or smoke it outside. Mr. Crowe said something unintelligible through his cancer stick and his body guards started beating Patrick to a pulp. At some point, Patrick points out that this is an infair fight, beaing that it's 3 against 1. The Gladiator agrees and says, "Let's go, you and me, and I'll even let you ave the first punch."
Patrick, being unsure whether this real, or some sort of sick joke, says, "Really?"
And Russell Crowe, apparently never having dealt with an Irishman before, says, "Yeah. I dare you to punch me."
Hello!!!!!! Dare an Irishman to punch you? What do you think is going to happen???? So Patrick popped him in the nose.
And what does Maximus do? He tells his body guards, "Get him."
Patrick's friend Chucky hands out the most fabulous and completely obvious advice in the history of mankind when he says, "Run!" So Patrick takes off and manages to outrun Aussieboy's thugs.
The whole night was so fabulous, and the band came out to mingle afterwards among the commoners. I came away with a free shirt (my wages for the evening), and my very own copy of the album What's the Rumpus? which includes the song "The Night I Punched Russell Crowe" which I paid for. But I saved my allowance for it like a good little girl so I won't go into debt over a CD. Yay me!
I have a new goal in life. I am going to be the crazy Southern California fan who will always sell merch at Gaelic Storm concerts if they are within driving distance of my home. I will go down in history as the most reliable fan ever. They can always count on me to help out when they're in my area.
So here it is people! Pictorial proof that I have met Gaelic Storm. In fact, fiddler Jessie came before the concert and taught me how to use the credit card machine. I had a dorky-fan moment because she came up to the booth and asked if anyone had taught me how to use it yet, and I said, "Oh my gosh, you're Jessie Barnes!" Like she doesn't know who she is!
I worked with a very nice young man named Scott and his dad Les who was kind enough to watch the booth so that Scott and I could go see the show. And what a show! During "Me and the Moon" Steve and Patrick divided the crown into 2 groups (difficult with no center aisle): the whiskey group and the light group. I was in the whiskey group. During the line "I brought the whiskey" we shouted out the line and Bob Fossey'd the heck out of our little jazz hands. The other group got the line "he brought the light" and they sang the line and waved their cell phones. In the end my group won the enthusiasm contest based on pure bias, I'm sure. Whiskey? Light? Seriously, who would win that bout?
I was totally enlightened about Patrick's Russell Crowe story. All this time I've been telling it wrong! I owe Paddy a deep apology because all along I've been telling people he punched Russell Crowe in a pub brawl without really knowing who he was. I WAS SO WRONG! Not that he'll ever read this, but I'm sorry, Patrick Murphy, for ever implying that you would have gotten into a bar fight with Russell Crowe. The real story is so much more interesting, and I'm hoping I get enough of the details right here to do it justice.
Patrick used to manage a pub in Santa Monica called O'Brien's and back when L.A. Confidential came out, Russell Crowe, and his people were all there for the wrap party. Mr. Crowe (I can't call him Dickhead, as much as I would like to, since his people might be trolling Internet looking for people who do such things to sue for Defamation of Character, even though everyone knows he IS a dickhead) sat at the bar and lit a cigarette. Now this was right after the law passed that prohibited smoking in bars in California, so Patrick told Mr. Dickhead - I mean Crowe - that he had to either put his cigarette out or smoke it outside. Mr. Crowe said something unintelligible through his cancer stick and his body guards started beating Patrick to a pulp. At some point, Patrick points out that this is an infair fight, beaing that it's 3 against 1. The Gladiator agrees and says, "Let's go, you and me, and I'll even let you ave the first punch."
Patrick, being unsure whether this real, or some sort of sick joke, says, "Really?"
And Russell Crowe, apparently never having dealt with an Irishman before, says, "Yeah. I dare you to punch me."
Hello!!!!!! Dare an Irishman to punch you? What do you think is going to happen???? So Patrick popped him in the nose.
And what does Maximus do? He tells his body guards, "Get him."
Patrick's friend Chucky hands out the most fabulous and completely obvious advice in the history of mankind when he says, "Run!" So Patrick takes off and manages to outrun Aussieboy's thugs.
The whole night was so fabulous, and the band came out to mingle afterwards among the commoners. I came away with a free shirt (my wages for the evening), and my very own copy of the album What's the Rumpus? which includes the song "The Night I Punched Russell Crowe" which I paid for. But I saved my allowance for it like a good little girl so I won't go into debt over a CD. Yay me!
I have a new goal in life. I am going to be the crazy Southern California fan who will always sell merch at Gaelic Storm concerts if they are within driving distance of my home. I will go down in history as the most reliable fan ever. They can always count on me to help out when they're in my area.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Working Concert Merch
Has anyone seen the box office smash "Titanic"? In case you haven't (and I know anyone who said they hadn't was lying so the jig is up), it's about this gigantic ship, which was actually smaller than the "Queen Mary" but they want you to think it's huge, that sank about a million years ago that every now and then makes the news again. You know like when some wacky couple decides to get married on it. Whatev. Anyway, the movie was way too long and if you ask me there were far too many shots of Leonardo DiCaprio, but I digress. The high point (as far as I'm concerned) of the whole movie was a scene where snobby-rich-girl Rose, played by Kate Winslet, meets poor-but-handsome Jack, played by afore-mentioned DiCaprio, in 3rd class (look out folks, she's slumming it!) for what has to be the coolest party on the high seas EVER. Except for that time when that guy pushed his fiancee overboard and then pretended she fell. Yeah right. We're all onto you, dude.
