The Mommy Wars are driving me crazy. You know what I am talking about. Every few months or so there is a new twist on the same old story. Working Moms battle Stay at Home Moms. Homeschooling Moms rage against Private School Moms. Breastfeeding Moms look down on Bottle Feeding Moms. Breastfeeding Moms fight with each other over where, and how long, to feed their children. Moms who let their babies cry it out are scoffed at by co-sleeping Moms. This Mom inoculates her kids, that one believes that vaccines lead to autism. Crunchy organic Moms simply don't understand busy swing through the McDonald's drive through Moms. The current Mommy War debate is laid out in a recent article in Time magazine about attachment parenting. We all saw the cover photo of the mother breastfeeding her three year old son. Didn't see it yet? Check it out here. Outrageous? Maybe. Do I care? Not at all.
I believe in breastfeeding whenever possible. For however long Mommy and Baby need/want. I believe in vaccinating my children and hope that the other children mine come in contact with every day are similarly protected. I believe in most of the covenants of attachment parenting. I believe in baby wearing, as much as possible. I believe newborns and newly adopted babies should sleep next their parents- maybe not in the same bed, but within touching distance. I believe in using a wrist tether to keep my child close in a crowded public setting, especially newly adopted children who may not understand the language or little ones with hearing difficulties. I believe in a good public school or private school education and would not home school my boys. I let my boys watch TV. I let them play computer games. I let them play with my iPhone. I monitor their activity and time spent on these devices, but I don't ban them in my home. My boys eat candy and cookies. But they also eat fruit and as much organic/locally grown food as possible. I strive to be a good mother. And I am confident that 90% of the mothers out there in the world are also striving to be good at parenting. So let's be honest. I have my beliefs, and you have your beliefs, and I don't look down on your choices and you don't look down on mine. I really don't care about the Mommy Wars. Every mother out there is just doing the best she can, making decisions based on her individual belief system. And I don't care. Work. Stay home. Feed your child chicken nuggets. Sign them up for every class you can find or don't sign them up for a thing. Teach them to swim. Wear them until they are five. (I wore my almost three old just last Sunday, and we both LOVED it.) Let your kid listen to rock music. Keep them in the crib until they are three. (I do that too. My youngest turns three today and we have no plans to move him out of his crib anytime soon.) Breastfeed. Bottle feed. Breastfeed in public. Breastfeed your three year old. Force the potty training at two years old or wait until well after three. (me again...) Let me be clear: I don't care.
Here is what I do care about. The kids without mothers. All of the mothers mentioned above, all of the mothers involved in the Mommy Wars, their kids are fine. Those kids have strong mothers willing to fight for their beliefs. They'll be fine. But what about the 132 million orphans in the world? Who is fighting a war for them?
That is the war I will fight. I don't care about the Mommy Wars, but I will support organizations that support the orphans. I will talk to as many people as I can about adoption. I will fund raise. I will continue to worry about a society that puts more time on discussing breastfeeding versus bottle feeding than on helping orphaned children. The number of children living in orphanages seems to be a moving target and difficult to nail down, but most experts would place the number at around 132 million. 132 million, people. That is 132 million babies and kids who wouldn't care if their mother chose to vaccinate or not. 132 million babies and kids who wouldn't mind if they went to a a large public school or learned at the hands of their mother around the kitchen table. 132 million babies and kids who don't care about the Mommy Wars. They are fighting their own war, and they need our care, concern, and loud voices more than anyone involved in the Mommy Wars. So I don't care about the Mommy Wars. When it comes to babies and mothers, helping those 132 million is the only war I am willing to fight.
how to help:
show hope
half the sky
friend of russian orphans
these are just a few of the organizations out there dedicated to adoption and orphan aid. these organizations are not endorsed by www.myinconceivablefamily.blogspot.com. they are for informational purposes only. please do your due diligence and support the causes you believe in!
