tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84340513130359469452024-03-05T08:42:58.498-05:00Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)Single, over 30, female, babies on your mind? This is the blog of Single Mothers by Choice, a non-profit networking organization for women who are considering or have chosen single motherhood. We want to share the experiences of our members, from our point of view.Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-61148967474400647972012-07-23T17:11:00.000-04:002012-07-23T17:11:00.310-04:00<span style="font-family: verdana;">The SMC Blog Has Moved!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;">Please join us at our new home: <a href="http://www.singlemothersbychoice.org/community/blog/"><span style="text-decoration: underline;">http://www.singlemothersbychoice.org/blog/</span></a>.
This is now the website of the Single Mothers by Choice organization
and the blog is now incorporated into our web site. We are very excited
about our website and hope you will visit us there soon!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span> <br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;">Jane Mattes</span></div>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-43553346707331529852011-03-12T15:19:00.007-05:002012-07-21T17:09:55.583-04:00The SMC Blog has Moved!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjShQRgCuTIOizMr-r4Nh4XoR2lHFzpggMiD4X8fY4WyJcWIPL-lzt9HLMOgWwJGcTT1HgwbfqxMxEjMr7V0qa0N1Uu6Mw4waTa_v2oFmqV8OztTlVMzarvHWRHGmRbzeC-DMvHOaszWUOz/s1600/med_logo.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583292442086070706" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjShQRgCuTIOizMr-r4Nh4XoR2lHFzpggMiD4X8fY4WyJcWIPL-lzt9HLMOgWwJGcTT1HgwbfqxMxEjMr7V0qa0N1Uu6Mw4waTa_v2oFmqV8OztTlVMzarvHWRHGmRbzeC-DMvHOaszWUOz/s200/med_logo.gif" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 180px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 136px;" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">Please join us at our new home: <a href="http://www.singlemothersbychoice.org/community/blog/"><span style="text-decoration: underline;">http://www.singlemothersbychoice.org/blog/</span></a>. This is the new website of the Single Mothers by Choice organization and the blog is now incorporated into our web site. We are very excited about our new website and hope you will visit us there soon!</span> <br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;">Jane Mattes</span></div>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-53142740136485785462011-03-05T05:08:00.004-05:002011-03-05T05:08:00.065-05:00Freedom Friday: In praise of the single mother<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNFtGow-ZNZcWVpU692X6-CNbvQGr5YSIzQjWOoeqbVgVr7ByMNxZ7qtvBBi876e25eX5wzgWn6w1EvZWel-0uzWtOWG1HqdKl2-qsWWnMkjdLpqs7Lu09FgVFB-cTHY_f2SsJHSZp_-20/s1600/istockphoto_7572431-happy-woman-inspirational.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNFtGow-ZNZcWVpU692X6-CNbvQGr5YSIzQjWOoeqbVgVr7ByMNxZ7qtvBBi876e25eX5wzgWn6w1EvZWel-0uzWtOWG1HqdKl2-qsWWnMkjdLpqs7Lu09FgVFB-cTHY_f2SsJHSZp_-20/s200/istockphoto_7572431-happy-woman-inspirational.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578108898288830866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">Last week I was almost on a radio show. I was asked, by a new ether friend, and single mother sensation, Issa Mass aka SingleMomNYC, and Your Single Parenting, to be the voice of the single mother who celebrates that role and finds the joy in it. I was asked to share things I have learned along the way that make it easier:</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">"What I was hoping you could bring to the conversation were the things that you do (or are discovering), to recharge your batteries, and allow you to find enjoyment, satisfaction and perseverance in this sometimes challenging job of Single Mom. Whether it be mantras you repeat to yourself, physical exercise, time with friends, or anything else be that adds enjoyment to your journey as a single mom, please share your perspective on how you are committed to enjoying your time as a single mom.</span>"<br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Although, as is often the case in the big world, versus the humble world of the blog, things happen, plans shift. Although I was understandably disappointed that the show had been postponed, the offer was a big boost to me in and of itself.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">The morning before the show, when I was looking out at all this snow I had to shovel, on my own, I felt pumped up. Here was a challenge: how do I remove eighteen tons of snow from the neck of my driveway with a bum foot, and two sleeping children I don’t want freaked out if they wake and I’m not here? The story ends with two sleeping boys, a shoveled driveway, and me sitting with my bare feet in the snow on my front steps sipping my instant coffee, thinking; “I amaze me.”</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />“What were you doing? There was a man in the house, and you were shoveling snow? Not uh. Not me. You deserve all the pain you get today from your foot. Stubborn!” My southern friend N declared later that morning. Yes. But the whole time I was thinking, this is one reason I LOVE being a single mother. Not because I have a crazy chip saying I can conquer the world (partially true) but because there is so much satisfaction in problem solving, organizing, and when I need, asking for help. (My brother had shoveled the driveway, twice the day before, without me asking. He enjoys snow.) Being a single mother can be for me for me, the opportunity to prove to myself, and my children, how capable I am. And, I love that.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">So if you're a single parent by choice, or circumstance, I believe there is almost always reason to celebrate what we can do. Enjoy when people marvel at your resiliency, and success in pulling it all together. Buy yourself flowers after shoveling the driveway, or make yourself a card that says; “Brava!” and tape it by your bed. Take great joy in your ability to do what some partnered people can barely pull off with two on good day.<br /><br />It’s not easy, but one thing I have learned to do, is sit with the success of it, and tell my children often, how proud I am of myself. And, they’ve learned how to play right along; “Way to go Mom!” I often hear. “Your really parallel park well!” Hey, I’ll take it.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Catherine/Mama C</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">For more, go to:<br />http://mamacandtheboys.com </span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-56359839414924894792011-02-26T10:01:00.000-05:002011-02-26T10:01:00.764-05:00Modern Family<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCpFiiqPdbwmTgXeDaRUm4tZCunIJF3ilVmzkpJ4y4-OYi653Zoh0flsPmwwk-VMSLtQuwi-i7GTX3jZAPTb10Up-11gQvI-lpQXz6Eyit04wMqHWw7N0oxqtIQTg4y17ZRqxZPXwiJUjd/s1600/questionmarksjpg.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCpFiiqPdbwmTgXeDaRUm4tZCunIJF3ilVmzkpJ4y4-OYi653Zoh0flsPmwwk-VMSLtQuwi-i7GTX3jZAPTb10Up-11gQvI-lpQXz6Eyit04wMqHWw7N0oxqtIQTg4y17ZRqxZPXwiJUjd/s200/questionmarksjpg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578012482382553842" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">Years ago, when I made the decision to become a SMC (Single Mother by Choice) and began perusing the profiles of dozens of potential sperm donors, I was clear about one thing: I planned to use an open donor. Like most people, I’d heard plenty of stories about adopted kids who yearned for details about their biological parents, and I wanted to make sure that if my child ever felt like one of those kids, she’d have the information she needed. An open donor is a sperm donor who is open to meeting the children whom his sperm produced, and when my daughter, Jayda, turns 18, she can contact the bank I used, and they will release contact information about her donor to her.<br /><br /> After I gave birth to Jayda, there was an onslaught of media attention directed towards the Donor Sibling Registry (DSR). As the DSR website states, “the focus of the Donor Sibling Registry (DSR) is to assist individuals conceived as a result of sperm, egg, or embryo donation who are seeking to make mutually desired contact with others with whom they share genetic ties.” For most of the members, this means connecting half-siblings (children of the same donor), and some SMCs swear by this site. As a result of this website, Yahoo groups have been created for parents of half-siblings, people travel cross-country for yearly reunions, intense relationships are fostered between half-sibs, and some say their half-siblings share a strong bond and interact with each other much like cousins do. I, for one, have never had any interest in joining the DSR. While my family is quite small, I believe it’s enough for me and Jayda, and our lives are so rich with wonderful friendships that I don’t think Jayda will ever feel like she’s lacking love or companionship. Why would she ever need to know her half-siblings? Of course, if at some point when Jayda is older, she disagrees with me, and wants to find her biological half-sisters and brothers, I’ll be happy to share the DSR’s URL with her; but for now, I see no point in becoming a member and posting on this site.