Anyway for those who don't remember (and those of you lame enough to own the movie... like me) there was an Irish band playing the party. This was for a couple of reasons. It was to acknowledge the fact that the boat, though owned by an English luxury line, was actually built in Ireland. It was also to point out the irony that not a single Irish passenger could afford to travel any better than 3rd class, and most of them were actually employees of the White Star Line that owned "Titianic". Sell-outs. Anyway, the Irish band at the party was one called Gaelic Storm. They are fabulous!!!!!!
I have a strange passion for Irish culture and music in particular. Don't laugh, but when I listen to Irish music, I always feel like a little peice of me that was out of sync falls into place. Don't get cosmic, people, it's just a discription. Ever since "Titanic" Gaelic Storm has been my favorite band, Irish or otherwise. And since the movie was their big break, yay for me because it means a new album every year or so.
When the band tours, they ask for local volunteers to work their merchandise booth in exchange for tickets to the show and a free CD or T-shirt. That way they don't have to hire anyone, and a few local fans get to see the show for free. This coming Monday, the 18th, they are playing Pepperdine University and were asking for merch volunteers on their website (more on what a pathetic loser I am for following their website at a later date). Guess who volunteered? Stop looking at each other, it was ME!!!!!! And so far I think I'm working by myself, but whatever. I get to see them for free (a $50 value all by itself), get a free shirt, and meet crazy-goofy lead singer Patrick Murphy.
Words cannot explain how psyched I am about this prospect. I was actively trying to get someone to come with me but since it's a school night and I'm the only one I know who's lame enough to be a Band Aid for these guys, it looks like I will be going alone. It's fine. I will have pictures of my experience to make all of you grown-ups who insist on staying home on weeknights extremely jealous.
At the risk of sounding like a drunken college student: Yay Gaelic Storm! You totally rock! I can't wait to hear "Pina Colada in a Pint Glass" in person! Jessie is a fiddle goddess! Patrick is the coolest dancer in the world! Not really, but he said it once in a concert so it bears repeating. I wish everybody had been "Raised on Black and Tans"! And if Patrick can punch Russell Crowe, why can't we all???
More on my concert experience when I get back.
Can I get a whoop whoop?
Anyway for those who don't remember (and those of you lame enough to own the movie... like me) there was an Irish band playing the party. This was for a couple of reasons. It was to acknowledge the fact that the boat, though owned by an English luxury line, was actually built in Ireland. It was also to point out the irony that not a single Irish passenger could afford to travel any better than 3rd class, and most of them were actually employees of the White Star Line that owned "Titianic". Sell-outs. Anyway, the Irish band at the party was one called Gaelic Storm. They are fabulous!!!!!!
I have a strange passion for Irish culture and music in particular. Don't laugh, but when I listen to Irish music, I always feel like a little peice of me that was out of sync falls into place. Don't get cosmic, people, it's just a discription. Ever since "Titanic" Gaelic Storm has been my favorite band, Irish or otherwise. And since the movie was their big break, yay for me because it means a new album every year or so.
When the band tours, they ask for local volunteers to work their merchandise booth in exchange for tickets to the show and a free CD or T-shirt. That way they don't have to hire anyone, and a few local fans get to see the show for free. This coming Monday, the 18th, they are playing Pepperdine University and were asking for merch volunteers on their website (more on what a pathetic loser I am for following their website at a later date). Guess who volunteered? Stop looking at each other, it was ME!!!!!! And so far I think I'm working by myself, but whatever. I get to see them for free (a $50 value all by itself), get a free shirt, and meet crazy-goofy lead singer Patrick Murphy.
Words cannot explain how psyched I am about this prospect. I was actively trying to get someone to come with me but since it's a school night and I'm the only one I know who's lame enough to be a Band Aid for these guys, it looks like I will be going alone. It's fine. I will have pictures of my experience to make all of you grown-ups who insist on staying home on weeknights extremely jealous.
At the risk of sounding like a drunken college student: Yay Gaelic Storm! You totally rock! I can't wait to hear "Pina Colada in a Pint Glass" in person! Jessie is a fiddle goddess! Patrick is the coolest dancer in the world! Not really, but he said it once in a concert so it bears repeating. I wish everybody had been "Raised on Black and Tans"! And if Patrick can punch Russell Crowe, why can't we all???
More on my concert experience when I get back.
Can I get a whoop whoop?
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Consider Our Adoption Failed
In adoption circles, they say our adoption was "interrupted". It feels like it was ripped away.
Here's the skinny: I've previously alluded to the fact that there has been a new social worker who seems to think everything has been going great with the birth parents and that there was every likelihood they would get their kids back. In an aside, we let OUR social worker know about all of this and she was very forthcoming about saying that she had a bad feeling about this. We trust her judgement, and although we certainly didn't expect our adoption to fail (sort of like how you don't expect to die on your way to work, but you always know it could happen), we did have the opinion of a socal worker we trust to think about. This new social worker told me last week - on the public lobby phone at the CPS office - that an aunt had come out of the woodwork and was willing to take the kids and was looking very promising. Now, federal law dictates that family members trump everyone: foster families, adoptive families, group homes, the works, up to 4 degrees of separation. AS long as they can pass a background check and have a decent living environment, kids go to the family member.