Showing posts with label soap box. Show all posts
Showing posts with label soap box. Show all posts
Friday, May 11, 2012
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
a handful of poor parenting choices can lead to thousands of children with no chance of a forever family
It has been a few weeks since I have posted anything and there are so many topics I want to write about. I need to complete an update on our Positive Parenting adventures. I want to share an amazing new app I found for my iPhone that helps me organize my days and weeks- basically it takes my household control journal and puts it on my phone in a totally customizable way. This little app has changed my daily routine, made me even more useful and has helped to create a little more time for the fun stuff, like playing with my boys. We are coming up on the tiny toddler's one year anniversary of joining our family and there is so much I want to share as I look back over this most amazing and challenging year. But all of that will have to wait. Because I have to talk about this:
These twins seem to be the latest in the bad adoption news coming out of Russia. These 15 month old babies were allegedly left on a freezing Russian Street by their American adoptive mother with a note stating she had given them up. Children are not to be discarded, people. Birth mothers may "give up" their children but they normally do so with a plan. It is important that you understand the difference. I am not bashing responsible birth mothers who are realistic enough to know they cannot parent their child and make a plan, out of love. I am eternally thankful to the two birth mothers I will never know who gave me the best gifts of my life, my boys.
Statistics are all over the place but I can say with some confidence that there are approximately 700,000 children living in Russian orphanages and foster homes. And that is just one country. There are children needing parents all over the world, including right here in America. And there are families working their way through the adoption process as you read this, families for whom the adoption process may now be stalled or totally stopped altogether. Because of the actions of adoptive parents like the mother mentioned above these 700,000 children may never find their forever families.
As someone who has made this adoption journey I can tell you that the blame lies in a variety of places. Maybe the adoption agency didn't thoroughly explain the issues often related with bringing an institutionalized child into your home. Maybe the required pre adoption parenting classes didn't cover bonding and behavior management as well as they should have. Maybe the orphanage wasn't able to create an atmosphere in which children learn what it's like to feel love. Maybe the adoptive parents wanted a child so badly that they chose to ignore the warnings of what all can go wrong. One thing is obvious- these parents, and others, like Torry Hansen, were not prepared. And they were not invested in becoming the kind of parent a child needs in order to be prepared for life.
I can say this because it happened to me. I wasn't 100% prepared for my tiny toddler. I had his room ready and the baby toys had been brought up from the basement, washed, and added to the toy box. The tiny clothes had been put into the drawers in the baby's new room and his older brother had been prepared for the new addition to the family. I had taken the classes and my adoption agency had been very clear about the issues we may face. I had read the books and, maybe most importantly, I had done this once before. I knew how to parent, I knew how to bond, I was confident in my abilities to mother my new son. But in hind sight, I was not 100% prepared.
Our second adoption journey was very different from our first one. The paperwork was different. The hoops we had to jump through were a little higher. The trips were a little more difficult and the things we saw were a little harder to see. And I was just as naive as I was the first time around. I expected that if I followed the rules about bonding and just loved this child, the outcome would be just as amazing as it was the first time, with our oldest son. And I was wrong.
Maybe it was post adoption depression, which I firmly believe I was experiencing for months after returning home. Maybe it was the fact that the tiny toddler was 9 months older than his brother was when he came home. It may not sound like a long time but the difference between a 15 month old baby and a 24 month old toddler can be astounding. Maybe it was the lifestyle differences; the tiny toddler had more ability to roam around his little hallway at the orphanage and had experienced the need to fight for food and toys and love. The big five year old had been taught from birth to sit quietly in his crib and wait for the busy nanny to hand him a bottle or carry him to the bath. It is quite possible that he rarely played with toys or spent time with the other babies in a social setting. One learned to cling to love when it was offered and one learned to fight and push it away.
So I was caught off guard, initially, when we opened our front door off that plane from Russia and walked into what felt like someone else's life. But I had been prepared, at least a little. I had the knowledge to solve the problem and I had the resources to help me. I, like 90% of adoptive parents, did what had to be done. I got a handle on the situation. I worked with my husband. I learned to walk away when the frustration got to be too much. I learned to take deep breaths while holding the refrigerator door closed when the little guy wanted to dump it's contents on the floor. I learned to duck from his swinging arms and to hold him so he could see my eyes but couldn't hit me. I had never done those things before. Teaching a toddler to trust and love when he had been burned every time he gave that trust away before was the hardest thing I have ever done. And there are days that I feel I'm not done yet. But through all of it, I never once thought that I made a mistake. I never once thought of not parenting this child. I am his mother. Period. I shed a lot of tears, but through it all, I loved him.
