Upon rereading my last blog entry, I noticed that I had left out a lot about the meeting, the restaurant, and the night that I drove up to Greensboro. If this is to ever go to publishing I better not leave anything out.
I can just imagine the editor's red strike throughs and abundancy of notes and suggestions, "expand- this needs more detail," common notes I received in college in writing classes I selfishly embarked on even though I knew the credits had nothing to do with obtaining my degree. It ultimately didn't matter anyway, since I dropped out my senior year.
I will go back to finish sometime. Probably next year since my company will absorb 90% of the costs, and the fact that I am both a single mom and a homeowner, somehow increases my odds of becoming a scholarship recipient.
I guess the fact that Sarah has only one cool killer mom instead of possibly one lazy mother and another drunk dad, she is somehow against the odds of being "normal" and a consummate contributor to society. I'm not sure how society can claim that she is "at risk," considering that there are many children out there who suffer more from having two parents still married to eachother, still living under the same roof, and hating eachother, spilling disgust all throughout their house, while in front of their poor children, who will really suffer in the long run. But somehow, Sarah is, "at risk". If it means I get more scholarship help, I guess I'll put up with a stereotypical demograph for the time being. That was a rant, and off the subject. Sorry for that. I guess I get carried away sometimes.
So back to the restaurant. When I walked in from the rain, which incessantly kissed my windshield the entire way there, and back. I was a little relieved, and nervous, to have finally made it. Driving through Greensboro was intense.
Much like Charlotte, Greensboro has many main roads that are like highways, with many exits and on ramps and neighborhoods which hug the side of most of them, which always makes traffic particularly hairy. I was shuffling through my overcrowded, brown leather purse looking for the crumpled up sheet of paper that I had last minute printed off my office printer.
Mapquest is not always the best choice. In fact, I go with Google Maps myself, but for some reason it was not loading at 3:55 when I decided I best find out how to get to the restaurant. I guess my mind was still not wrapped around the fact that I have a fancy phone that has 4G Navigation on it. And good thing, because for some reason, probably due to user error, it wasn't working anyway.
Forget about getting the directions to the CHS. I had already made up my mind I would follow some unlikely suspect over.
Thank God, it was so close. The way the weather was, I could have easily gotten lost, even though I did live in that city for a long time by my standards. Greensboro kinda sucks.
I expected my memory to be better. Note to self, your memory sucks, too.
There was a funny incident at the restaurant that I left out. I think I mentioned that it was a Mexican restaurant, which I think to most American's means, there were hardly any fluent English speaking waiters. I appologize if that sounds racist, but in all fairness, I think that statement is pretty accurate. If you are a margarita connoisseur like I am, you make it a point not to discriminate against any margarita selling establishment within a 25 mile range of your house, or job.
When I noticed that the time was getting short, and we were down to three of us left at the restaurant, and I had over half of my small margarita left to quickly, but assuredly be consummed (to ease my nerves, of course), I had think quickly.
The ladies were rushing me to eat because they didn't want to be late, which is understandable.
They both had driven a long distance as well. Actually, I think just the mother did. She drove from Jacksonville. NC. Which is a pretty long drive. I think the birthdaughter lives in Greensboro, as I now stand corrected.
When I noticed that my waiter, who was in no rush to get back to my table, but who didn't mind giving me the goo-goo eyes, and one up when I first walked in, I had to, what some might call spastically, wave my arm to get the attention of one of the other waiters who was apparently holding up the wall on the other side of the small, dimly lit room. A family sitting beside us had just been sung what I'm imaging was a birthday song, by the group of short waiters. He was wearing an unusually large sombrero, and his face was filled with laughter and I could tell he may have been a margarita connoisseur himself.
There were at least three waiters herded together, no doubt, laughing at some unsuspecting patron of the restaurant. I used to be a waitress. That is very common, I'm embarrassed to admit. They pretended not to see me, and when finally, one locked eyes with me, he acted like he didn't speak non-verbal English either. He shook his head. He was not going to help me.
I had to stand up right before I stomped on his foot. Just joking, but that would have been too funny.
Instead, I did what all annoyed restaurant patrons do when their waiter sucks. I got up and got it myself. But unlike most annoyed patrons, I left a good tip despite his lack of attentiveness.
In my opinion all people should be forced to wait tables at least once in their lives, even if, for only one night.
What demanding and unendingly rude restaurant patrons don't understand, is that a server's job is not to make you happy. It's to serve you food. I can't tell you enough, how many people go to restaurants to take out all their aggressions on the server. It's a sad display of character, and unfortunately it happens more than you think.