Here's the kicker. She also said this aunt had been on the file ever since the beginning and for some reason hadn't been investigated. She didn't know why because (as I've said before) she's the second social worker on the case and is sort of picking up the pieces of what has become a hugantic, ginormic mess. For the uninitiated (I know there are many, including myself before all of this started), let me digress on a few points to put my rage and crippling disappointment into perspective.
Before a child's case goes to an adoption worker, all known family members have to be investigated. As I said before, that's federal law. Family members are not obligated to take the children, but they must be offered the opportunity and put through the process of fingerprinting, background checks, and home inspections to either rule them in or out before adoption is considered. Somehow this didn't happen with this aunt (I don't know who she is, I'm not legally entitled to know, and I don't want to know because I'd probably go to her house and steal the kids... thus lowering our chances of every getting another kid), and she's just now coming to the attention of the social worker.
So... this means our case was sent to adoption long before it should have been, these children should not have been up for adoption, and should certainly not have been presented as a low-risk placement. Furthermore, the first social worker said that the amount and length of the parent visits were up to the court, meaning nothing could change until there was another hearing. We've recently found out this was not true. In fact, the visits were under the jurisdiction of the social worker and could change at her discretion. Everything just moved far more quickly than it should have, and the first social worker committed some serious blunders along the way that have had some major repercussions affecting not only our family, but our extended family and friends as well.
Long story short, the aunt checked out nicely, and today we dropped the kids off for their parents visits, kissed them goodbye for the last time, and will most likely never see them again.
We are now faced with a few dicisions that we are pruposely not making this week, or next week, or porbably not in the next month or so. The first is whether, and under what conditions, we would be willing to take the children back. If this aunt changes her mind (which she's allowed to do at any time), do we want to be called for another placement? At this point in time, our feeling is that unless something major changes in this case (like parental rights being terminated), we don't want to be involved anymore. It's too painful for us, too hard for the kids, too negative all around.
The second is whether or when we want to be put back on the waiting list. This is something we're not sure about yet. This experience has left such a bad taste in our mouths that we're not sure we want to deal with this staff or this county anymore. And taking out a $30,000 loan and buying ourselves a baby is sounding really good. A birthmom who is willingly making an adoption plan versus parents who are fighting to get their kids back sounds a little more like what we want to deal with. Again, we haven't made any dicisions about this facet and don't plan to while we're still so angry and devastated, but these are the things we have to think about.
The third, and it is a decision for us, is how to go on. We have many choices. We can choose anger, bitterness, despair, and defeat, or we can choose to scrape ourselves up off the ground, dust off the big rocks, and start over. We can choose to hate everyone and eerything from social workers, to county workers, to God, to the birth parents, to anyone with kids, or we can choose to heal and move on. We haven't yet chosen a direction, it's still too raw, but it will be a plan we'll have to make in the coming weeks.
And now? Well, now we have 2 finished, furnished, empty children's rooms. Ryan has used up a year's worth of vacation time to stay home for three weeks at first. We rearranged our work schedules to make sure we would need very little childcare. We need to inform all our family and friends of what's happened and endure the apologies, the tears, the sympathetic looks, the over-senstivity that we all hate when something truly tragic has happened. I myself am a very private person (blogging about my life notwithstanding) and I was raised not to show emotion except in private. And by private I mean alone, locked in the bathroom where absolutely NO ONE will see me. Perhaps it's less than healthy, but what I want is for life to go on all around me so that I can participate as best I can, and leave the tragedy for while I'm alone. It's also perhaps unreasonable, but it's honest.
The future is uncertain, as always, and I hate uncertainty. But time marches on, as it's wont to do, and we must as well. In the words of Arthur O'Shaughnessy: "We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams."
Shuil a rhun
Here's the skinny: I've previously alluded to the fact that there has been a new social worker who seems to think everything has been going great with the birth parents and that there was every likelihood they would get their kids back. In an aside, we let OUR social worker know about all of this and she was very forthcoming about saying that she had a bad feeling about this. We trust her judgement, and although we certainly didn't expect our adoption to fail (sort of like how you don't expect to die on your way to work, but you always know it could happen), we did have the opinion of a socal worker we trust to think about. This new social worker told me last week - on the public lobby phone at the CPS office - that an aunt had come out of the woodwork and was willing to take the kids and was looking very promising. Now, federal law dictates that family members trump everyone: foster families, adoptive families, group homes, the works, up to 4 degrees of separation. AS long as they can pass a background check and have a decent living environment, kids go to the family member.
Here's the kicker. She also said this aunt had been on the file ever since the beginning and for some reason hadn't been investigated. She didn't know why because (as I've said before) she's the second social worker on the case and is sort of picking up the pieces of what has become a hugantic, ginormic mess. For the uninitiated (I know there are many, including myself before all of this started), let me digress on a few points to put my rage and crippling disappointment into perspective.
Before a child's case goes to an adoption worker, all known family members have to be investigated. As I said before, that's federal law. Family members are not obligated to take the children, but they must be offered the opportunity and put through the process of fingerprinting, background checks, and home inspections to either rule them in or out before adoption is considered. Somehow this didn't happen with this aunt (I don't know who she is, I'm not legally entitled to know, and I don't want to know because I'd probably go to her house and steal the kids... thus lowering our chances of every getting another kid), and she's just now coming to the attention of the social worker.