And I am nothing special. I am no different from nearly every other adoptive mother out there. We all understand that there is no difference between biological children and adoptive ones. We know that you get what you get. We know that behavior and health issues could pop up at any time and just because we adopted our child doesn't mean we have any less responsibility.
We fight for our right to parent our children like every other mother. We get upset when we are referred to as "adoptive parents" or when we are asked if our children are "real". We stand up for our rights when the hospital wants us to show the court paperwork that proves our child is ours. We point out that biological parents don't have to prove these things. We cringe when our children are introduced by their adoption status or birth country. "This is Matthew, he's from China." ugg. You never hear, "This is little Johnny, he was born in Akron, Ohio at Akron General Hospital." Yes, we have a lot to fight for, where our kids are concerned. And we do it gladly, because we love our kids. But we can't have it both ways. We can't fight for equality if we don't perceive our children as truly "ours". And it is obvious that the adoptive parents who make the news, the ones who hurt their kids or try to "give them back" do not feel the same way.
Help is out there. There are books and doctors and social workers and other mommies who have been there. There is somewhere to turn. There is never a reason to do anything to hurt your kids. And make no mistake, no matter how they came into your life, they are your kids. As my big five year old often says, "You get what you get and you don't throw a fit." Well said, little man.
 | ||
| aren't they just adorable? |
These twins seem to be the latest in the bad adoption news coming out of Russia. These 15 month old babies were allegedly left on a freezing Russian Street by their American adoptive mother with a note stating she had given them up. Children are not to be discarded, people. Birth mothers may "give up" their children but they normally do so with a plan. It is important that you understand the difference. I am not bashing responsible birth mothers who are realistic enough to know they cannot parent their child and make a plan, out of love. I am eternally thankful to the two birth mothers I will never know who gave me the best gifts of my life, my boys.
Statistics are all over the place but I can say with some confidence that there are approximately 700,000 children living in Russian orphanages and foster homes. And that is just one country. There are children needing parents all over the world, including right here in America. And there are families working their way through the adoption process as you read this, families for whom the adoption process may now be stalled or totally stopped altogether. Because of the actions of adoptive parents like the mother mentioned above these 700,000 children may never find their forever families.
As someone who has made this adoption journey I can tell you that the blame lies in a variety of places. Maybe the adoption agency didn't thoroughly explain the issues often related with bringing an institutionalized child into your home. Maybe the required pre adoption parenting classes didn't cover bonding and behavior management as well as they should have. Maybe the orphanage wasn't able to create an atmosphere in which children learn what it's like to feel love. Maybe the adoptive parents wanted a child so badly that they chose to ignore the warnings of what all can go wrong. One thing is obvious- these parents, and others, like Torry Hansen, were not prepared. And they were not invested in becoming the kind of parent a child needs in order to be prepared for life.
I can say this because it happened to me. I wasn't 100% prepared for my tiny toddler. I had his room ready and the baby toys had been brought up from the basement, washed, and added to the toy box. The tiny clothes had been put into the drawers in the baby's new room and his older brother had been prepared for the new addition to the family. I had taken the classes and my adoption agency had been very clear about the issues we may face. I had read the books and, maybe most importantly, I had done this once before. I knew how to parent, I knew how to bond, I was confident in my abilities to mother my new son. But in hind sight, I was not 100% prepared.
Our second adoption journey was very different from our first one. The paperwork was different. The hoops we had to jump through were a little higher. The trips were a little more difficult and the things we saw were a little harder to see. And I was just as naive as I was the first time around. I expected that if I followed the rules about bonding and just loved this child, the outcome would be just as amazing as it was the first time, with our oldest son. And I was wrong.
Maybe it was post adoption depression, which I firmly believe I was experiencing for months after returning home. Maybe it was the fact that the tiny toddler was 9 months older than his brother was when he came home. It may not sound like a long time but the difference between a 15 month old baby and a 24 month old toddler can be astounding. Maybe it was the lifestyle differences; the tiny toddler had more ability to roam around his little hallway at the orphanage and had experienced the need to fight for food and toys and love. The big five year old had been taught from birth to sit quietly in his crib and wait for the busy nanny to hand him a bottle or carry him to the bath. It is quite possible that he rarely played with toys or spent time with the other babies in a social setting. One learned to cling to love when it was offered and one learned to fight and push it away.