An ongoing diary of my quest to find my biological relatives, at age 35, and as a single mom.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Support Group
It has been some time since I've shared anything recent on my quest. I have been neglectful in ways more than the obvious lack of posts. Although, I did sign up to be a writer for the Examiner.com's local adoption page, I have yet to make one entry. The Examiner is an online publication that posts local writers' articles on a variety of subjects. It was my thought that I would probably copy a few of my entries here, and make it an editorial-ish page.
The Examiner, which I somehow stumbled across while flipping through the world wide web, claims to be supreme in readership attraction and promotion, delivering increasingly consuming audiences and in some cases ultimately leading to book publication. We'll see about that. I'm not taking odds yet.
I decided I would give it a shot, just to see what kind of numbers I can generate as far as hits. I have somehow become a hit junkie. I keep finding myself logging into Blogger even when I haven't published anything recently, just to see if my numbers are increasing. Somehow they are, which pleases me. I finally made it to the 1000 mark. I don't know if that is a wimpy number in the grand scheme of bloggerdome, but to me, it's somewhat of an accomplishment. It's really just a round number, but still.
I've seen some blogs out there that made me shudder to think they have regular readership. One recent winner of most read blog on Blogger is a page by some Asian woman who describes putting on make-up. My God. What is that about? Moreso, who gives a rat's ass? Someone does I suppose, just not this chic.
Instead, the competition for the most hits of a blog really is not dependent upon the actual content as much as it is the intensity of promotion being emitted- the advertising. That is sad, but not surprising, considering that most of what you see on tv is junk, and most of what People Magazine writes about is smut and questionably credible. We are a society that follows others, not as freethinking as we wish and sometimes claim to be. I can't speak for anyone but myself, but I want to be opposite of the norm. Being normal doesn't work. I won't elaborate, don't think I need to.
So, I decided to go to a support group in Greensboro at the urging of Karen, the former Post Adoption counselor at the Children's Home Society. Sure, Greensboro is 95 miles from Charlotte, and it was a school night, and raining enough to irritate the roaches and force worms out of their homes at alarming rates, but it wasn't enough to hinder me. The meeting started at 7 as I recall. I got there early and met the regulars at La Bamba for some authentic Mexican dinner beforehand. The invitation was extended, and I have trouble saying no to any sort of social gathering, especially when the people that would be meeting for dinner were all somehow tied to adoption, by either being a birthparent, adoptee, or adoptive mother. All areas were represented by this seemingly normal crowd.
Had I not gotten the call from the mediator/facilitator of the group, Francie, who also happens to be a licensed counselor at the CHS and a reunited adoptee herself, I might have put it off for one more month. I won't go back until December, when they have the Christmas party. Next month is movie night. Greensboro is simply too far to drive for a movie. I like movies as much as the next gal, but Netflix might boast the same movie, and I can certainly rent it and maybe in their honor watch it on the same night and hold a silent vigil from my comfy green couch with the squishy salmon colored down stuffed pillows that I can scrunch under my neck just perfectly.
When I finally made it to the restaurant where a few members of the group meet for dinner every second Tuesday of the month, I was somewhat jittery feeling, which is not me. I was shaking when I was applying my lipstick, as if I had gone out the night before and really tied one on (not the case, if you were wondering.)
I walked in the room that I thought Francie had described, probably looking touristy, with a puzzled look on my face, trying to blindly identify a group of adopted people.
I was expecting the group to be more my age. I'm 35. It was not the case. They were mostly 40ish and over. Immediately, they recognized me, maybe it was my slow walk and full scan of the room. I noticed a few whisper. It was to be expected. After all, I am a newcomer, a foreigner, but somehow still connected, still integrated through the very fabric of adoption, which brings me to have an even deeper respect for the synergy of adoption.
They were curious of how I got there. I was one of them.
After an initial awkwardness, quickly relieved by one of the ladies leaving early to meet the camera crew (I'll explain later), so that I could sit at their table, things felt comfortable again. Initially, I had to sit alone at a neighboring table because, I assume they had not predicted I would show. I think I maybe have been non-committal in my discussion with Francie that afternoon, since I hadn't made any previous arrangements for Sarah. Thank you Carole. You always come through.
At the table were an adoptee reunion match- both the birthmother and the adoptee drove from different cities to attend, one of which lives in the very city that my birthmother lives, and formerly worked at the same college Colette presently works for. Small world, I agree. There was another older women there, maybe late 60s, early 70s, who was an adoptee, who had never been reunited.