So... this means our case was sent to adoption long before it should have been, these children should not have been up for adoption, and should certainly not have been presented as a low-risk placement. Furthermore, the first social worker said that the amount and length of the parent visits were up to the court, meaning nothing could change until there was another hearing. We've recently found out this was not true. In fact, the visits were under the jurisdiction of the social worker and could change at her discretion. Everything just moved far more quickly than it should have, and the first social worker committed some serious blunders along the way that have had some major repercussions affecting not only our family, but our extended family and friends as well.
Long story short, the aunt checked out nicely, and today we dropped the kids off for their parents visits, kissed them goodbye for the last time, and will most likely never see them again.
We are now faced with a few dicisions that we are pruposely not making this week, or next week, or porbably not in the next month or so. The first is whether, and under what conditions, we would be willing to take the children back. If this aunt changes her mind (which she's allowed to do at any time), do we want to be called for another placement? At this point in time, our feeling is that unless something major changes in this case (like parental rights being terminated), we don't want to be involved anymore. It's too painful for us, too hard for the kids, too negative all around.
The second is whether or when we want to be put back on the waiting list. This is something we're not sure about yet. This experience has left such a bad taste in our mouths that we're not sure we want to deal with this staff or this county anymore. And taking out a $30,000 loan and buying ourselves a baby is sounding really good. A birthmom who is willingly making an adoption plan versus parents who are fighting to get their kids back sounds a little more like what we want to deal with. Again, we haven't made any dicisions about this facet and don't plan to while we're still so angry and devastated, but these are the things we have to think about.
The third, and it is a decision for us, is how to go on. We have many choices. We can choose anger, bitterness, despair, and defeat, or we can choose to scrape ourselves up off the ground, dust off the big rocks, and start over. We can choose to hate everyone and eerything from social workers, to county workers, to God, to the birth parents, to anyone with kids, or we can choose to heal and move on. We haven't yet chosen a direction, it's still too raw, but it will be a plan we'll have to make in the coming weeks.
And now? Well, now we have 2 finished, furnished, empty children's rooms. Ryan has used up a year's worth of vacation time to stay home for three weeks at first. We rearranged our work schedules to make sure we would need very little childcare. We need to inform all our family and friends of what's happened and endure the apologies, the tears, the sympathetic looks, the over-senstivity that we all hate when something truly tragic has happened. I myself am a very private person (blogging about my life notwithstanding) and I was raised not to show emotion except in private. And by private I mean alone, locked in the bathroom where absolutely NO ONE will see me. Perhaps it's less than healthy, but what I want is for life to go on all around me so that I can participate as best I can, and leave the tragedy for while I'm alone. It's also perhaps unreasonable, but it's honest.
The future is uncertain, as always, and I hate uncertainty. But time marches on, as it's wont to do, and we must as well. In the words of Arthur O'Shaughnessy: "We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams."
Shuil a rhun
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Our Adoption in Progress
We accepted Frankie and Jasmine into our home because the social worker told us it was low-risk, meaning it was unlikely the birthparents would get the children back.
Let me back up.
The county called us for a presentation of 2 children up for adoption. It was a sibling set, a boy and a girl, who had been in foster care for 5 months. They came to the attention of the county when the parents (mom 19 and dad 17) brought Jasmine to the hospital. They thought she was constipated, but she was actually starving to death. The doctors said that if they had waited one more day, she would have been dead. The children were taken and placed in foster care that day. The birthparents were convicted of felony endangerment and incarcerated. Since their release, the social worker has offered them use of county services from parenting classes, to GED courses, to counseling, all to gather evidence to support her decision not to allow the children back with parents who almost killed one of them.
A few family members stepped forward and were interested in adopting the children, but none of them could pass a background check. The birthparents have no support system or good example to follow. Mom is youngest of 7, a high school dropout whose siblings have all said she made her own bed. Dad is oldest of 9 (with one on the way) and for a while his mother was helping. When Jasmine was born she said she could no longer help out.
After our presentation, our case was transferred to a new social worker. Bureaucracy and all that. The new social worker believes everything is going well. The birthparents are learning what they're supposed to, seem to be benefitting, she feels the court will look favorably on returning these children to their home of origin where one of them almost died. The court has ordered that the birthparents get to visit for 4 hours a week with supervision, so once a week we take the kids to the CPS office and they visit. Because dad is a minor, there's a no-contact order between the birthparents so they have to do their visitation separately. That means 4 hours a week they visit at the CPS office.
There is a court date coming up in October where parental rights were supposed to be terminated. With the spin the new social worker (and her supervisor) are putting on this case, the most likely outcome is a 6-month extension and possible increase in visitation.
Meanwhile we have the kids in our home, caring for them, kissing their boo boos, reading them bedtime stories, taking them to Grandma's house, making sure they're fed, warm, cool, healthy, giving them love and discipline, all to have the court take them away in a year. Our adoption worker has offered us an out: the status of the case has changed, we can pull out if we want to. We never signed on to be a temporary home. But how can we do that? How can we send these children back? While they're here we know they're loved, cared-for, and safe. If we let them go, we know no such thing. And if the court wants us to give them up, they're going to have to take them.