<br /><br /> Last weekend, I was at the home of a SMC friend who is a member of the DSR, and she told me she’d be happy to share her password with me if I ever wanted to peruse the site; I took it. And the other day, I hesitantly logged on and searched for the bank I used, as well as my donor’s number. I then discovered postings from parents of seventeen kids whom Jayda’s donor had sired…most of who were within a year of Jayda’s age! I later found out that my donor is retired (his sperm is no longer available because he’s reached his maximum number of allowed births), but that didn’t make me feel much better. I’m overwhelmed; the postings I found mean that Jayda has more than 17 half-siblings, since not everyone (me for example!) joins the DSR.<br /><br />But what disturbs me is not the fact that all of these children exist…but that all of these children will have the option of contacting the donor when they turn 18. And what if they do? What if dozens of these kids get to the guy before Jayda makes her potential call? Will he still have time for her? Or any interest in meeting her? Will he be able to give her what she needs (assuming she even needs his attention)? I know I did the best I could do, and if I could do things differently, I wouldn’t; I selected what seemed like an amazing donor (and Jayda is, indeed, an amazing kid)—and I made sure that Jayda would be able to meet him if she ever desired—but clearly, sometimes the best-laid plans go awry. And while I know I can’t worry about things that may or may not happen 14 years from now…I do still lament this news. How could I not? </span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-26627539392780720122011-02-19T05:40:00.003-05:002011-02-19T15:12:20.612-05:00Surprisingly Thinking my Family is Complete<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq3EMfSwBLw939NQwmkfKgeoobabpn9p7Df104w9DMiZbALysOl5aifgRltUhdjZZLf58sJTgweS3iUUid-g_yFVLI9VKiP8bGbHFF8x-jsnd89LxXTfP5cEYBv7t_4hNlqKRQVMMM5JQw/s1600/iStock_000014463407XSmall.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq3EMfSwBLw939NQwmkfKgeoobabpn9p7Df104w9DMiZbALysOl5aifgRltUhdjZZLf58sJTgweS3iUUid-g_yFVLI9VKiP8bGbHFF8x-jsnd89LxXTfP5cEYBv7t_4hNlqKRQVMMM5JQw/s200/iStock_000014463407XSmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567712919378480514" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">While I've talked about having three children for as long as I can remember, and</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> taken action to prepare for my 3rd attempt at trying to conceive, I've surprisingly found myself thinking</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> that maybe I'm really done. That thinking doesn't actually sit well with me because</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> it's such a radical shift, and that makes me question it, but I keep coming back</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> to the same place.<br /><br />Maybe it would be nice to stick with two, two who are close</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> enough in age that they will be able to go to the same school until my daughter</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> starts middle school, allowing me, when she starts K and he starts pre-K, to</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> live the life I've always dreamed of; working part-time, being the one that gets</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> to pick my children up and take them to their activities, having their friends</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> over after school and really getting to know them, being the primary one to help</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> with their homework, etc. But the cut in work hours needed to do those things</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> wouldn't be possible if I needed to pay for child care for 3, at least not until</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> the littlest one could go to pre-K, when my oldest, best case scenario, would</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> be in 3rd grade.<br /><br />It just doesn't feel right,</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> knowing that I have a choice to</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> be more available to my children sooner. That, and the fact that I really want to make a change</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> professionally, and that the direction I'm leaning is one that will require a couple</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> of years of schooling. I will be meeting with a career counselor to make sure</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> that it's really likely to be the best path for me, but I simply can't make the</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> changes I think I need to be happy in my career if I am still paying for</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> full-time care for one kid, in addition to the summer camps, after-school care,</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> and the like, which I will need for my older two.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I'm not closing the door to another, but right now I'm thinking that my family</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> works the way it is (ironically, at a time when my daughter is telling me nightly that we need</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> another baby) but I wonder, for those who also found themselves</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">surprisingly thinking their family was complete, who had previously thought they would</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> like to expand it, what was it that brought about that shift and did you stay</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">there?<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Karen, 39y5m, Annie, 4y2m, and Mitchell, 2y4m</span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-67285448764751376032011-02-12T03:26:00.001-05:002011-02-17T19:57:32.570-05:00Alone -- But Not Alone<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfR6bDcbHYCA8Tzzj47Hx-E_2n76iY8L9mCFXo8LaxsimQCSjfJUORStRdborDZ9S5s1vaBQv63KIlowRwkdFsEdN1BhC_0rKXiM0sj1mHsmyaISbLg4aJl-JjH5BTUEWpZG-SfG1W3kgL/s1600/superwoman.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 107px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfR6bDcbHYCA8Tzzj47Hx-E_2n76iY8L9mCFXo8LaxsimQCSjfJUORStRdborDZ9S5s1vaBQv63KIlowRwkdFsEdN1BhC_0rKXiM0sj1mHsmyaISbLg4aJl-JjH5BTUEWpZG-SfG1W3kgL/s200/superwoman.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567708884258755506" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">When you become a Single Mother by Choice, you expect to do a lot of things alone. In fact, a lot of the thinking and trying stage seems ALL about being alone. Deciding alone to go for it. Attending fertility appointments alone. Being alone with your doubts and disappointments. Being pregnant alone. Most of us have supportive friends and family, but when we hang up the phone, log off the chat, close the door, climb between the sheets, lay in the dark, we are alone again.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Thank God I'm one of those people who think that's a good thing. Being alone through my journey has meant I've been able to take it at my own pace. I've been happy when I wanted to be happy, grouchy when it felt right, pregnant and lazy and elated and calm. Whenever I wanted, I felt what I needed to feel, did what I needed to do, with no one to second-guess my decisions, resent my emotions or influence my thoughts.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Which is all well and good until I needed to put a leaf in my dining room table for my daughter's 3rd birthday party. I do a lot of things alone. I made the cake alone – double layer chocolate, in a strawberry shape, with pink and green icing. Masterful. I hung the streamers from corner to corner to corner to corner alone. Blew up 23 balloons alone, bravely continuing even after balloon number eight burst in my face after one breath too many. I wasn't quite alone when I did the fruit and cheese trays, but the presence on my hip of daughter #2, seven months old, is less helpful than you'd hope. I cleaned the house alone and wrapped birthday presents alone – no problemo. But the dining room table stymied me. To open it to insert the leaf, you have to pull from both sides of the table. Pull it from only one side and the whole table simply slides toward you. The last time I'd opened it had been for a family dinner, and said family had been there to help. This time, well, not so easy. The table is solid and stiff, with one broken leg that falls off when the table is moved so much as an inch. I tried to pry the table open with a screwdriver, but risked damaging the wood. Finally, the kids long since in bed on the night before the party, I lay on the floor under the table and put my toes in the crack in the middle of the table, with my back against the floor. I braced my hands on two of the table's legs and pushed with my feet, slowly prying the table open like a weightlifter doing a leg press at the gym. Voila! Genius.