I found it somewhat odd that she still cared. I guess that interpersonal dialouge never subsides. Who am I really? Where am I from? Who gave birth to me? Why can't I know that person?
Another lady, who was a bit stand-offish initially, maybe not friendly is a better way of putting it, because I found that I really liked her when it was all said and done, who was adopted and reunited sat beside me. Her story was amazing to hear and brought me to tears, and has been replayed like a broken record in my mind ever since.
Naturally, since I was new, they flooded me with questions, but were urged by Francie to stop, and to wait until we got to the actual meeting. For the first few minutes, while Francie was there, they only asked me the basics. What do you know? Are you reunited? Does your adoptive family know you are searching? All normal and to be expected questions from people who know the entailments of adoption. I knew it would go down like that. I have been asked the same questions many times over the years, but there is a noticeable difference in the questions adoptees ask versus the questions non adoptees ask. One asks the question, "why are you looking?" The other knows the answer, and asks, "how" instead. The phenomena is quite amazing, and the representation of ideas and strategies revolving around the search are quite expansive depending on who you are talking to.
That night, there was a camera man recording the conversation for the local FOX news station. One of the reporters was doing a three part series on adoption and reunition. She happened to have her own story of adoption. One day she met her full blooded sister, whom her parents had given up for adoption. Incidentally, they ended up married to eachother and had gone on to have more children- one of whom was the reporter.
I was somewhat nervous to tell my story, again, not a character trait of mine normally. I could tell my voice was cracking some. I was steadily trying to have eye contact with all who were at the long cafeteria style table, so as not to leave anyone out, because of my deeply felt connection that was naturally integrated because of our similar stories.
It wasn't until I heard the story of the lady I referred to at the dinner table, that I started to really become emotional.
Her story was this.
She had been adopted. She somehow, she didn't go into the nitty gritty details of the search, found her birthmother. She had an address and instead of knocking on the door, she sat silently in her car out front of her birthmother's house in fear. For six years she didn't have any contact with the birthmother until her phone rang one day, and it was her half sister (I think, I don't know for sure) telling her to come to the hopsital as soon as she could. Her birthmother had been given 3-4 days to live and was in stage 4 lung cancer. Hospice was there, a tell-tale sign that death is near. Because of the birthmother's husband's strong will to keep them separated, I'm guessing driven by fear, the adoptee, let's call her Sam, for some reason she reminded me of a Sam, Sam could never get through to her birthmother. The husband, who was not the birthfather, was acting as a barrier. When she had tried to reach out to her birthmother, he made it impossible for the reunion to take place, filling each of their heads with deceitful and hurtful lies.
As Sam walked into the hospital room in Shelby, NC, where the birthmother resided, the mean old husband tried to stand in her way, prompting his own daughter to stand up to him. She looked him square in the eye with her finger pointed at his nose, and said, "If anyone in this world has a right to be in this hosptal room right now more than you, it's her. You have kept them apart for way too long, and she's going to come in here and meet the woman that gave birth to her. You aren't going to stop her."
He backed off, and let her in. I hope that he finally realized how wrong he had been all those years by intentionally keeping them apart, through his undoubtedly selfish motives.
And you know what? She didn't live the 3-4 days that the doctors had predicted. She lived another 9 months. If that's not will to live, I don't know what is.
She developed a wonderful bond with her birthmother, and now has memories of her, even though she doesn't have her.
I told that story to almost everyone I spoke to at work the next day who knew why I was dipping out at 4 instead of the normal 5. I still revel in the beauty, and had to take a moment to ponder it again while typing it just now.
This makes me think I should not wait any longer.I should print out the letter, and drop it in the mailbox. I don't want her to get sick and die before I ever get to meet her. Wow, I shouldn't be offing her so quickly. That's kind of morbid. Maybe I'll rethink that.
There's more to the meeting, but I am tired. It's 12:45 and I have a lot to do tomorrow.
The Examiner, which I somehow stumbled across while flipping through the world wide web, claims to be supreme in readership attraction and promotion, delivering increasingly consuming audiences and in some cases ultimately leading to book publication. We'll see about that. I'm not taking odds yet.
I decided I would give it a shot, just to see what kind of numbers I can generate as far as hits. I have somehow become a hit junkie. I keep finding myself logging into Blogger even when I haven't published anything recently, just to see if my numbers are increasing. Somehow they are, which pleases me. I finally made it to the 1000 mark. I don't know if that is a wimpy number in the grand scheme of bloggerdome, but to me, it's somewhat of an accomplishment. It's really just a round number, but still.
