In Which Our Hero Is Kind of a Downer

I’ve been reading more and more adoption blogs recently—I should start adding names to my blogroll, I guess, as it is sadly incomplete. Of course, there are some I read that I wouldn’t link other people to: blogs whose authors have points of view that I find offensive. Yes, I often keep reading…but probably I shouldn’t.

Sometimes I write whole posts and delete them because I worry that I’m just rehashing old territory. I should either be a mother or not at all a mother right now, the limbo is my fault: check. I feel ambivalent about visits: check. Sometimes I cry about Cricket but I never tell his mom that: check. What more can I say?

I mean this blog to be mostly a space for me to work things out—so maybe if the same things keep coming up when I sit down to write, I should just write them out, see whether I can say or see something new. On the other hand, does it really benefit me to indulge myself in a sad sack game of broken record? I honestly don’t know what the best course is.

There have been so many little kids on the planes this trip. The first I saw were a pair of (I assume) transracially adopted little kids, a boy and a girl, two and four years old. They were adorable, and I let their family in the queue ahead of me and then valiantly didn’t watch the kids as they chatted with their parents and looked around. At some point (yes, I know how bad this is), I decided that if someone noticed me watching the kids and babies and asked whether I had or wanted any, I would tell them that I had a son stillborn last year. What is wrong with me? I’m glad that it didn’t come up—even though I did end up chatting with a few of the moms when their kids ran up to me, or into me—I would, I’m sure, feel even worse if I’d actually lied instead of just planning to. Usually I just tell people that I don’t have any kids.

I sometimes realize that I could end up bitter about the adoption, but have to acknowledge that if I do, it will be entirely my own fault. On some level, I loathe myself for making that decision—for even being able to make that decision. Shortly before our wedding, Mr. Book was treated to some no-doubt-delightful sobbing phone calls along the lines of “what the f%ck is wrong with me that I could do this,” and you know what? I haven’t really resolved that question to my satisfaction. Did I place give Cricket up because I thought it was the best thing for him? Yes, and.

I don’t know that any of my questions have one-word answers anymore.


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