So I was caught off guard, initially, when we opened our front door off that plane from Russia and walked into what felt like someone else's life. But I had been prepared, at least a little. I had the knowledge to solve the problem and I had the resources to help me. I, like 90% of adoptive parents, did what had to be done. I got a handle on the situation. I worked with my husband. I learned to walk away when the frustration got to be too much. I learned to take deep breaths while holding the refrigerator door closed when the little guy wanted to dump it's contents on the floor. I learned to duck from his swinging arms and to hold him so he could see my eyes but couldn't hit me. I had never done those things before. Teaching a toddler to trust and love when he had been burned every time he gave that trust away before was the hardest thing I have ever done. And there are days that I feel I'm not done yet. But through all of it, I never once thought that I made a mistake. I never once thought of not parenting this child. I am his mother. Period. I shed a lot of tears, but through it all, I loved him.
And I am nothing special. I am no different from nearly every other adoptive mother out there. We all understand that there is no difference between biological children and adoptive ones. We know that you get what you get. We know that behavior and health issues could pop up at any time and just because we adopted our child doesn't mean we have any less responsibility.
We fight for our right to parent our children like every other mother. We get upset when we are referred to as "adoptive parents" or when we are asked if our children are "real". We stand up for our rights when the hospital wants us to show the court paperwork that proves our child is ours. We point out that biological parents don't have to prove these things. We cringe when our children are introduced by their adoption status or birth country. "This is Matthew, he's from China." ugg. You never hear, "This is little Johnny, he was born in Akron, Ohio at Akron General Hospital." Yes, we have a lot to fight for, where our kids are concerned. And we do it gladly, because we love our kids. But we can't have it both ways. We can't fight for equality if we don't perceive our children as truly "ours". And it is obvious that the adoptive parents who make the news, the ones who hurt their kids or try to "give them back" do not feel the same way.
Help is out there. There are books and doctors and social workers and other mommies who have been there. There is somewhere to turn. There is never a reason to do anything to hurt your kids. And make no mistake, no matter how they came into your life, they are your kids. As my big five year old often says, "You get what you get and you don't throw a fit." Well said, little man.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
it's a lot of responsibility, this parenting gig
The other day I received a very thoughtful card in the mail from my mother in law. She had remembered that one year ago today, around this time, we were burying my mother. She sent me a thinking of you card, in which she wrote that she was happy that I was a part of her family. It was, by far, the single nicest thing that anyone had done for me in a while.
I was still thinking about this thoughtful gesture when I picked up my boys from daycare/preschool that afternoon. On the way out of the church I told my son about the card I had received from his grandmother and I asked him if knew what Grandma had been feeling when she sent it to me. We talked about compassion and empathy. Later that evening at the dinner table I asked my big four and a half year old if he could tell Daddy what feeling Grandma had when she sent me the card. He couldn't. But he could say that Grandma was thinking about Mommy and that it made Mommy feel good. I'll take it.
I talk to my boys a lot about what we are feeling. And about what other people are feeling. And about our role in what others are feeling. I believe that understanding how we feel and how our actions impact how others feel is the foundation for raising compassionate, caring, and loving boys. I believe that boys need to be allowed to be boys- to run and jump and lay on the sidewalk looking at bugs. I want my boys to climb trees and play football and get dirty. But I also want them to appreciate music and feel the power and satisfaction of creating music. I want them to read and be able to appreciate, if not like, art. I want them to be well rounded. And that includes compassion.
The same day that I received the thoughtful message from my mother in law a friend of mine posted on facebook a status update about bullying in elementary school. A discussion ensued and one theme was prominent ~ none of us really remember kids being mean to each other when we were in elementary school. And it got me thinking. This is why I want my boys to understand compassion and empathy. I know there is a fine line between raising confident boys and raising bullies.
I also know that I have sons who may one day be the target of a bully. My big four and a half year old has a crooked little nose that is pushed in one side, a casualty of his cleft lip and palate. One day it will be repaired. But he has already come home from preschool asking why his nose is different that his friends'. The jump from 4 year old friends innocently asking him why his nose is different to a 5 year old bully mocking him for it is not a huge leap.
I know both my boys might one day face a pint size accuser calling them out on their heritage or on the fact that their mommy isn't "real". There is a real chance that my boys might be bullied. I also am not so unaware as to assume that my boys won't ever be the bully. Which is why now, when I see the chance to teach them about compassion, I seize it.