I've seen some blogs out there that made me shudder to think they have regular readership. One recent winner of most read blog on Blogger is a page by some Asian woman who describes putting on make-up. My God. What is that about? Moreso, who gives a rat's ass? Someone does I suppose, just not this chic.
Instead, the competition for the most hits of a blog really is not dependent upon the actual content as much as it is the intensity of promotion being emitted- the advertising. That is sad, but not surprising, considering that most of what you see on tv is junk, and most of what People Magazine writes about is smut and questionably credible. We are a society that follows others, not as freethinking as we wish and sometimes claim to be. I can't speak for anyone but myself, but I want to be opposite of the norm. Being normal doesn't work. I won't elaborate, don't think I need to.
So, I decided to go to a support group in Greensboro at the urging of Karen, the former Post Adoption counselor at the Children's Home Society. Sure, Greensboro is 95 miles from Charlotte, and it was a school night, and raining enough to irritate the roaches and force worms out of their homes at alarming rates, but it wasn't enough to hinder me. The meeting started at 7 as I recall. I got there early and met the regulars at La Bamba for some authentic Mexican dinner beforehand. The invitation was extended, and I have trouble saying no to any sort of social gathering, especially when the people that would be meeting for dinner were all somehow tied to adoption, by either being a birthparent, adoptee, or adoptive mother. All areas were represented by this seemingly normal crowd.
Had I not gotten the call from the mediator/facilitator of the group, Francie, who also happens to be a licensed counselor at the CHS and a reunited adoptee herself, I might have put it off for one more month. I won't go back until December, when they have the Christmas party. Next month is movie night. Greensboro is simply too far to drive for a movie. I like movies as much as the next gal, but Netflix might boast the same movie, and I can certainly rent it and maybe in their honor watch it on the same night and hold a silent vigil from my comfy green couch with the squishy salmon colored down stuffed pillows that I can scrunch under my neck just perfectly.
When I finally made it to the restaurant where a few members of the group meet for dinner every second Tuesday of the month, I was somewhat jittery feeling, which is not me. I was shaking when I was applying my lipstick, as if I had gone out the night before and really tied one on (not the case, if you were wondering.)
I walked in the room that I thought Francie had described, probably looking touristy, with a puzzled look on my face, trying to blindly identify a group of adopted people.
I was expecting the group to be more my age. I'm 35. It was not the case. They were mostly 40ish and over. Immediately, they recognized me, maybe it was my slow walk and full scan of the room. I noticed a few whisper. It was to be expected. After all, I am a newcomer, a foreigner, but somehow still connected, still integrated through the very fabric of adoption, which brings me to have an even deeper respect for the synergy of adoption.
They were curious of how I got there. I was one of them.
After an initial awkwardness, quickly relieved by one of the ladies leaving early to meet the camera crew (I'll explain later), so that I could sit at their table, things felt comfortable again. Initially, I had to sit alone at a neighboring table because, I assume they had not predicted I would show. I think I maybe have been non-committal in my discussion with Francie that afternoon, since I hadn't made any previous arrangements for Sarah. Thank you Carole. You always come through.
At the table were an adoptee reunion match- both the birthmother and the adoptee drove from different cities to attend, one of which lives in the very city that my birthmother lives, and formerly worked at the same college Colette presently works for. Small world, I agree. There was another older women there, maybe late 60s, early 70s, who was an adoptee, who had never been reunited.
I found it somewhat odd that she still cared. I guess that interpersonal dialouge never subsides. Who am I really? Where am I from? Who gave birth to me? Why can't I know that person?
Another lady, who was a bit stand-offish initially, maybe not friendly is a better way of putting it, because I found that I really liked her when it was all said and done, who was adopted and reunited sat beside me. Her story was amazing to hear and brought me to tears, and has been replayed like a broken record in my mind ever since.
Naturally, since I was new, they flooded me with questions, but were urged by Francie to stop, and to wait until we got to the actual meeting. For the first few minutes, while Francie was there, they only asked me the basics. What do you know? Are you reunited? Does your adoptive family know you are searching? All normal and to be expected questions from people who know the entailments of adoption. I knew it would go down like that. I have been asked the same questions many times over the years, but there is a noticeable difference in the questions adoptees ask versus the questions non adoptees ask. One asks the question, "why are you looking?" The other knows the answer, and asks, "how" instead. The phenomena is quite amazing, and the representation of ideas and strategies revolving around the search are quite expansive depending on who you are talking to.