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />The party was a roaring success. Seven preschoolers decorated sugar cookies (that I'd baked ahead of time, alone) and played without conflict and sang happy birthday, and my girl was thrilled by it all – the cake and the candles, the balloons and streamers, the presents and the song. She said please and thank you and expressed only delight even when she got two books and a play-doh set that we already have. (Having requested previously loved and regifted presents only, getting doubles is guilt-free for me, too). The other parents helped hold the baby and serve the cake and clean up afterward, and it was a lovely two hours.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">But the damn dining room table faced me again when everyone went home. I ignored it all day, but it was too big and the leaf needed to come out. This time it was even harder. It needed to be yanked from both sides to release the leaf, and then pushed back together, from both sides, to restore its smaller size. I waited until after the baby was in bed and the 3-year-old was safely in front of Dora before I tackled the table that night. I pried it carefully open from beneath the table (where scratches would not show) with a screwdriver and my fingernails to release the leaf, and lifted the heavy slab out. To push it back together, I moved the whole table against a wall so I'd have a brace, and muscled it slowly, smoothly, inchingly, back to its former size. Moving the broken leg inch by inch during the whole operation only added to the fun.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />The funny thing is, I didn't end up doing it alone. As I wrestled with the table, my big little girl drew away from Dora and Swiper, watchful and intrigued by mommy's activity in the dining room. She played with balloons and talked to her dinosaurs and did the things that 3 year olds do, just at the periphery of my table project. She's been underfoot for three years, and there is often a baby near by, and I am so used to NOT being alone anymore that I didn't really register her presence until I pushed the table across the room and back together with a soft clunk. And before I could even stand back to bask in my small accomplishment, before I could quite register my triumph, my newly three year old, my watchful, funny, chatty little girl piped up and said "You did it, mommy!"</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Where did she come from and who knew she cared? When did I go from being alone all of the time to never being alone at all? How is it I've now got two little companions to keep me company, to cheer me up, to cheer me on? I have no idea how I went from being an autonomous woman, a Single Mother by Choice, to being captain of this little band of people, this dream team, my threesome of girls. But I'm glad I got here. I honestly never minded being alone. And now? Now I never will be.<br />Andrea<br /></span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-87783998420739741182011-02-04T02:43:00.000-05:002011-02-04T02:43:00.301-05:00The Question Gets Asked...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0KhVz-wfMbpPgd-VYK1FbKqtd_lyYuk7R84QKMKwr3xWbkzSHtwhcliGI9V65PHU6FBQioU_mOKRldq-dLHQD24JLnItoAVVWdUHCbkhWEz0xpc51ynBNysyMMRCafHz4daIdLKuPJoy-/s1600/iStock_000004242609XSmall.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0KhVz-wfMbpPgd-VYK1FbKqtd_lyYuk7R84QKMKwr3xWbkzSHtwhcliGI9V65PHU6FBQioU_mOKRldq-dLHQD24JLnItoAVVWdUHCbkhWEz0xpc51ynBNysyMMRCafHz4daIdLKuPJoy-/s200/iStock_000004242609XSmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568813606927095618" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">If you are an SMC, you know the question to which refer. I've waited anxiously for my son to ask the Daddy Question. Everything I've read says our young children are eager to know more about their unique family structure and origins. As soon as they learn the name for people in their home and for the people in their friends' homes, children are supposed to ask. So I waited. I prepared. I rehearsed. You wouldn't think it would take this much planning just to present the truth. I came up with my script. I wrote out the words. I revised them as I practiced the conversation. I bought picture books that other moms said were good for telling and talking. I read those books to Henry. He much preferred The Cat in the Hat and Goodnight Moon. I waited some more. When would he ask? When would he want those questions answered that I just <span style="font-style: italic;">knew</span> were on his mind? </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />When he was three years, seven months and one week old. When we were at Target. When it was 5 pm and the store's smoothie machine was broken. When everyone had had a long day and no one had eaten for hours. When his toddler brother was having an ear-shattering, no-holes-barred tantrum in the peanut butter aisle. That's when.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;" >Why do we just have a mommy in our family? </span></span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />His voice was barely above a whisper. Or maybe his normal volume was muffled by his brother's screams. I heard him clearly though. For a split second, I tried to convince myself that I hadn't. This can't be happening here. This is not how I planned it. Just to be sure, I got down to his eye level and asked him to repeat himself. As much as I hated that it was happening in this setting, I wanted to make sure Henry knew it was okay to ask. It's okay even if people are staring at us while our cart and a bellowing toddler block aisle 8.<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;" >Why do we just have a mommy in our family?<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">I prayed that I would remember my lines. The truth as told in developmentally appropriate language. All I needed to do was to say the words I'd rehearsed for years. All of Henry's caregivers have a copy of the script typed and ready at a moment's notice in case I wasn't around when he asked The Question. Why hadn't I stuck a copy in my purse? Now I was going to have to improvise and hope I didn't ruin the entire scene.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />"Well Henry,” I squeaked, still crouched down near his face. "Some families have a mommy and a daddy in their house, some families have just a mommy in their house or just a daddy in their house. And some children have two mommies in their house."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"Or two daddies," he interjected. </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />"Or two daddies. In our family we have a mommy in our house. That's because your mommy wanted a baby to love. I wanted one very much. But I didn't find a daddy. So I went to the doctor." At this point, Henry actually turns to his screaming sibling and says,<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">"Yeeeuhm, sshhhh, I can't hear mommy." Talk about pressure; he really wanted to hear this.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I cleared my throat and continued, "The doctor gave me some medicine so I could have a baby. I was very, very happy when I had my baby: YOU! (Big kiss.) Then I went back to the doctor for some more medicine and had another baby."<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">"Leeeuhm!"</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">"Yes, Liam. And I love him very much." <span style="font-style: italic;"> But I really wish he'd be quiet right now.</span></span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />And that was that. If I had it to do all over again, I would have said some things differently. I would not have said "medicine". Where did that word come from? It wasn't in the script. I would not have used the word "just" repeatedly implying only or lacking. But we were in Target surrounded by shelves of processed foods and weary shoppers. I did my best in the moment.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />The moment passed and Henry became distracted by the macaroni and cheese boxes. I have a case of organic white cheddar dinners in our garage but when Henry asked for Kraft Toy Story 3 mac 'n cheese, I couldn't get it in our cart fast enough. Then he asked for a second box for Liam. <span style="font-style: italic;"> Yes, of course you can get another one. Anything you want. Please let's just get our little family out of this store and back to our tiny home. Let's eat tv dinners, watch cartoons and act like nothing has changed. </span> Because, when you think about it, nothing has.