Whazzup?

It’s been a long time since I’ve read a book that I literally couldn’t put down. I read Merle’s Door by Ted Kerasote in just two days, despite having to travel out of town both days.

It is an engaging story about a guy named Ted who makes his living as a writer and lives in a tiny town in Wyoming. A dog enters his life and chooses Ted as his owner. He discusses their 13 years together, describing a nature-based lifestyle that I can’t even imagine. Intertwined with Ted and Merle’s story are fascinating passages about studies regarding animal behavior, and whether or not what Ted saw in Merle supported or refuted the scientists.

Yes, you’ll cry at the end. Take out your contacts. Anyone who has ever loved an animal knows a sad ending is inevitable. As Ted mentions in his book, it’s an unfair decision by nature to let birds and turtles live 100 years, but our beloved canines only stay with us for a decade or a little more, if we’re lucky.

You may also feel guilt at the end, for Merle had a life any dog would envy. As I read, I’d pet Moose as he lounged on the couch with me or laid at my feet, feeling wholly ashamed at the horrible dog-mom I am, compared to the friend Ted was to his dog.

If you love dogs, or love the link between humans and animals, this book is a must.

Between my Dish Network (which I don’t always love, but DVR rules) and my recent re-signup to Netflix, I come to you a thoroughly entertained person.

Yesterday I tried the “Watch it now” feature on Netflix for the first time. It was awesome!

I don’t have my computer hooked up to my TV, so I just watched it on my computer screen. They have a device you can buy for 100 bucks so that the shows/movies do play on your TV, but my computer screen was fine.

I watched the first season of The Office. There was one episode I hadn’t seen before. Some episodes I’ve seen so many times, I just skipped them.

I have the ‘3 DVDs at a time’ subscription (under $17/month) so that gives me unlimited Watch it Now movies/shows.

I don’t want to sit in my uncomfortable computer chair and watch everything over the internet but it is a great way to see if you like a show or series before you have them mail it to your house.

Also Netflix has member profiles where you can add friends, share movie lists, etc. If you have a Netflix account and want to share your movie ratings with me, click here to add me as your friend.

I was adopted in Missouri, which is a closed adoption state. Basically, that means that I would have never known I was adopted if my parents hadn’t told me, because my birth certificate has their names on it, with no indication that it was a re-issued or changed birth certificate. It also means I have no right to any information concerning my adoption.

It’s a controversial issue. I recognize this. So please save your comments regarding the rightness or wrongness of my decision to search for my biological relatives. My business, my choice. Not for anyone else to judge.

I found information in a variety of ways. Things the adoption agency told my mother at the time of my adoption proved useful later in my search to verify I was on the right track. I bribed a state employee to get the name and birthdates of my mother (Natalie) and my older half brother. ($45 — an odd amount, but I paid it.) I verified the last name this worker gave me against a last name I “uncovered” on a document, and they matched.

It is interesting how I “uncovered” the last name on a document. My parents had some letters and such from my adoption. One of them was an old Xerox copy of a form. One blank of this form had a line that said “Baby Girl Drunkbunny”. The name was written in pen on top of a thick layer of white correction fluid. Remember how old xerox copies used to be made on paper with a shiny surface? I carefully erased off the white correction fluid and could see my birth name. The last name of my biological mother.

However, I could not find my biomom through searches. She was obviously using a different last name now, decades later.

I had researched information on and off for 15 years. Through an adult adoptee support group’s connections, I found out my grandfather’s name. Using Ancestry.com, I got his social security number and date and place of death.

I called the library in the town and state where he died to get his obituary, which would list his surviving relatives. I was so excited because I knew this could be it: the breakthrough I’d been waiting for!

The librarian was nice but said I’d have to go to my library and give them a cashiers check and they’d fax the request for the obituary to them, then they’d fax the obituary (after the check had cleared) back to my library and blah blah blah. Then, after approval from the Pope and a resolution by Congress, I could have a copy of the published obituary.

For the first time in 15 years, I was actually close to finding my biomom, and to have this thrown in my path was a bit too much. On the verge of tears, I explained why it was important and asked her if she could just read it over the phone to me. And she did! God bless that librarian!

Out of the list of survivors, the only one I could find a number for (yay interweb!) was a step-aunt half a continent away. I called her immediately. She was suspicious of my phone call. I told her that I was Natalie’s daughter who was given up for adoption. (Natalie was her stepsister). She said she didn’t know Natalie had given a baby up for adoption. Then she said:

“You know that Natalie is dead, don’t you?”

Um, no I didn’t.

For some reason, I wasn’t surprised by the news. Disappointed, but not surprised. Weird.

My step-aunt said she’d call my aunt (Natalie’s sister) and call me back.

Within 15 minutes, my phone rang. It was my very excited aunt. Her first words to me:

“We’ve been looking for you!”

It was the greatest feeling.

Over the next year and a half, my aunt and I spoke often. I never got to meet her because she lived so far away. Last time I talked to her was 10 days before she died.

She had some problems (bipolar with poor disease control), and it was at times difficult to maintain a relationship with her, but she ended every phone conversation with “I love you.” I said it back and meant it.