That night, there was a camera man recording the conversation for the local FOX news station. One of the reporters was doing a three part series on adoption and reunition. She happened to have her own story of adoption. One day she met her full blooded sister, whom her parents had given up for adoption. Incidentally, they ended up married to eachother and had gone on to have more children- one of whom was the reporter.
I was somewhat nervous to tell my story, again, not a character trait of mine normally. I could tell my voice was cracking some. I was steadily trying to have eye contact with all who were at the long cafeteria style table, so as not to leave anyone out, because of my deeply felt connection that was naturally integrated because of our similar stories.
It wasn't until I heard the story of the lady I referred to at the dinner table, that I started to really become emotional.
Her story was this.
She had been adopted. She somehow, she didn't go into the nitty gritty details of the search, found her birthmother. She had an address and instead of knocking on the door, she sat silently in her car out front of her birthmother's house in fear. For six years she didn't have any contact with the birthmother until her phone rang one day, and it was her half sister (I think, I don't know for sure) telling her to come to the hopsital as soon as she could. Her birthmother had been given 3-4 days to live and was in stage 4 lung cancer. Hospice was there, a tell-tale sign that death is near. Because of the birthmother's husband's strong will to keep them separated, I'm guessing driven by fear, the adoptee, let's call her Sam, for some reason she reminded me of a Sam, Sam could never get through to her birthmother. The husband, who was not the birthfather, was acting as a barrier. When she had tried to reach out to her birthmother, he made it impossible for the reunion to take place, filling each of their heads with deceitful and hurtful lies.
As Sam walked into the hospital room in Shelby, NC, where the birthmother resided, the mean old husband tried to stand in her way, prompting his own daughter to stand up to him. She looked him square in the eye with her finger pointed at his nose, and said, "If anyone in this world has a right to be in this hosptal room right now more than you, it's her. You have kept them apart for way too long, and she's going to come in here and meet the woman that gave birth to her. You aren't going to stop her."
He backed off, and let her in. I hope that he finally realized how wrong he had been all those years by intentionally keeping them apart, through his undoubtedly selfish motives.
And you know what? She didn't live the 3-4 days that the doctors had predicted. She lived another 9 months. If that's not will to live, I don't know what is.
She developed a wonderful bond with her birthmother, and now has memories of her, even though she doesn't have her.
I told that story to almost everyone I spoke to at work the next day who knew why I was dipping out at 4 instead of the normal 5. I still revel in the beauty, and had to take a moment to ponder it again while typing it just now.
This makes me think I should not wait any longer.I should print out the letter, and drop it in the mailbox. I don't want her to get sick and die before I ever get to meet her. Wow, I shouldn't be offing her so quickly. That's kind of morbid. Maybe I'll rethink that.
There's more to the meeting, but I am tired. It's 12:45 and I have a lot to do tomorrow.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Figuring it all out...a walk through my adoption search: 10/6/11 Give up your child? I could never.
Figuring it all out...a walk through my adoption search: 10/6/11 Give up your child? I could never.: I realized something this morning, upon waking up at 6am, bright and ugly, and I say ugly because waking up that early is never pretty for m...
10/6/11 Give up your child? I could never.
I realized something this morning, upon waking up at 6am, bright and ugly, and I say ugly because waking up that early is never pretty for me, or for most normal people. I'm convinced that people who wake up naturally at obsenely early hours in the morning like 4 and 5, even 6, are cursed, and should not be trusted, definately should not be looked up to. My questions to those people are these, "When do you go to sleep? And do you consider yourself to be human?"
I realized this morning, as I was scrambling through a medicine cabinet full of old lotion bottles and previous live-in boyfriend's half used deodorant bars and toothbrushes, stained with green toothpaste (that always has grossed me out by the way), that even though there are things in this world that I absolutely abhor, and would full on reject to in a court of law, that I would never give up my child.
I didn't want to slug out of bed at 5:50 because Sarah was coughing. I didn't want to feel my way to the lightswitch through the pile of clean clothes that had somehow rolled onto the floor from the chair that was piled a bit too daringly. It wasn't easy to rip away the covers from my curled up twinkle toes, and peel my cranium from that incredibly comfortably formed pillow structure that took all night to form in a perfect shape that just so perfectly cradled my head.
But I did.