When this all started, we were so confident. Sure these were the right kids. Sure the timing and the situation were right. Sure this was what God wanted for our family. We told everyone, they threw baby showers, we took time off work to help them settle in. Everything had gone so smoothly: we finished our paperwork quickly, we took our training, we passed our home inspection the first time, we were chosen from the pool in a month (unprecidented in our county). Why is it falling apart now? Why is there nothing we can do? Why did we get a social worker so willing to send these children back to a home with no support system, no opportunities, no consistency?
I feel very strongly that this is a test of our faith. The question is, how far will that test go? Will it work itself out and our reward will be to keep the children? Or, like Abraham, Moses's mother, and God Himself, will we be asked to give up our children? And if we are, and we pass that test, what's our reward? We've already been told once we wouldn't have biological children, will we be asked to give up having children at all? Don't we have rights here? Don't the children? The trite answer is that we have to be willing to do what's best for the children. I am. I don't believe sending these children back to parents who almost killed one of them and then went to jail for it is what's best for them. There is no one to represent the children in this case, except us, and our word has no credibility because of our natural (and understandable) bias.
All the same, I want desperately to testify in this case, or at least submit a statement to the court. I didn't when it started, but I do now. I want my voice, and the voice of my children, to be heard by the judge. I don't want to send them back to a more difficult life. I don't want to put them in the hands of convicted abusers. And as callous as this may sound, they can have more. They have the luxury of fertility and youth. We have had such luxuries taken from us.
I'm a little bit of a control freak, and I dislike having control not only lost but actively taken at every turn. My only hope now is to pray for a wise judge who will see the truth behind the legal mask. One who will know what's right and not what's legal. One who will see a family, and not a temporary solution. And I need to send this question out to the cosmos in the hopes that someone may see and offer some suggestion. I expect no answers from this avenue, which is part of why I wrote it. But perhaps someone will have an idea. If anyone knows any lawyers, social workers, or court advocates, send them my way. Have them drop me an e-mail. I need to build up my army. This is going to be one hell of a battle.
Once more into the breach, dear friends.
Let me back up.
The county called us for a presentation of 2 children up for adoption. It was a sibling set, a boy and a girl, who had been in foster care for 5 months. They came to the attention of the county when the parents (mom 19 and dad 17) brought Jasmine to the hospital. They thought she was constipated, but she was actually starving to death. The doctors said that if they had waited one more day, she would have been dead. The children were taken and placed in foster care that day. The birthparents were convicted of felony endangerment and incarcerated. Since their release, the social worker has offered them use of county services from parenting classes, to GED courses, to counseling, all to gather evidence to support her decision not to allow the children back with parents who almost killed one of them.
A few family members stepped forward and were interested in adopting the children, but none of them could pass a background check. The birthparents have no support system or good example to follow. Mom is youngest of 7, a high school dropout whose siblings have all said she made her own bed. Dad is oldest of 9 (with one on the way) and for a while his mother was helping. When Jasmine was born she said she could no longer help out.
After our presentation, our case was transferred to a new social worker. Bureaucracy and all that. The new social worker believes everything is going well. The birthparents are learning what they're supposed to, seem to be benefitting, she feels the court will look favorably on returning these children to their home of origin where one of them almost died. The court has ordered that the birthparents get to visit for 4 hours a week with supervision, so once a week we take the kids to the CPS office and they visit. Because dad is a minor, there's a no-contact order between the birthparents so they have to do their visitation separately. That means 4 hours a week they visit at the CPS office.
There is a court date coming up in October where parental rights were supposed to be terminated. With the spin the new social worker (and her supervisor) are putting on this case, the most likely outcome is a 6-month extension and possible increase in visitation.
Meanwhile we have the kids in our home, caring for them, kissing their boo boos, reading them bedtime stories, taking them to Grandma's house, making sure they're fed, warm, cool, healthy, giving them love and discipline, all to have the court take them away in a year. Our adoption worker has offered us an out: the status of the case has changed, we can pull out if we want to. We never signed on to be a temporary home. But how can we do that? How can we send these children back? While they're here we know they're loved, cared-for, and safe. If we let them go, we know no such thing. And if the court wants us to give them up, they're going to have to take them.
When this all started, we were so confident. Sure these were the right kids. Sure the timing and the situation were right. Sure this was what God wanted for our family. We told everyone, they threw baby showers, we took time off work to help them settle in. Everything had gone so smoothly: we finished our paperwork quickly, we took our training, we passed our home inspection the first time, we were chosen from the pool in a month (unprecidented in our county). Why is it falling apart now? Why is there nothing we can do? Why did we get a social worker so willing to send these children back to a home with no support system, no opportunities, no consistency?
I feel very strongly that this is a test of our faith. The question is, how far will that test go? Will it work itself out and our reward will be to keep the children? Or, like Abraham, Moses's mother, and God Himself, will we be asked to give up our children? And if we are, and we pass that test, what's our reward? We've already been told once we wouldn't have biological children, will we be asked to give up having children at all? Don't we have rights here? Don't the children? The trite answer is that we have to be willing to do what's best for the children. I am. I don't believe sending these children back to parents who almost killed one of them and then went to jail for it is what's best for them. There is no one to represent the children in this case, except us, and our word has no credibility because of our natural (and understandable) bias.