Because of her health and emotional problems, it was difficult to get information about my mother from her. She promised to send me pictures of herself, my mother, and their family, but she never did.

I got in touch with my half brother Michael, who is four years older than me. He was receptive, but we lost contact. I also got in touch with both of my mother’s ex-husbands, and a few close friends. Very interesting information. Every one of them said I had her laugh.

I am still in email and snail-mail contact with my younger half brother. I have yet to meet any biological relative face-to-face.

I found out some ugly truths, and was disappointed in the lack of info about biofather, but I’d do everything again. It was worth it. It gave me some peace.

It also reinforced my decision not to have children of my own, due to depression issues in the family and other problems.

As mentioned before, over the years I’ve heard comments. You wouldn’t believe the crap some people say. Like my neighbor back when I lived in a different state. I had just located my biological family and was telling her about it and she said, “Oh, I could never love an adopted kid like my own. In fact, my grandson is adopting a child, and I don’t even want the kid over here. I don’t consider it my grandchild.”

This from a lady who I knew for five years and considered “nice”. Hey, at least she admits her heart is closed to, um… “it”.

Sometimes, even well-meaning comments were over the top.

In the 5th grade, I was getting ready for a talent show. Me and my friend Laura were dressing up like cats and singing “We are Siamese.” I was in the bathroom applying my whiskers with eyebrow pencil when our teacher Mrs. Rush came bursting through the ladies room door. All the girls crowding around the mirrors stopped what they were doing, sensing something was horribly wrong due to Mrs. Rush’s demeanor.

Spying me, she hurried over and grabbed my shoulders. Wide-eyed and upset, she said, “I just heard you were adopted. Is this true?!”

Bewildered, I said, “Uh… yeah?”

With tears in her eyes, she pulled me to her bosom and held me tight. “That just means you were SPECIAL. You were CHOSEN!”

Poor, well-meaning Mrs. Rush. You could tell she felt sorry for me, an emotion I’m wholly uncomfortable with. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I didn’t FEEL “chosen”. Hell, I didn’t even remember the goddamn audition!

Besides, I wasn’t chosen. It was the throw of the dice, the luck of the draw. If I had been born a few days earlier or a few days later, I would have gone to a different family. In fact, if my adoptive parents had the ability to choose a baby, I would have been the LAST one they chose. As mentioned before, I was far from a perfect, pretty baby. And I was not a boy. Back then, it was an unspoken rule that if you asked to adopt a certain sex, or refuse to adopt a baby with cosmetic problems (which I had), then you probably would be turned down as a prospective adoptive parent. (Nowdays, you’re allowed to be much more specific on your “baby order” when adopting. People have become more open-minded about adopting different races, but they still want that baby to be a pretty and perfect one.) Bottom line: my parents had to agree to take what they were handed, or they wouldn’t make the list of suitable parents. And they certainly couldn’t take one look at me and say, “Uh, thanks but no thanks!” because they would have looked like assholes. They had already bragged to family, friends, and church members about the adoption process, and let everyone know when they got the call from the adoption agency that they had a baby for them. My parents had to take me; there was no backing out.

At the time of the fifth grade incident, we lived in a small town in Oklahoma. I used to walk home from school, since the bus took just as long, and I was getting bad headaches by then.

One day, my mother’s car was parked outside of my elementary school. I thought it was a treat; maybe she wanted to take me somewhere and do something, just the two of us. As she started driving, she threw a letter in my lap. It was a letter I had written to the advice lady of Seventeen magazine. I don’t recall what it said, but it spoke of trying to find my “real” mother. My mom had dug deep in my dresser drawers to find the hiding place I had for that letter.

I don’t remember what my mother told me, but I do remember she pretty much went off. It was basically a speech to burst my bubble about any romantic notions of replacing the mother I currently had. That if my bio mom had wanted me, she would have kept me, and she didn’t want me now, and I couldn’t find her, etc. She made me feel like a criminal for being curious.

She grudgingly told me as much as she could remember about what the adoption agency said about my biological mother. Hair color, etc. Apparently, she didn’t think the information was important enough to write down for me, so she was going off of memory. She talked as if every bit of information was doing me a favor, yet she was irritated about it like she had sand in her panties or something.

We didn’t speak of my biological background again until I was 18 and pushed her on it. Until then, I was left to fill in the blanks myself.

Thanks for all the positive comments guys! I just want to make it clear that I’m not posting all of this to feel sorry for myself or have others feel sorry for me. Really, I know very few people who had a perfect childhood, so I’m no different than anyone else in that respect.

I just wanted to let you know what adoption can be like for some kids.

I posted this on a popular internet message board, and I couldn’t believe how I got reply after reply where people said, “I’m adopted and was treated that way too.” It’s horrifying.

I think it’s so important to talk about because people who are thinking of adopting need to really search their souls about why they want to adopt, what would happen if they got a girl and not the boy that seems to be such the deep-down preference for so many parents (whether they admit it to themselves or not), and what they would do if the kid didn’t grow up to be perfect.