Last week when I picked up my big four and a half year old from school he and his friends were running races in the gym. My little guy is fast. He might not have noticed how his winning every footrace was making one of his friends sad, but I did. When we got to the car I asked if he had noticed. (He hadn't.) I asked if he could think of something he could do to make his friend feel better. (he couldn't.) We then brainstormed about skills his friend has that he could compliment. We came up with one, and he promised to try to remember to mention it the next day. Who knows if he did or not, but at least he thought about it. At least, for a few minutes during our car ride home, he thought about how when he wins, which is awesome, someone else loses, which is not so awesome for them. At least, for a minute, he thought about how he could make someone else feel better about themselves.
It's a start. It's a lot of responsibility, this parenting gig. I don't want my boys to be bullied as they navigate the already difficult world of growing up. But I don't want them to be the bully either. I want them to be confident and strong. But not so strong that they are hateful. I want so many things for my boys that it sometimes overwhelms me. The good news is that I am in control of at least a little part of their destiny. I believe the end of bullying starts at home. By teaching, and sharing, and talking, and living my words every day. Even the two year old knows how to say he is sorry. And I know when I first started making him say it when he hit his brother or threw something at my head that he had no clue what it meant. But now he says it while gently rubbing my arm, or while giving his older brother a little hug. Now he knows what it means to be sorry- he knows that he hurt someone and he has to make it right. And that is a good first step.
I was still thinking about this thoughtful gesture when I picked up my boys from daycare/preschool that afternoon. On the way out of the church I told my son about the card I had received from his grandmother and I asked him if knew what Grandma had been feeling when she sent it to me. We talked about compassion and empathy. Later that evening at the dinner table I asked my big four and a half year old if he could tell Daddy what feeling Grandma had when she sent me the card. He couldn't. But he could say that Grandma was thinking about Mommy and that it made Mommy feel good. I'll take it.
I talk to my boys a lot about what we are feeling. And about what other people are feeling. And about our role in what others are feeling. I believe that understanding how we feel and how our actions impact how others feel is the foundation for raising compassionate, caring, and loving boys. I believe that boys need to be allowed to be boys- to run and jump and lay on the sidewalk looking at bugs. I want my boys to climb trees and play football and get dirty. But I also want them to appreciate music and feel the power and satisfaction of creating music. I want them to read and be able to appreciate, if not like, art. I want them to be well rounded. And that includes compassion.
The same day that I received the thoughtful message from my mother in law a friend of mine posted on facebook a status update about bullying in elementary school. A discussion ensued and one theme was prominent ~ none of us really remember kids being mean to each other when we were in elementary school. And it got me thinking. This is why I want my boys to understand compassion and empathy. I know there is a fine line between raising confident boys and raising bullies.
I also know that I have sons who may one day be the target of a bully. My big four and a half year old has a crooked little nose that is pushed in one side, a casualty of his cleft lip and palate. One day it will be repaired. But he has already come home from preschool asking why his nose is different that his friends'. The jump from 4 year old friends innocently asking him why his nose is different to a 5 year old bully mocking him for it is not a huge leap.
I know both my boys might one day face a pint size accuser calling them out on their heritage or on the fact that their mommy isn't "real". There is a real chance that my boys might be bullied. I also am not so unaware as to assume that my boys won't ever be the bully. Which is why now, when I see the chance to teach them about compassion, I seize it.
Last week when I picked up my big four and a half year old from school he and his friends were running races in the gym. My little guy is fast. He might not have noticed how his winning every footrace was making one of his friends sad, but I did. When we got to the car I asked if he had noticed. (He hadn't.) I asked if he could think of something he could do to make his friend feel better. (he couldn't.) We then brainstormed about skills his friend has that he could compliment. We came up with one, and he promised to try to remember to mention it the next day. Who knows if he did or not, but at least he thought about it. At least, for a few minutes during our car ride home, he thought about how when he wins, which is awesome, someone else loses, which is not so awesome for them. At least, for a minute, he thought about how he could make someone else feel better about themselves.