All the same, I want desperately to testify in this case, or at least submit a statement to the court. I didn't when it started, but I do now. I want my voice, and the voice of my children, to be heard by the judge. I don't want to send them back to a more difficult life. I don't want to put them in the hands of convicted abusers. And as callous as this may sound, they can have more. They have the luxury of fertility and youth. We have had such luxuries taken from us.
I'm a little bit of a control freak, and I dislike having control not only lost but actively taken at every turn. My only hope now is to pray for a wise judge who will see the truth behind the legal mask. One who will know what's right and not what's legal. One who will see a family, and not a temporary solution. And I need to send this question out to the cosmos in the hopes that someone may see and offer some suggestion. I expect no answers from this avenue, which is part of why I wrote it. But perhaps someone will have an idea. If anyone knows any lawyers, social workers, or court advocates, send them my way. Have them drop me an e-mail. I need to build up my army. This is going to be one hell of a battle.
Once more into the breach, dear friends.
Monday, April 26, 2010
And Now A Moment of Insanity
My husband and I are in the process of adopting a baby. To clarify (because it definitely is confusing), there is no baby yet. In common adoption parlance, we are "pregnant by adoption." We have been through all the preliminary steps, we've been analysed by everyone who matters including 2 social workers, first aid instructors, parenting class teachers, and 4 references we had to provide on our own. All we're doing now is waiting. And waiting... and waiting... and waiting.
However, recently we were actually matched with a little girl. We were presented to a matching committee and they chose us as a potential match for a 1-year-old girl. Her social worker called our social worker and we went to what is known as a presentation. At the presentation, we were presented with all the information available about this little girl and her biological parents. As for the little girl herself, there were very few things that concerned us. She had some developmental delays that were the result of lack of stimulation in her environment. They were all very normal things we would expect to see in a child who had been in foster care since birth.
It was her birth parents that had us concerned. Both of them were schizophrenic and were institutionalized because of it. Now, we found out that if one parent is schizophrenic, there's about a 10% chance that the child will be. If both parents are, it's about 50-50. We also found out that it's something that can show up 20-30 years down the road. So we had to think long and hard about whether or not we were equipped to deal with this sort of thing and how comfortable we were with the chances that this little girl would develop mental illness later in life.
Now, run with me for a little bit because this next part is going to sound a little crazy. I was in the shower the afternoon of our presentation and I heard a voice in my head that said, "This is not the right one."
Okay, before you judge, let me digress a bit. I'm a Christian. I have been my whole life. And when I entered my college years, I was gifted with the Gift of Prophecy. The point of this entry is not a discussion about Spiritual Gifts, but let me give you the short version. Prophesy is not divination. It is not telling the future. In magical terms, Pagans call it Sight. Some people may call it intuition. Other people call it a gut feeling. It simply means that God speaks to me a little bit more loudly than He does to others. I don't know why. The "why" is not something God has shared with me. I believe it's how God speaks to me. Sometimes it's through music, sometimes it's something I read, sometimes it's a vision, and sometimes a voice like this time. The thing they call have in common is something I call a "feel." When the message comes from God, it has a certain feel. I can tell it's Him. Usually other sources are all from myself. I have a tendency to do what my therapist called "living in my head" which means I frequently listen to my own internal monologue more than I listen to the outside world. This makes it difficult to interpret Prophecy sometimes, but it's a personality quirk, and we all have those. I frequently allow Prophecy to help me make decisions, and I hoped desperately hoped God would give me something good this time.
And He didn't disappoint. Not only did He tell me, he also told my husband. And because the voice was from God, we knew it was the right choice to say no to this little girl.
That does not mean we didn't have issues with the choice.
The first was that we never thought we'd find ourselves turning a child down. We really had hoped we would be a forever home for whatever child may come across our path.
The second was that in some small way we felt as though we were punishing this little girl for something that wasn't her fault. Jesus said the sins of the father should not be visited up on the son. Who are we to say that we don't want this child in our home because we're afraid that what happened to her parents would happen to her? Who gave us that authority?
The last was the fear that this beautiful little girl would end up being raised in foster care because no one else would be willing to take a chance on her.
And yet through all of this, we knew the best thing for her would be to put her back in the pool and allow the right family to find her. Maybe we weren't the right family, but the right one would come along.
Last week, our social worker told us the very next family to hear about her accepted her. And so the Plan goes on. I don't claim to understand it, or even my own role in it. But the Bible says that all things work together for the good of those who love Him, and here we saw it happen. She found a home, we're back on the list, and we now have the conviction that when the right comes along, we'll know. Immediately and without question.
However, recently we were actually matched with a little girl. We were presented to a matching committee and they chose us as a potential match for a 1-year-old girl. Her social worker called our social worker and we went to what is known as a presentation. At the presentation, we were presented with all the information available about this little girl and her biological parents. As for the little girl herself, there were very few things that concerned us. She had some developmental delays that were the result of lack of stimulation in her environment. They were all very normal things we would expect to see in a child who had been in foster care since birth.
It was her birth parents that had us concerned. Both of them were schizophrenic and were institutionalized because of it. Now, we found out that if one parent is schizophrenic, there's about a 10% chance that the child will be. If both parents are, it's about 50-50. We also found out that it's something that can show up 20-30 years down the road. So we had to think long and hard about whether or not we were equipped to deal with this sort of thing and how comfortable we were with the chances that this little girl would develop mental illness later in life.