You’re not leasing a car. You’re taking responsibility for a child. And unless you can embrace this child as 100% yours, even if you have your own children in the future, then PLEASE DON’T ADOPT!

I thank everyone for sharing their personal stories in the comments. My drunkbunny.org blog was wiped off the face of the earth, but I posted these on blogs before so I thought I’d share some comments/stories other people left at my older blogs as well. (After the jump.)

Read the rest of this entry »

(Scroll down or click the links to read Adoption 1, Adoption 2, and Adoption 3 first.)

My parents adopted me when I was 9 days old. They had tried for four years to have children of their own, but couldn’t conceive. They adopted me, then within four years had two sons of their own.

Did you know adoption was a cure for infertility? It is sometimes.

Problem was, I was an ugly baby. Holy god! I’m talking strangers-smile-politely-then-turn-away ugly. When the call came from the agency saying they had a baby available, my parents had to take whatever baby they had. Even if it wasn’t a pretty baby. Even if it had medical problems (I needed eye surgery by the age of four). Even if it wasn’t a boy.

In the pictures below, you can see the bloom is already quickly coming off of the rose of this “adopted brat” thing. And as photos go, these are the best of the best - my mother gave them to me to include in the slideshow to be shown at their 40th anniversary party. I can’t imagine what facial expressions of disgust are in the pics she decided to keep for herself. You can see in the pictures below that she is clearly contemplating roasting me, and my dad is thinking of tying me to the hood of his car.

My mother is Ms. Sorority. Sometimes, everything is about her, and her getting attention and looking good to others. She got plenty of attention for adopting a “poor, unwanted” baby. (An unwanted baby that there was a 2 year waiting list for! ) After the adoption and the attention she got for it, she was in her element for a while, I would imagine.

But then she found out she could have her own. She had two beautiful baby boys born 13 months apart from each other, cute and perfect in every way.

But yet she still had me, and she had no way to change that.

Growing up, my brothers didn’t like me. At all. I’m not talking normal sibling rivalry, I’m talking hate and resentment that little children just don’t normally have. It was like I was living in a clubhouse, but I was never invited to join. My two brothers were their own club. My parents were a second club. All four of them together were a third club. By God, I was going to join their goddamn clubs!

My childhood was spent trying to win approval, and withdrawing in despair when I couldn’t get it. I shared my toys. Some days I’d spend all afternoon cleaning my brothers’ rooms (to try and get in good with them AND my mom). I remember sitting and thinking, “How will I get them to like me?” I’d follow them around, even spy on them, to try and figure it out.

Spying became my favorite game. I was determined to unravel the mystery of what the problem was… why I was such an outsider in my family. Usually my brothers were the focus of my spying, but one day while spying I overheard a conversation between my parents that I will never forget.

When I was in fifth grade, my younger brother Mark got sick with stomach pains. He even went to the hospital for it. The doctors couldn’t understand what was causing it. He ended up being fine - they never found a reason for it - but for about a week we didn’t know if he’d be OK or not.

One afternoon, I was in the living room while my parents were in the kitchen, talking about my brother’s condition. They must have not known I was home, and me being a super-awesome ninja spy, I was not going to alert them to this fact.

The spying game took an unfortunate “bummer!” turn when I overheard my mother saying to my father that it was my fault my brother was sick in the hospital. That I “kept the house in turmoil” and “made” my brother sick. (Yes, now you know my secret. I was the most powerful and evil fifth grader ever to exist. Bow down before me!) She spoke of me with such anger and contempt, it made my blood run cold.

I don’t remember how she rationalized blaming me, nor do I remember the rest of the conversation. I do know it involved me, and regret that I was in their household. It was pretty ugly. It wasn’t just the words and the feelings that shocked me, or the fact that I had spent so many years trying for their approval just to find out they blamed me for these huge problems (after all, I might be killing my brother with my very presence in the household). I think the most shocking thing of all was to find out that how they acted when I was around was a strained act they could barely contain. It made me wonder who else in my world secretly couldn’t stand me and was just pretending.

I stayed in the living room and hid behind the piano until I could sneak away, feeling like the world had come to an end. I had made my brother sick, and I didn’t even understand how I did it. Also, it was the first time I had heard my mother confirm what I felt all along: that I was an unwelcome burden, an intruder.

I must emphasize that overall I was a good kid. Annoying yes, but I almost never got in trouble, I made good grades, I had plenty of friends. To this day I can’t see how my parents could blame me for making their house one of “turmoil” at that point in my life (teenage years still being a few years away).

When I was about 21 or 22, I had it out with my mother about a lot of things. One of those things we discussed was why my brothers had hated me all my life. I told mom it was because they picked up on my parents feelings towards me, and imitated them. She acknowledged that my guess was probably true. It was a victory for me.

But still to this day, it’s hard living with the knowledge that when my parents look back at their life, I was by far their worst decision. Their biggest mistake. I also realize that, being an unwanted pregnancy and the whole adoption thing, that I was very likely considered one of the worst life mistakes made by my biological parents too. And let’s sprinkle in the fact that I can point to at least a few men who would consider me their biggest mistake in life, and it’s an esteem-shattering self-realization that is no treat to live with.