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">Lara</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">http://thismaybeadreamcometrue.blogspot.com</span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-59876077525228202792011-01-27T05:12:00.000-05:002011-01-27T05:12:00.469-05:00Birth Plan B<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8fp463wiIzpEbb8V1uiDPr_gZ-cMaJ5dWK_HX7YmvJIR3ORTm8stmA4xLQ9Ib_tbWB_3oyiFJfeV6VIFxNvos0dJmmhwUp4bv-atvZmYk277cnNyKGHdWEX_KvrH94jiYi-5Fn6SVlTEc/s1600/preemie.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 170px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8fp463wiIzpEbb8V1uiDPr_gZ-cMaJ5dWK_HX7YmvJIR3ORTm8stmA4xLQ9Ib_tbWB_3oyiFJfeV6VIFxNvos0dJmmhwUp4bv-atvZmYk277cnNyKGHdWEX_KvrH94jiYi-5Fn6SVlTEc/s200/preemie.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545361806974517298" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">All that I could say while being lifted into the ambulance was "she can't come now, she can't come now." The doors closed and I could think of nothing but the little girl inside of me. I was in premature labor at 28 weeks pregnant.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">When I arrived at the hospital the paramedics rushed me down the hallway. As I lay on my side on the gurney to ease the pain, the look of concern was reflected in the strange faces of people that lined the emergency room. I stopped briefly at a desk to receive a bracelet that simply said "Kim."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">A nurse and very young doctor were waiting in a room. As I answered their questions, more people and large machines arrived. They shouted at each other and to me. I was embarrassed. I apologized because I was not prepared. I told them that I was taking a birth class tomorrow. I would be prepared tomorrow but not today. They told me how to push. All that I could say was "I am sorry, I am sorry."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I remember looking at a clock on the wall and thinking about each contraction "this too shall pass." My daughter was born so fast. My dream was here. The doctor pushed on my stomach and placed the afterbirth in a bowl. I wanted to see it, to whisper goodbye to her twin lost at 9 weeks.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">After I was taken to my postpartum room, the rush of adrenaline from the birth would not let me rest. I remember pacing the hospital room floor, alone and waiting to say goodbye to her. People in red flight suits would take her away again, to the nearest neonatal intensive care unit. When I saw her in that plastic box, I whispered through the cracks, "Hi, I am your mother."</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />The day still seems so surreal. From the ambulance ride to the local hospital, to the room full of strange doctors and nurses yelling overhead, the whole day seems like a foggy memory. When I do think about that day, I am able to focus on my daughter's faint cry and thick eyebrows that adorned her sweet face and connected her to me.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />My daughter's birth day did not go like I had planned. In a few quick moments, I had learned to trust people that I had never seen before. I trusted them with all that I valued. They held my hand and told me what I needed to do. They took care of my daughter. They took care of me and I am so grateful.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Well, she did come that day. I was not ready and it was not what I expected. Life has not been what I expected but I love it just the same, and so I say of my daughter's birth story.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Kimberly Ross</span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-84173441229467287462011-01-20T05:25:00.000-05:002011-01-20T05:25:00.254-05:00My Choices and My Son's Choices<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHjfzPkWPnOHrO8YeBNN0IN-Wx_dueUFYzqNkfXvMZ1X1VOWfRFoJ5jwKeJQndDAxydtGQmJLvc3OARF8HUkowXX0On5mWNkawuzVOqlx3UtdTuRk6M3b_XJGtuOxluIUS4FTXbXjnRFVo/s1600/iStock_000004953591XSmall.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHjfzPkWPnOHrO8YeBNN0IN-Wx_dueUFYzqNkfXvMZ1X1VOWfRFoJ5jwKeJQndDAxydtGQmJLvc3OARF8HUkowXX0On5mWNkawuzVOqlx3UtdTuRk6M3b_XJGtuOxluIUS4FTXbXjnRFVo/s200/iStock_000004953591XSmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549507288563795506" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately, in several different contexts. One significant example is the issues that arise out of the fact that we’ve started getting into more specific details about conception. It was a non-issue for my son to find out, or more accurately, have confirmed that the donor is his biological father, although I will admit that I haven't emphasized that specific phrase. But I have mentioned it and also do talk at more length about the fact that the donor is the man who gave the sperm that fertilized my egg to create a baby.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />I think kids take their cues from us on this sort of thing so I have tried hard to be very matter of fact about it all and present it as neutrally as possible, while still making it clear that I think a mom and kid family is terrific. And I focus on how generous the donor is to have made our family possible.<br /><br />I never wanted it to be some deep dramatic thing for my son to find out that he had a donor or that the donor was his biological father - I wanted it to be something that he understood organically because it has been mentioned in context all along. (This is similar to the recommended approach for adopted kids.)<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Things I have not talked about yet include the fact that the donor made other some other families possible too. I do plan to do that sooner rather than later, once I feel that my son has more understanding of the biology involved. This involves an element of choice on my part, as I see family more as a social construct and less as a biological one, so I don't really feel any sense of sibling kinship with these kids. However, I intend to stay as neutral as I can about that, and let him know that if he wants, I can try to get in touch with some of these other families (there are some on the DSR).<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">It’s started to really hit home for me that, by the way I frame his knowledge, regardless of how neutral I strive to be, I am having an indelible influence on the way my son perceives the world and his place in it. And certainly, I knew, at least intellectually, this would be the case when I signed up for motherhood. But the reality is that these choices have potentially life-long ramifications for him and are therefore so much more weighty and difficult for me to make. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Sometimes, I miss the days when my hardest decision was choosing between Pampers and Huggies! But I suppose it’s also nice that he can now choose his own boxer briefs.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Marsha</span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-4900822477488584982011-01-12T02:03:00.000-05:002011-01-12T02:03:00.075-05:00To Be or Not to Be an SMC<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg3TgW58bmP8VN9FCYDKauKJGFVKM5KDz6-JD6EGolGAYFIfohBnO8vFFW3egkhSRC7L0q1-RWBlrJYbdeUWfEw4L3uPtNW6JrrcIQtVt47rSqhGEN1z1eN_MABa_ATL6JG9kEk7n_BOPL/s1600/womancrossroads.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 147px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg3TgW58bmP8VN9FCYDKauKJGFVKM5KDz6-JD6EGolGAYFIfohBnO8vFFW3egkhSRC7L0q1-RWBlrJYbdeUWfEw4L3uPtNW6JrrcIQtVt47rSqhGEN1z1eN_MABa_ATL6JG9kEk7n_BOPL/s200/womancrossroads.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549506894609936930" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">There are many reasons TO become a SMC and many reasons NOT TO. It's such an individual decision to make. It is difficult to be a single mom, very difficult, but I think it's also difficult to be a married mom. This decision isn't one to be taken lightly, and it helps to really look at your whole life while you decide whether being a SMC will fit into it. When I was thinking I worried endlessly about what might happen: "What will I say to people when I can't hide my pregnancy anymore?" "How will I tell my family?" What if people judge me?" "What if I meet "the one" right after I get pregnant or after I have the baby?".</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">What I found out (much to my surprise) was that all those worries disappeared pretty quickly once I became pregnant. I had one or two people show disapproval when I announced my pregnancy, but they weren't people I cared much about so it didn't matter to me. I was so thrilled to be pregnant, and once the bulk of the telling was over, I just reveled in the experience as much as possible. My family took a while to warm up to the idea, but I understood (from reading posts on the SMC lists) that while we spend months and sometimes years getting ready to take the leap, thus feeling comfortable with the concept, the same can't be said for our families. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">My dad and sister (mom died years ago) love my son without question, and there is no awkwardness associated with the means I used to bring him into the world. I was not raised in a conservative family, but I do have SMC friends who were, and most of their families have eventually come to accept and even embrace the decision these women have made. Not all families come around, but most do on some level or another.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I haven't met "the one" yet, but the other thing I figured out is that if I do meet him he would need to be the kind of man who would welcome my son into his life. It does happen. Women find partners who love both them and their child. Some even go on to have a second child with the man they meet. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Sometimes people make insensitive comments, often well intentioned. When I told people I was pregnant, several questioned my choice to go this route - they couldn't understand why I hadn't found anyone. At first it bugged me because I saw this as such a "Plan B", but now I see it simply as my life's path, full of all sorts of experiences, both challenging and rewarding. I'm a MUCH stronger, more self-assured, confident person now and attribute that to having to really put my priorities on the line and stand behind them. I have become so confident in my decision that I don't feel like I "settled". </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Yes, I still want the whole deal: mom, dad, 2 kids, etc., but I've had to make compromises. I waited a little too long (because I fell in love at 38 years old just as I was going to try to conceive, and it cost me a precious 2 years) to have another child, but I'm coming to peace with that as well.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">So if you're on the fence, listen to your heart, and make your decision based upon what you know you want/need, not on the "what if's" of life. You don't know whether you'll meet someone or how your family will react or whether you'll have regrets or feel like you did something wrong. Maybe these worries will come true, but maybe they won't. But, if you truly question whether you are ready to take this step, then I suggest spending a little more time thinking. Maybe see a therapist who has experience with SMCs (I did, and she was a lifeline through the whole process). If you haven't joined the SMC email lists, that would be a good thing to do. You'll be able to see how the conversations shift - from worrying about external things to becoming invested in becoming a mother.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Becoming a mom is hands-down the best thing that has ever happened to me. I can't count the days I have sat rocking my 17 month old, crying at the thought of what life would be like if I hadn't taken the leap and become a mom. I'm tired all the time and my house is a mess, but my heart is full of love and joy I could never have imagined before I became a mom.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Good luck to you (and all the other women who are going through this difficult decision-making process)!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Andrea</span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-5244858191088624552011-01-04T05:08:00.000-05:002011-01-04T05:08:00.233-05:00New Beginnings<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxj4kUDc-ny26PCmIaJAaxYtQ71l5zrDx3pxm_HVRjrRTR3AYLokUT4davHeexgWO4zGJ4tCgeWy4GTIDsredumjW1EtzAaVEHF_jxxotyLAF4zUS3JA2duutxw2g9tjhYVW7HsUStzU7U/s1600/iStock_000014099770XSmall.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxj4kUDc-ny26PCmIaJAaxYtQ71l5zrDx3pxm_HVRjrRTR3AYLokUT4davHeexgWO4zGJ4tCgeWy4GTIDsredumjW1EtzAaVEHF_jxxotyLAF4zUS3JA2duutxw2g9tjhYVW7HsUStzU7U/s200/iStock_000014099770XSmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557348817622057186" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">December 31, 2010</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">One year ago I began my journey toward single motherhood.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Despite my age (nearly 42), it never occurred to me that I wouldn't become pregnant right away. I chose a doctor and a donor and by the beginning of April I was ready for my first attempt via intrauterine insemination. Two weeks later I learned I was pregnant, and I was elated! The few people I had told were astonished I got pregnant so quickly, but I didn't understand why. I assumed I would be pregnant because I wanted to be. Isn't that the way it works? </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Still, I knew it wasn't a done deal and to get excited too early would be foolish. I would play it safe and wait until the amnio results before telling anyone but my closest friends and relatives. And so I waited. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">In the meantime I had one test after another. Genetic testing, urine testing, blood testing- everything was perfect. And then I had the amnio, and all was still perfect. I was having a girl, and there were no signs of abnormalities. Finally I could drop my guard and proudly sport the enormous grin I had been suppressing for 4 months! I began looking at cribs and strollers. I started researching day care options for when I returned to work. I read about breast feeding and registered for childbirth classes. And on the day I reached 22 weeks, I finally buckled under pressure from friends and family and looked into baby registries. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">And that was the last happy moment in my pregnancy, for the very same day I went in to have the full anatomy scan of my baby girl. The baby was curled up and sleeping, and the technician had some trouble measuring her. But the heartbeat was strong and if I had to come back another day when the baby was more active that was fine with me. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">The doctor came in next and the first thing he said to me was, "Your baby's not doing well at all." The next several minutes were a blur. I thought he must have the wrong room. I was there for the body scan. My baby was fine; can't you see it on the screen? He started talking about her lack of growth and blood in the brain, and how the blood was flowing backward through the umbilical cord in between heartbeats. And then he said the one word that left no doubt I was in real trouble: autopsy. I freaked out, silently though, since I couldn't speak or even blink at that point. Autopsies are for dead people. He wanted to do an autopsy on my live fetus? I simply could not comprehend what he was saying. It was the worst moment of my life. A second opinion the next day confirmed it: the heart was no longer beating. The baby had passed away. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I blamed myself, naturally. No fewer than 3 doctors told me that these things sometimes happen, that they are anomalies, that nothing I did caused it, and there was nothing I could have done to prevent it. They said it was unlikely to happen again, and that women who have late-term pregnancy losses go on to have healthy pregnancies and healthy babies all the time. I really needed to hear that. But why hadn't I heard of this before? How common was it?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">So rather than ask “Why?” or “Why me?” I ask, “Why don’t women talk about this?” Ever since this happened to me, it seems I haven’t met a single person who doesn’t know someone who had the same experience or who had a late-term loss herself. And most have had children since then. I’ve read books, blogs, magazines, and message boards - none have discussed the very real possibilities of inter-uterine demise. Why is this a taboo subject in our society? This isn’t some shameful secret that belongs locked in the attic. It’s very real and deserving of acknowledgment. As frightening as it is to think about losing a baby late in pregnancy, it’s even more frightening to experience it alone and unprepared. I want women to know this can happen and if it does that they are not alone, and they can become pregnant again and deliver a healthy baby. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Strangely, as my due date drew near I was not nearly as emotional as I expected. New Year’s Eve was the day I was supposed to meet my little one. I had two weeks off work during the holidays and refused to make plans with anyone, knowing I might fall apart and would want to grieve alone. Yet that hasn’t happened, and after much reflection I think I know why. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">It took me a while to make sense of what happened but eventually I came to an understanding I could live with, one that has become a tremendous source of comfort to me. I believe there is a tiny being out there somewhere- a little ray of light- who is trying to make its way through the universe to me. It found me once but the timing wasn’t right. The reason is unimportant. What matters is that we belong to each other and I know that this same being will come to me again when the stars are aligned properly. So rather than thinking about the one baby I lost and waiting for another one to come along, I think about the one ray of light that came to me once and will return to me again when it’s absolutely ready to make its entrance into the world. And when it does I will love it that much more, because of the sacrifice it made to ensure that our life together began at the perfect moment. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">As I sit here tonight on the cusp of the New Year, I will drink a toast to the ray of light who was wise enough to know our journey wasn’t quite over. And at midnight I will close the door on the past and drink a toast to the same ray of light who will come back to me in the very near future. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Marla</span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-17590973263688089762010-12-18T05:34:00.001-05:002010-12-18T15:20:19.986-05:00Happy Holidays!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Vn0cCWwbErIO-mpZDzT-J4M3TsNhqJjxcPQuzBAW8ItPV_xqH4jeoP_M2hZu2CZVlnDaHlRl1GWxMGo1TRlFCRXoaOQULqol6JoJmrZQdR732-izx-vFQigtBNGFOajFvrLGiiv4ER5N/s1600/dreamstimefree_12977544.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 143px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Vn0cCWwbErIO-mpZDzT-J4M3TsNhqJjxcPQuzBAW8ItPV_xqH4jeoP_M2hZu2CZVlnDaHlRl1GWxMGo1TRlFCRXoaOQULqol6JoJmrZQdR732-izx-vFQigtBNGFOajFvrLGiiv4ER5N/s200/dreamstimefree_12977544.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549821701861926674" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">The SMC blog is taking a vacation for the holidays and will return in the new year. Best wishes to all, and a happy new year!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Jane</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><br />image: http://www.dreamstime.com/free-stock-image-winter-park-rimagefree12977544-resi2856296</span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-64604623000236831742010-12-11T05:43:00.001-05:002010-12-11T05:43:00.331-05:00Love (While Being an SMC of Two)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtwPOQJt1HnMybzkAa0L8780wTTkyqXO0JJkmCum25N6sechIE4E3eCXcq1Fmq0Pl8vvrF-uCUkYA9BerzYC2KglnLL5DITVbgOscDowc8v4oNzI32YRz_WSHm_o0oOLvKCx9ny7KCg2me/s1600/iStock_000014916074XSmall.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtwPOQJt1HnMybzkAa0L8780wTTkyqXO0JJkmCum25N6sechIE4E3eCXcq1Fmq0Pl8vvrF-uCUkYA9BerzYC2KglnLL5DITVbgOscDowc8v4oNzI32YRz_WSHm_o0oOLvKCx9ny7KCg2me/s200/iStock_000014916074XSmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547978640624669906" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">I've been a SMC for almost 10 years now. Here is my story.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">When my daughter (via DI) was a baby I had little time or interest in dating. I was loving motherhood, but motherhood and working full time took all my energy. There were many times that I was grateful that I didn't have to put any energy into a relationship because I didn't think I could have managed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">When she got to be a toddler and I began to get out of the house occasionally without her I began to think about dating and had a profile up on Match.com. The first thing I noticed is that I got hardly any interest compared to the profile I had up before becoming an SMC. I was now 37-38 yrs old.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />About that same time I had a few dates with a HS classmate and we really liked each other but he lived long distance and was not interested in a long distance relationship. The dry spell continued...</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />When my daughter was 5.5 yrs I moved from NYC to suburban NJ. Later that year a friend set me up on a date with a widower who had a 9 year old daughter. We e-mailed and talked awhile and eventually met for dinner. I was the first person he had really liked since his wife died and he wasn't ready to do anything.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Now I was in my 40's... More dry spell... not really even trying to date. I had pretty much given up. I was in the process of adopting my 2nd daughter. I figured that my prospects were dim anyway so why not go ahead and grow my family.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Last summer when my youngest had been with me almost a year we made a trip out to the mid-west to see her birth parents and the cousin that introduced us. While there I met my college sweetheart for dinner with the kids. It was the first time we'd seen each other in 22 years. We were trying to catch up on the last 20+ years but as you might imagine it was nearly impossible with the kids interrupting every few minutes. As I was leaving he told me that he was going through a divorce. I asked him to call me after the kids were in bed so that I could talk uninterrupted. When we talked we discovered that we both still cared about each other and began dating long distance and it is going well.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">I remember telling him that I was no prize because I had 2 kids, 2 parents (living next door), 2 dogs, 2 cats and an old house to care for. I said, "what man wants all that!" His reply was that "a good man would want all that."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">So I went from having no hope that I would ever marry (or even date regularly) to a relationship with the one man I regretted not marrying 20+ years ago. I feel really lucky and somewhat foolish that I had ever lost my hope in the first place.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">But I'm glad that I found it again.<br /><br />Julia Crislip</span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-33160172036317398932010-12-04T05:06:00.003-05:002010-12-04T11:00:18.783-05:00Losing the First Tooth<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsKLDBnjj88yvR-_6-whluWAmgyBW9DnleFn_Khv-EieMF-ObzJfHGXPSbRdfEwO-ZS6eRuYPHuFZDrp23l2PXCpImDIrHNLGNhl7wqwDvvXa-M8hpYhroJvoYR8NZCatYuHfGVwPntUgm/s1600/iStock_000002052343Large+copy.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsKLDBnjj88yvR-_6-whluWAmgyBW9DnleFn_Khv-EieMF-ObzJfHGXPSbRdfEwO-ZS6eRuYPHuFZDrp23l2PXCpImDIrHNLGNhl7wqwDvvXa-M8hpYhroJvoYR8NZCatYuHfGVwPntUgm/s200/iStock_000002052343Large+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546857532991248562" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">Samuel got his first loose tooth last night. It is wiggly and it hurts a bit and Samuel is thrilled and I am sad. OK, I know it is ridiculous. The timing is actually on the late end to lose his first tooth --he will be seven next month. He has a couple of friends who lost their first tooth at age four and many at age five and six so it is about time (in his mind anyway)!<br /><br />Nevertheless, I feel like the last vestige of Samuel's babyhood is going. It really seems like he has changed more in the last year (age 6 to 7) than any other single year since infancy. In fact, in many ways, he was remarkably stable in his personality, traits, play and interests between about age three and six. Now he has left those things behind. No more pretend games, no more playmobil, no more fantasy, little tolerance for his younger sister, a rigidity about gender when before there was a fluidity....<br /><br />Of course he has gained some things as well. He has new interests: legos, sports, hexbugs, his friends, the violin/piano, technology. He can read (and at least he reads to his sister!)! He is more mature both emotionally and cognitively. Where there was once a sweet soft babyness in his face and body, he is now all muscles, angles and lean. Generally, he has been a pretty easy reasonable child, but he has grown mostly easier and more reasonable or at least better at avoiding getting caught in mischief.<br /><br />A few things remain the same. I still see Samuel (empathic, verbal, thoughtful, curious, funny) when I look at him. But he is growing away from me in leaps and bounds. I am a welcome respite at the end of the day, but during daylight hours, his friends are mostly more important to him than his mother and sister. What happened to the four year old Samuel who said very seriously to me, "Mommy, YOU are my best friend"??? The kid who constantly made cards with hearts above my name, and whose first written chicken scratch at age 3 was "I love you Mama"? The small child with the pink socks and the huge smile?<br /><br />Not so long ago, I had a baby and a toddler. Then for a long time, it seemed like I had two preschoolers --one younger and one older. Now suddenly, I have a four year old and a boy who is nearly seven. They rush in and out of the house in a brilliant whirlwind of school, lessons and friends. "Hi Mama, bye Mama. Hi Mommy, Bye Mommy. Hi Mom, Bye." And I am so busy and scattered and frantic that I barely noticed the time slipping away.<br /><br />Ann</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-3373771269317376072010-11-27T05:19:00.003-05:002010-12-07T12:55:43.496-05:00Get Out of Cooking -- Free!