Now, run with me for a little bit because this next part is going to sound a little crazy. I was in the shower the afternoon of our presentation and I heard a voice in my head that said, "This is not the right one."
Okay, before you judge, let me digress a bit. I'm a Christian. I have been my whole life. And when I entered my college years, I was gifted with the Gift of Prophecy. The point of this entry is not a discussion about Spiritual Gifts, but let me give you the short version. Prophesy is not divination. It is not telling the future. In magical terms, Pagans call it Sight. Some people may call it intuition. Other people call it a gut feeling. It simply means that God speaks to me a little bit more loudly than He does to others. I don't know why. The "why" is not something God has shared with me. I believe it's how God speaks to me. Sometimes it's through music, sometimes it's something I read, sometimes it's a vision, and sometimes a voice like this time. The thing they call have in common is something I call a "feel." When the message comes from God, it has a certain feel. I can tell it's Him. Usually other sources are all from myself. I have a tendency to do what my therapist called "living in my head" which means I frequently listen to my own internal monologue more than I listen to the outside world. This makes it difficult to interpret Prophecy sometimes, but it's a personality quirk, and we all have those. I frequently allow Prophecy to help me make decisions, and I hoped desperately hoped God would give me something good this time.
And He didn't disappoint. Not only did He tell me, he also told my husband. And because the voice was from God, we knew it was the right choice to say no to this little girl.
That does not mean we didn't have issues with the choice.
The first was that we never thought we'd find ourselves turning a child down. We really had hoped we would be a forever home for whatever child may come across our path.
The second was that in some small way we felt as though we were punishing this little girl for something that wasn't her fault. Jesus said the sins of the father should not be visited up on the son. Who are we to say that we don't want this child in our home because we're afraid that what happened to her parents would happen to her? Who gave us that authority?
The last was the fear that this beautiful little girl would end up being raised in foster care because no one else would be willing to take a chance on her.
And yet through all of this, we knew the best thing for her would be to put her back in the pool and allow the right family to find her. Maybe we weren't the right family, but the right one would come along.
Last week, our social worker told us the very next family to hear about her accepted her. And so the Plan goes on. I don't claim to understand it, or even my own role in it. But the Bible says that all things work together for the good of those who love Him, and here we saw it happen. She found a home, we're back on the list, and we now have the conviction that when the right comes along, we'll know. Immediately and without question.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Birthdays Remind Us to Look Both Ways
It was my birthday last week. I had to work a closing shift that day, and I hightailed it out of the building as soon as I could. I was walking across the street to my car, and suddenly found myself flying through the air. Why, you ask? Well apparently a woman driving a Volvo had come around the corner, didn't see me crossing, and hit me. As my feet lifted off the ground, I thought, "When am I going to land, how much will it hurt?" The answers are: about a second later, and lots.
The point of impact, I believe, was my right hip. There is now a dinner plate-sized bruise there. I'm running an office pool on how big it's going to get. However, I landed on my tailbone. At first glance, this doesn't seem like much, but I had never realized how many things I do on an average day that hurt my tailbone. Driving is the number one culprit at the moment. Driving makes me cry. I literally can't drive longer than 20 minutes because my tailbone hurts so much.
As I sat up, I reached for my phone to call my husband and tell him to come get me. He asked a ridiculous amount of questions before hanging up and coming to my aid. He told me later than he only realized halfway there that I had meant the car had hit ME, and not my car. After I hung up the phone with him, I triaged myself. Head: a small bump, but nothing big. Ribs: okay. Pelvis: tailbone hurts, maybe broken, but functional. Arms: okay. Left leg: fine. Right leg: pain in hip, knee, and ankle. Breathing fine, seeing fine, no dizziness, nausea, or anything else suggesting a concussion. A witness dialed 911 and the very cute firefighter who responded asked me a bunch of questions to make sure I hadn't lost consciousness. I politely refused the $3000 ambulance ride, and told him my husband would take me to the hospital. He made me sign a form so I couldn't sue later if I died. How I would sue from the grave, I still don't know.
Everyone I work with was still in the building and had seen what had happened. They call came out to see if I was okay and called everyone who wasn't there. My husband arrived, talked to the police a little, got my license back, and we headed to the hospital.
We lucked out at the ER: no line. The triage nurse asked me if I at least left some damage on the car. To be honest, I don't know. I never really even talked to the driver, I let the police do that. The doctor X-rayed everything from my lower back down to my right ankle and said there were no breaks, only some deep tissue bruising. As we were waiting for him to come back, I noticed my pants had gotten ripped. That's it! She ripped my pants! Until that point, I had been willing to give that driver a little bit of slack. It was, of course, that annoying time of day when sunset makes it impossible to see anything. I could easily believe she couldn't see me. But that bitch ripped my pants! Politeness Week is over!
The doctor gave me some prescriptions for pain and muscle relaxers. I discovered the next day that if I take them together, the house tilts from side to side. I don't know how those pharmacists do it!
The next day, one of the receptionists called me in a panic because I hadn't shown up to work. I had been under the impression that someone had called her to tell her what had happened, but apparently that didn't happen. She's great. She's everyone's mom. She was sure something was wrong because I'm normally very punctual and it was 20 minutes past where on earth could I be? My husband answered the phone and told her what had happened. She called again later and I picked up, and her first words were, "Happy fucking birthday, right?" I spent that day on the couch hopped up on drugs. It was pretty fun. Everyone at work wanted me to stay home another day, but I felt stupid. Maybe I couldn't do everything I usually do, but I could do SOMETHING. I went to work the next day.
