The natural state of childhood .....

Sooooo -- on another blog, I was just told that "The natural state of childhood is lack of choice."

This was in reference to comments I posted about my desire to have my adoption annulled.  Of course, other respondents gave me the same, tired, suggestions that I've heard so many times before:  

• Just change your name
• Just find someone else to adopt you

Ugh.

I'm 58 years old, folks!  I don't WANT to be re-adopted.  Even if I DID, I'm too damned old.

And I've already changed my name through the courts, thank you very much.  That doesn't change the fact that the people listed on my birth certificates as my "parents" are not, and shouldn't be granted that title.  The knowledge that when I die, their names will also go on my death certificate?  Infuriating.

Here's the thing.  Let's suppose that once you got married, the law said you couldn't get divorced unless you were going to immediately marry someone else.  Once you said "I do," single life is no longer an option for you.  Ever.

Does that sound right to you?  

That's what adoption is, except the initial choice (the contract) isn't something you agree to -- others made the decision for you.

Here's perhaps a better analogy.  Suppose, when you're born, your parents decide that you should marry someone they've picked out for you.  They sign a contract stating that you will marry John (or Jane) on a specific date, and John's (or Jane's) parents sign a similar contract saying their child will marry you.

Should you be bound by that contract?  I'm pretty sure you'll say no.  And why?  Because someone else is determining your future for you, without allowing you to have any say in the matter.

Ahem.  Just like adoption.

But adoption is OK because "The natural state of childhood is lack of choice," right?

Right.  

As Maine goes .....

..... so goes the nation?

This story has been circulating widely in the adoption community since it appeared yesterday:

Bill to outlaw rehoming of adopted children to become law

and it's being celebrated as a long-overdue mandate.

Two years ago, Reuters published a series of articles on the underground practice of rehoming adopted children (The Child Exchange).  Most Americans were unaware that this was happening, and certainly unaware that it was going on without legal oversight of any kind.

The children most affected by this practice typically have been adopted from overseas, and out of infancy.  Chances are, they have spent some length of time in an orphanage or other institutional care and, as a result, have developed behaviors that make it nearly impossible for them to integrate into a traditional family.  Perhaps they have medical or health issues that will require extensive treatment in order for them to lead normal lives.  

Many times, would-be adopters are not informed of these behavior and health issues, or they naively assume that "love conquers all" and that once "their child" is home, all will be well.

"Love conquers all"

Father's Day .....

Today -- June 21, 2015 -- is celebrated as Father's Day here in the U.S.  So I thought I'd talk about my birth father.

Very early in this blog, I shared the little I know about his life prior to and during his marriage to my mother.  They were married for a few years, and most of the time he was away at sea.  He was home enough to sire four children (twins in 1956, me in 1957, my younger brother in 1958), but walked out on our family sometime between my birth and my brother's.

A few years ago I came across a handful of photos that my mother had sent to my grandparents. Included among them were some pictures of my birth father doing various activities (in one he was hanging wet diapers on a clothesline and was captioned something like "And he swore he would never wash diapers").  I kept them for a while, then sent them all to my sister.

I did keep one photograph, though, just so that I'd have something to remind me where I come from.  Every now and then I pull it out and stare at it. Do I look like him?  Do I act like him?  What part(s) of me came from him?

Dear old dad, circa 1955

Just do it .....

Although I thought, and wrote, multiple times about suicide, I never actually attempted it.  However, I did attempt to attempt it once.

I'm not sure the exact date, but it was prior to the wedding of my uncle's daughter, because she was temporarily living at home.  She wed in June, 1971, so I was 13 years old -- 14 at most.  What precipitated the attempt is lost to me now, as is why this one night was so much worse than any that preceded it.

What I do know is that on that one night, I was lying in bed and crying so hard that I was unable to sleep.  I was tired of crying ... tired of being miserable ... tired of everything.  I got out of bed and went to the bathroom. Years later, my uncle's daughter would tell me that she always knew where her mother's pills were kept, in case she ever decided to make an attempt herself, but I wasn't that savvy.  All I knew was that in the bathroom, I'd find the key that would let me escape my unhappiness.

The key

Nancy and me .....

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I wasn't able to take showers while living in my uncle's house.  There was a bathroom on the top floor, where the kids' bedrooms were located, but the shower head had been removed and therefore the tub was only usable for baths.  Even now, I don't mind an occasional long soak, but I'm simply not -- now or then -- the kind of person who enjoys a daily bath.

Before moving there, I'd showered every night -- long and hard -- often using up all the hot water.  Then suddenly that pleasure was taken away from me, and I was extremely unhappy.  So I stopped bathing.  I'd run water in the tub, then sit on the toilet reading a book for 30 minutes or so; I'd then put on my nightgown, go downstairs and proclaim that, yes, I HAD taken a bath.

My uncle's wife was no fool and she rarely believed me.  The first time I tried to pull this off, she stuck her hand up inside my nightgown to see if my skin was damp.  I was shocked and, I believe, said something snarkily inappropriate.  Other times, she would simply walk into the bathroom, unannounced, to see if I was actually in the tub.  The times that I WAS in the tub, I'd make a similarly snarky comment.

While I understood that she wanted me to bathe, I didn't believe her methods were appropriate.  I also didn't believe that it was fair that I was being forced to do something that no one else was required to do.  (And if they'd simply allowed me to shower, it wouldn't have been an issue. Really.)

My uncle regularly threatened to cut my hair if I didn't keep it clean.  My hair, strawberry blonde and hanging to the middle of my back, was my one good feature, and I angrily warned him that he'd better not touch it.  Fortunately, he never did.

Baths, and my lack of cleanliness would be ongoing issues for quite a while.

Sometime prior to moving in with him, my uncle had given an idea to artist, Ernie Bushmiller, who drew the "Nancy" comic strips.  Bushmiller used the idea and sent the original artwork, autographed,  to my uncle. He had it framed and displayed it proudly.

For my 11th birthday, the first in my uncle's house, I received a gift that was long, narrow, and fragile.  When I opened it, I found a framed, autographed, Nancy comic strip of my own.  In the first frame, Nancy is sitting in the bathtub, and says "I hate taking baths."  The second frame adds "Every day is too much!" In the third frame, she confronts Aunt Fritzi with "From now on, no more baths!"

And the final frame:

Ha ha ha that's SO funny.

As my uncle laughed heartily, I curled my lip in a sneer.  It wasn't funny to me then, and it's not funny to me now. Even at 11, I recognized that they were mocking me and having a good laugh at my expense.  I didn't appreciate the "humor" and HATED the gift.

Of course, that didn't matter; they just continued to believe that I was ungrateful and spoiled. My uncle hung the comic strip on the wall in my bedroom, where I was forced to look at it on a daily basis until they shipped me away a few years later.

I still have that comic strip, though I took it out of its frame years ago.  I thought perhaps I could sell it as comic art, but apparently no one else thinks it's funny, either, and I've never received an offer.  It's currently hidden away in a drawer, and I think the next time I stumble across it I'll take it out and burn it.

Did I mention that I HATE it?