It's a start. It's a lot of responsibility, this parenting gig. I don't want my boys to be bullied as they navigate the already difficult world of growing up. But I don't want them to be the bully either. I want them to be confident and strong. But not so strong that they are hateful. I want so many things for my boys that it sometimes overwhelms me. The good news is that I am in control of at least a little part of their destiny. I believe the end of bullying starts at home. By teaching, and sharing, and talking, and living my words every day. Even the two year old knows how to say he is sorry. And I know when I first started making him say it when he hit his brother or threw something at my head that he had no clue what it meant. But now he says it while gently rubbing my arm, or while giving his older brother a little hug. Now he knows what it means to be sorry- he knows that he hurt someone and he has to make it right. And that is a good first step.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
if you can't talk right now, don't pick up your phone!
I normally use this forum to blog about the absurdity that is my life. Funny stories about my boys, how joyful I find being a mother. Sometimes I write about how hard it is to walk that tightrope that is "working mother". What I don't usually write about are things that bother me. So stand back, I am getting up on my soap box. I had to dust it off, since I so rarely use it.
Now I know you might find this little rant silly. But stay with me. Here goes.
If you can't talk, right now, then DON'T PICK UP YOUR PHONE!
There, I said it. Whew. Why do some people do this? Just because we all have cell phones attached to our bodies doesn't mean we have to answer every single call that comes through. When did we become slaves to our electronics? How did this happen? We used to leave our telephones behind every morning when we left our homes, and who may or may not have called remained a mystery all day long. If someone really needed to get a hold of us they could leave us a message. And we lived in the moment.
Those of you who know me well know that I am just as attached to my blackberry as the next person. I usually have my phone in my pocket, which is how I keep butt dialing my good friend Karen. I use the word "facebook" as a verb. I use my drive time to return calls. If I am alone, that is. If the kids are with me I might call my husband, to check on what time he'll be home for dinner or to ask him to bring home milk. Or toilet paper. How do we always keep running out of toilet paper? What I don't do is call a friend to chat unless I can actually chat. And I don't pick up my phone just because it is ringing. If I don't have the time to take the call, and it is not an emergency, then I don't need to answer it. And it absolutely drives me crazy that some people do need to.
So, in the future, I would appreciate the following:
Oh, and rest assured, friends of mine. I'm not talking about any of you...
Now I know you might find this little rant silly. But stay with me. Here goes.
If you can't talk, right now, then DON'T PICK UP YOUR PHONE!
There, I said it. Whew. Why do some people do this? Just because we all have cell phones attached to our bodies doesn't mean we have to answer every single call that comes through. When did we become slaves to our electronics? How did this happen? We used to leave our telephones behind every morning when we left our homes, and who may or may not have called remained a mystery all day long. If someone really needed to get a hold of us they could leave us a message. And we lived in the moment.
Those of you who know me well know that I am just as attached to my blackberry as the next person. I usually have my phone in my pocket, which is how I keep butt dialing my good friend Karen. I use the word "facebook" as a verb. I use my drive time to return calls. If I am alone, that is. If the kids are with me I might call my husband, to check on what time he'll be home for dinner or to ask him to bring home milk. Or toilet paper. How do we always keep running out of toilet paper? What I don't do is call a friend to chat unless I can actually chat. And I don't pick up my phone just because it is ringing. If I don't have the time to take the call, and it is not an emergency, then I don't need to answer it. And it absolutely drives me crazy that some people do need to.
So, in the future, I would appreciate the following:
- If the first words you plan to say after I say "hi, it's me", are "I can't talk right now", then don't answer your phone. Here's something you maybe hadn't thought of - I most likely had a reason for calling you. I would much rather be afforded the opportunity to speak to your voice mail than to be hung up by you. Let me leave my message!
- you: "Hello?" me: "Hi, it's me." you: "I can't talk right now I am in a meeting." If you have ever been the one in the meeting then, please, dear God, take a class on organization. Picking up your phone simply to tell me that you can't speak to me right now isn't helping either one of us. Look, we are all busy. You don't need to prove your business to me.
- If you are at dinner at a restaurant, shopping at WalMart, or in the bathroom, just let the phone ring. And yes, I did have someone pick up the phone while in the bathroom. And no, I am not sure if they were in a stall or not. I didn't ask.
- Lock Your Phone! This one is for me. I keep pocket dialling a good friend. Last time she heard me singing me with my boys. ack.
Oh, and rest assured, friends of mine. I'm not talking about any of you...
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