So the bruise is up to 23 cm, which is more than anyone bet on, so I get to keep all $5 in the office pool.
The moral of the story? If you get hit by a car, milk it for all it's worth. Stay home all week, sue the driver for all your medical bills (mine were only $60, what's the point?), shirk responsibility at work, boss people around to get them to do stuff for you. And if you land on your tailbone, suck it up and buy a hemorrhoid pillow. You'll be thankful you did.
The point of impact, I believe, was my right hip. There is now a dinner plate-sized bruise there. I'm running an office pool on how big it's going to get. However, I landed on my tailbone. At first glance, this doesn't seem like much, but I had never realized how many things I do on an average day that hurt my tailbone. Driving is the number one culprit at the moment. Driving makes me cry. I literally can't drive longer than 20 minutes because my tailbone hurts so much.
As I sat up, I reached for my phone to call my husband and tell him to come get me. He asked a ridiculous amount of questions before hanging up and coming to my aid. He told me later than he only realized halfway there that I had meant the car had hit ME, and not my car. After I hung up the phone with him, I triaged myself. Head: a small bump, but nothing big. Ribs: okay. Pelvis: tailbone hurts, maybe broken, but functional. Arms: okay. Left leg: fine. Right leg: pain in hip, knee, and ankle. Breathing fine, seeing fine, no dizziness, nausea, or anything else suggesting a concussion. A witness dialed 911 and the very cute firefighter who responded asked me a bunch of questions to make sure I hadn't lost consciousness. I politely refused the $3000 ambulance ride, and told him my husband would take me to the hospital. He made me sign a form so I couldn't sue later if I died. How I would sue from the grave, I still don't know.
Everyone I work with was still in the building and had seen what had happened. They call came out to see if I was okay and called everyone who wasn't there. My husband arrived, talked to the police a little, got my license back, and we headed to the hospital.
We lucked out at the ER: no line. The triage nurse asked me if I at least left some damage on the car. To be honest, I don't know. I never really even talked to the driver, I let the police do that. The doctor X-rayed everything from my lower back down to my right ankle and said there were no breaks, only some deep tissue bruising. As we were waiting for him to come back, I noticed my pants had gotten ripped. That's it! She ripped my pants! Until that point, I had been willing to give that driver a little bit of slack. It was, of course, that annoying time of day when sunset makes it impossible to see anything. I could easily believe she couldn't see me. But that bitch ripped my pants! Politeness Week is over!
The doctor gave me some prescriptions for pain and muscle relaxers. I discovered the next day that if I take them together, the house tilts from side to side. I don't know how those pharmacists do it!
The next day, one of the receptionists called me in a panic because I hadn't shown up to work. I had been under the impression that someone had called her to tell her what had happened, but apparently that didn't happen. She's great. She's everyone's mom. She was sure something was wrong because I'm normally very punctual and it was 20 minutes past where on earth could I be? My husband answered the phone and told her what had happened. She called again later and I picked up, and her first words were, "Happy fucking birthday, right?" I spent that day on the couch hopped up on drugs. It was pretty fun. Everyone at work wanted me to stay home another day, but I felt stupid. Maybe I couldn't do everything I usually do, but I could do SOMETHING. I went to work the next day.
So the bruise is up to 23 cm, which is more than anyone bet on, so I get to keep all $5 in the office pool.
The moral of the story? If you get hit by a car, milk it for all it's worth. Stay home all week, sue the driver for all your medical bills (mine were only $60, what's the point?), shirk responsibility at work, boss people around to get them to do stuff for you. And if you land on your tailbone, suck it up and buy a hemorrhoid pillow. You'll be thankful you did.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Introductions are Neccessary
Myself, I think my life is boring. And of course I didn't think of doing this until AFTER interesting things happened to me. Oh well, such is life. At least mine. THe idea here is to share ideas from my life in the slim hopes that I may be able to impart some sort of ridiculously useless knowledge onto someone with an equally boring life. We should flock together, after all.
I'm a Registered Veterinary Technician, so this space will be filled with funny animal stories, crazy client stories, and useful pet owning tips. I'm also a member of a waiting adoptive family, so some stories will involve crazy social workers and government hoops that biological parents never have to jump through. I also have a long list of random thoughts the flit through my head at any given moment, so I may wax philosophical about such things as movies, books, or junk food. You never know with me.
For those of you who stick with me... thank you. Your opinion is interesting to me, if not always important. For those of you who come and go... good luck, and fine living to you. And for those of you who never read... well, according to Groucho Marx you must be inside of a dog.
To the beginning of our andventure together... slainte!
I'm a Registered Veterinary Technician, so this space will be filled with funny animal stories, crazy client stories, and useful pet owning tips. I'm also a member of a waiting adoptive family, so some stories will involve crazy social workers and government hoops that biological parents never have to jump through. I also have a long list of random thoughts the flit through my head at any given moment, so I may wax philosophical about such things as movies, books, or junk food. You never know with me.
For those of you who stick with me... thank you. Your opinion is interesting to me, if not always important. For those of you who come and go... good luck, and fine living to you. And for those of you who never read... well, according to Groucho Marx you must be inside of a dog.
To the beginning of our andventure together... slainte!
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