I did it because I love my daughter more. As wonderfully comfortable as my bed is, 500 count thread sheets, down coverlet, NASA generated mattress, it's simply not enough to keep my from being a good mother.
Motherly love is something that can't be screwed with. You can't take it away. You can't strip someone of their feelings, like you're wiping away an embarrassing tear drop that might have formed from watching a Samaritan's Purse commercial with what's her face, Sally something, who got so fat and in my opinion really became a horrible spokesperson for the starving children in Africa.
There's nothing in the world that could ever take away motherly love.
Time can't even touch it.
I was reading something tonight on Facebook that another parent I feel a connection with wrote about losing her infant son 7 years ago, and realized that time doesn't change love either. She clearly still feels love for her child whom she lost, still feels the pangs of loss, and will probably always feel those despite how many other children she might have. And there is nothing wrong with that. She knows it. Her husband knows it.
My mom knows it. We suddenly lost my brother when he was only 20. She didn't stop loving him. She hasn't yet stopped missing him. Neither have I for that matter.
I'm not sure where I was going with this, except that you can not exchange motherly love for anything. And I am truly happy to be a mom, even if it means I have to get up in the middle of the night sometimes only to find barf all over the bed and floor, and spilled food coloring dyed green water all over my brand new cream colored Martha Stewart carpet that I am still paying on. I'm on a no-interest payment plan thankfully, that was sold to me by a very helpful and humble Indian man at Home Depot. I would suggest the store in Matthews over the one on Albermarle Rd.
The birthday parties get rediculous at times. We are on a four a month roll currently, but what can you say? No? Sure you could, but then you wouldn't get to talk about how Sam got stuck on the stairs at Monkey Joes and how Amanda cried all the way home from her shock from seeing Monkey Joe himself, and answering questions about what kind of a person "lives inside" of Monkey Joe is a hoot. You wouldn't have those moments.
Life would be dull without children. My life would be dull without Sarah.
I realized this morning, as I was scrambling through a medicine cabinet full of old lotion bottles and previous live-in boyfriend's half used deodorant bars and toothbrushes, stained with green toothpaste (that always has grossed me out by the way), that even though there are things in this world that I absolutely abhor, and would full on reject to in a court of law, that I would never give up my child.
I didn't want to slug out of bed at 5:50 because Sarah was coughing. I didn't want to feel my way to the lightswitch through the pile of clean clothes that had somehow rolled onto the floor from the chair that was piled a bit too daringly. It wasn't easy to rip away the covers from my curled up twinkle toes, and peel my cranium from that incredibly comfortably formed pillow structure that took all night to form in a perfect shape that just so perfectly cradled my head.
But I did.
I did it because I love my daughter more. As wonderfully comfortable as my bed is, 500 count thread sheets, down coverlet, NASA generated mattress, it's simply not enough to keep my from being a good mother.
Motherly love is something that can't be screwed with. You can't take it away. You can't strip someone of their feelings, like you're wiping away an embarrassing tear drop that might have formed from watching a Samaritan's Purse commercial with what's her face, Sally something, who got so fat and in my opinion really became a horrible spokesperson for the starving children in Africa.
There's nothing in the world that could ever take away motherly love.
Time can't even touch it.
I was reading something tonight on Facebook that another parent I feel a connection with wrote about losing her infant son 7 years ago, and realized that time doesn't change love either. She clearly still feels love for her child whom she lost, still feels the pangs of loss, and will probably always feel those despite how many other children she might have. And there is nothing wrong with that. She knows it. Her husband knows it.
My mom knows it. We suddenly lost my brother when he was only 20. She didn't stop loving him. She hasn't yet stopped missing him. Neither have I for that matter.
I'm not sure where I was going with this, except that you can not exchange motherly love for anything. And I am truly happy to be a mom, even if it means I have to get up in the middle of the night sometimes only to find barf all over the bed and floor, and spilled food coloring dyed green water all over my brand new cream colored Martha Stewart carpet that I am still paying on. I'm on a no-interest payment plan thankfully, that was sold to me by a very helpful and humble Indian man at Home Depot. I would suggest the store in Matthews over the one on Albermarle Rd.
The birthday parties get rediculous at times. We are on a four a month roll currently, but what can you say? No? Sure you could, but then you wouldn't get to talk about how Sam got stuck on the stairs at Monkey Joes and how Amanda cried all the way home from her shock from seeing Monkey Joe himself, and answering questions about what kind of a person "lives inside" of Monkey Joe is a hoot. You wouldn't have those moments.
Life would be dull without children. My life would be dull without Sarah.
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