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlUUT5I9BDkrKTVgUbD3XqFrz_Nk1vLOB2dtN_n0LOS89dNfwWf-Z-ntagIxXPlIisRtDvjiKX3hwctCouGdx-HWHxGqMRJUPTFwZaFY5HDvFpzAwGfmezsqqk5NbHOarRr4m4XHLYBMcX/s1600/iStock_000003012923XSmall.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlUUT5I9BDkrKTVgUbD3XqFrz_Nk1vLOB2dtN_n0LOS89dNfwWf-Z-ntagIxXPlIisRtDvjiKX3hwctCouGdx-HWHxGqMRJUPTFwZaFY5HDvFpzAwGfmezsqqk5NbHOarRr4m4XHLYBMcX/s200/iStock_000003012923XSmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548000533304923954" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">Other moms assume my daughter eats cottage cheese and blueberries for dinner because I’m a working mom and I don’t have time to cook. If I were a stay at home mom. She'd be eating the same exact thing. Cooking is not my thing. </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"> <br /><br />What’s wrong with cottage cheese and blueberries for dinner? I didn’t put her on a diet, I’m not a great role model for diet, it’s what she likes to eat. It’s not the only edible item in the house. I have frozen, canned and boxed things like macaroni. I read the nutritional panels and most of what I feed my daughter is a whole lot healthier than home cooking. Definitely healthier than the Joy of Cooking recipes I grew up with. The meals I ate at my friends houses, that is. Like lasagna and clams casino. </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />My love for cooking comes from my mom. She had two cookbooks – The Campbell’s Soup Cookbook and Five Ingredients or Less. In our house, garlic salt was an exotic spice. It wasn’t until I was 19 that I learned iceberg wasn’t the world's only lettuce. </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />When I was in high school, my service club had a bake sale. We’d get more points for homemade items than store brought ones. My mom thought the policy was unfair to culinary challenged individuals. So she bought a box of Entemann’s chocolate chip cookies, put them on tin foil, stuck them into the toaster oven, and burned them. </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"> “Now they taste homemade,” she said. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">When I get fancy I make the blueberries on the cottage cheese into eyes and a smile. A raisin or a raspberry makes a nose even Martha Stewart would begrudgingly approve. I don’t use oil, saturated fats, butter, or even pots. </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Why not eat leftover birthday cake for breakfast? As Bill Cosby famously pointed out, cake is eggs, milk, and wheat.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">It’s not only that I don’t like to cook. I don’t like to think of what to make either. And I certainly don’t like to do the shopping for the ingredients for the dinners that I didn’t like thinking of in the first place. I make it fun for myself and for my daughter by thinking thematically. Some of my dinners: </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />CHEESE DINNER</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"> Grilled cheese sandwich. Broccoli with cheese (frozen) </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />ORANGE DINNER</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"> Cheddar cheese. Goldfish crackers. Orange slices. Carrots. <br /><br /></span>C<span style="font-family:verdana;">IRCLE DINNER Turkey or veggie burger. Wagon wheel shaped pasta. Apple slices. Vanilla wafer. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">BREAKFAST DINNER Yogurt, cereal and milk and fruit. </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"> <br /><br />If it’s not a theme, I try to arrange the chicken nuggets or fish fingers to look decorative.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> I do pride myself in buying the healthiest pre-made ingredients I can. Amy’s Organic makes lovely frozen dinners. And they last a lot longer in the fridge than the fresh stuff. </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Sure I have dreams of serving my daughter organic, low calorie Coconut Chicken Curry in the evenings with a crostini topped by black olive tapinade nosher. But I also have the fantasy of a handsome, virile young chef serving it up. One who does his own clean up and dish-washing. </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Hating to cook and not doing it may sound selfish. But, while cooking is not my thing, I've replaced it with other things. Life is about balance and part of that is saying no to things we hate and yes to the equal replacements we like. That 30 minutes it takes to prepare a Rachel Ray standard (shopping time and do-overs not included), I use to play with my daughter and help her pick her clothes for the next day. I don't believe the lack of home made meals and memories of mom busy in the kitchen are going to be something my daughter will need a therapist for. I do believe all the puzzles we do, books we read and doll swimming pools we make out of blocks will be her “comfort food.” I see more than enough health benefits in that.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Aimee Heller </span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-24753180633625592372010-11-20T05:23:00.005-05:002010-11-24T19:15:07.578-05:00The Adoption "Gestational Period"?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhCdjRHyzCiq6KXLLJi0ZQbpgLh_JI9vCtUSfzxSI6n06Wl-CbMzENKmmo7OV4wkMAd2YX1OpxkFhfrECzH_ba2q3_GGN5ZfY1e4EWb9EK7VUhWiX41zzZ1Oc_vqfoalxuDTNAA3OKCZJp/s1600/evaluation.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhCdjRHyzCiq6KXLLJi0ZQbpgLh_JI9vCtUSfzxSI6n06Wl-CbMzENKmmo7OV4wkMAd2YX1OpxkFhfrECzH_ba2q3_GGN5ZfY1e4EWb9EK7VUhWiX41zzZ1Oc_vqfoalxuDTNAA3OKCZJp/s200/evaluation.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543274188677962130" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">I’ve spent over a year participating in and listening to the SMC-Trying to Conceive (TTC) forum. I even had my own failed attempt at TTC in March 2009. Then work, school, and dating postponed my plans until a year later. In March 2010, I began to consider adoption, an option I had explored before but ignored once I found Mr. Perfect Anonymous Donor and built up the courage (and money) to TTC. But once I really delved into the adoption choice again, it seemed very feasible and appropriate for where I am in my life. Plus, I thought it might be "easier"than TTC.<br /><br />On the SMC-TTC board, I had read other women’s journeys through infertility and fertility treatments and miscarriages to finally bringing home a newborn sometimes years later. Well, now that I’m pursuing adoption, I realize the adoption journey isn’t exactly "easier", just different than TTC. There are many preparations and hurdles along the way. These unique challenges don’t involve reproductive endocrinologists (REs), but they do involve social workers, wire nuts, and a lawn crew. I’ll explain....</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">What I’ve found unique to the adoption process are the REQUIREMENTS that your home, emotional well-being, and finances be in order. Women who are trying to conceive are not scrutinized in this way. For example, women who conceive through reproductive technologies are not required to submit their driving record and proof of homeowners insurance. It’s not that their challenges are any easier, just different from the SMC-Adopters. However, the parities still exist. I liken the adoption waiting period to a gestational period. A pregnant woman might wonder if her baby will have her blue eyes, while I’m wondering which race my future adoptive children will be. A pregnant woman may be attending birthing classes while I’m going to CPR training.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">So, I have decided to pursue foster-to-adopt through the U.S. Child Welfare System. In April 2010, I took two weeks of pre-service parenting classes. I loved it! I think all moms-to-be, including those TTC and Adopters, should consider parenting classes. But here’s the kicker; adopters who receive children through the foster care system must promise to discipline by the system’s standards. This includes no spanking. This is not a problem for me since I’m a staunch opponent to spanking; but for a few others in my class, it made them feel like they are being told how to parent. And well, they are. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Another challenge unique to adoption is the home environment requirements. Each state in the U.S. is different, but here are some of the things I’ve had to fix/change/BUY for my house to be compliant in Texas: fire extinguisher, new smoke detectors, lock boxes for medication, moved all cleaning supplies to upper cabinets, outlet covers, waterproof mattress covers, anti-siphoning devices for the outside spigots, "re-homed" one of my dogs because I had one too many for the city limit, pet vaccines, CPR training, first aid training, home health inspection, home fire inspection, post daily schedules, post house rules, post evacuation plan, trash cans with tight fitting lids, replaced a piece of rotten siding, hired lawn guys to mow on a regular basis, covered up tree roots in the backyard, replaced a ceiling fan that would have interfered with the bunk bed I erected (this is where I learned about wiring and wire nuts), researched daycares that accept state reimbursements, and I just bought an SUV to replace my two-door coupe. (OK, that last one wasn’t a necessity for adoption, but fun anyway!) </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">To add to the list of requirements, I had to provide three personal references, a break-down of my monthly expenses, TB test, auto insurance, homeowners insurance, transcripts, proof of income, pictures of my house and neighborhood, driving records, fingerprints for FBI criminal background check, and a child abuse background check. And then there’s the dreaded HOME STUDY. I had heard horror stories about probing questions you’d never be prepared to answer. For me it actually wasn’t bad, but some people really stress over it. Sometimes it seems like having a doctor inseminate me might be a lot less work! It’s not like your ER is going to make sure your smoke detectors have batteries before your IUI! I jest, of course!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">The point of all this is that I have developed an appreciation for the adoption process and the people who have succeeded in adopting. Despite the mountain of paperwork, I feel that all the requirements are necessary. And in a way, the time spent fulfilling those requirements parallels the gestational period of women who conceive. The adoption process forces people to consider and prepare for all the things one needs to consider and prepare for when a new child is brought into a family. I think that sometimes the adoption process is minimalized in comparison to pregnancy. However, it doesn’t have to be that way; and for those of us going through it and those who made it through know it is an important time. I hope that years down the road, I’ll look back on this time and reflect on it like a woman who conceives might remember her pregnancy...except I don’t have to buy expandable pants and shea butter!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Allison, 30, Texas, waiting.....</span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-59520022911126523612010-11-13T05:57:00.002-05:002010-11-24T19:29:09.776-05:00A Public Service Announcement<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMPOcJuOY4PJglUkYHsPwOWP9Sa8uBHdw-7R5TaCs0IrjQCrQ-6pEoZ42uy7DD6q3FIC4r8Rq7E4wvEAXHz_Mj1UdZZoTlvwrAp5ujarEPfUUCvO0LblOzhwLqfpP-0k2vsVy_pSw-4g-T/s1600/Preemie.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMPOcJuOY4PJglUkYHsPwOWP9Sa8uBHdw-7R5TaCs0IrjQCrQ-6pEoZ42uy7DD6q3FIC4r8Rq7E4wvEAXHz_Mj1UdZZoTlvwrAp5ujarEPfUUCvO0LblOzhwLqfpP-0k2vsVy_pSw-4g-T/s200/Preemie.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543276786721094098" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">by Anne Richter<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">November is Prematurity Awareness Month.<br /><br /> I think the main thing we need to be aware of about prematurity is that it sucks. It really sucks. <br /><br />Prematurity takes what should be a normal infancy and turns it into a journey into medical hell. It robs both parent and child of a normal infancy. Instead of filling baby books with milestones like "smiled for the first time" you make note of milestones like "weaned off ventilator." You and your baby are robbed of quiet, private moments. Instead, the two of you spend those moments in a room filled with strangers, doctors, nurses, monitors, alarms and machinery you didn't even know existed when you filling out your baby registry. People tell you well intentioned, yet terribly stupid things, like "things happen for a reason," "God doesn't give you more than you can bear," "at least you never got stretch marks since the baby was born so early" or "you're lucky you get to sleep at night since the baby is in the hospital." <br /><br />You wake up day after day wondering if this is the last day you will see your child.<br /><br /> Prematurity financially devastates families. Contrary to popular belief, there is no insurance fairy that pays the tens of thousands of dollars of co-pays or the endless "uncovered" things like speech therapy or adaptive equipment. Even "good" insurance isn't "good enough" to cover prematurity. Instead of paying for a babysitter, you have to pay for a nurse to watch your child, instead of daycare, you have to hire a nanny, instead of working full time you have to take a leave or work part time because of the sheer number of medical appointments your child will have after leaving the NICU. <br /><br />Prematurity is isolating, physically and emotionally. Because of the baby's fragile immune system, you have to limit to whom and what the baby is exposed. Of course friends and family assume you are simply nuts, because, as they will all tell you over and over, everyone needs to be exposed to germs. Actually not. It is emotionally isolating because no one, other than the other shipmates on the SS Prematurity have even a clue as to what it is like to take your infant to a minimum of one doctor visit every week, not have a single day for just you and your baby because three therapists show up everyday, on schedules that are convenient to them not you and your baby. <br /><br />Prematurity devastates families emotionally (see all of the above). </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Prematurity sucks even more for single mothers and their babies. There is no partner to act as a sounding board when you are making life altering decisions like whether to resuscitate your child, sign a DNR or decide whether to give your child a virtually experimental, yet potentially life saving drug. Bringing home a premature baby, particularly one with ongoing medical needs, can be a daunting task for single mother. Daycare settings are often inappropriate for health reasons, yet a nanny may not be financially feasible and few of us have the luxury of taking a year off from work.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"> So what can we all do to help make this suck less? Well, you can donate money to various charities in the hope that some of the research they fund might end prematurity. Or you can do something a bit closer to home and more personal. Call your local NICU or its support group and ask what you can do to make this whole thing suck less. Small things can make prematurity suck less. For example, my mother, my aunt and I make blankets and hats for the babies. There are dozens and dozens of babies that have worn my aunt's tiny "wee caps" and many who have been warmed by one of my mom's blankets and even though my blankets are far from "perfect" they are made with love. Some people make isolette covers, some people donate disposable cameras for moms to leave at the baby's bedside (yes we do take photos of our babies in the NICU), other folks donate gifts cards for coffee or gasoline to be given to those in need in the NICU. Others donate story books to the NICU (yes we read to our babies the same as you would at home). If you are feeling really generous, ask if you can send over bagels and coffee for a Sunday brunch for the moms and nurses (they get hungry too). Not all moms in the NICU can afford NICU clothes for their baby, so think about donating some NICU shirts or preemie clothes to your local NICU. Have your local SMC group contact your local NICU support group or hospital’s Family Advisory Council and offer to spend time with a single mom in the NICU, or help out a single mom whose baby has recently been discharge. You often hear the saying “it takes a village to raise a child.” Well what better way for that village to help, than to help the mother of a premature baby or child with medical needs. <br /><br />Even if you can't prevent premature births, you can make prematurity suck less for the mothers and the babies who are in the NICU right in your hometown. So this November, let's see if we can all make prematurity suck less.</span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-58139142442844787762010-11-06T06:24:00.001-04:002010-11-26T11:13:15.666-05:00Do I or Don't I???<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRPSgxluywDAUijhhRRHuhjOyHfff_bTgi21pwCdJ9mxzmCblmVIhPnMZc_5OYiXn5wt-6JrywFyGvWUCW7hxq10lCbVL9pllRUF5pRyCH1JR31fiML5Za06l8dR0r0MZyM7iMwcvBeGQn/s1600/womancrossroads.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 147px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRPSgxluywDAUijhhRRHuhjOyHfff_bTgi21pwCdJ9mxzmCblmVIhPnMZc_5OYiXn5wt-6JrywFyGvWUCW7hxq10lCbVL9pllRUF5pRyCH1JR31fiML5Za06l8dR0r0MZyM7iMwcvBeGQn/s200/womancrossroads.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543892080659049138" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">I have just recently made my decision not to become an SMC. I should also preface this by saying that I came to this quandary late. I am 46.<br /><br />Letting go of the dream of having a traditional family, i.e. a husband and kids, is a very big deal for most women. That's probably one of the first steps in deciding to become an SMC. And that's a rough one. I always had this assumption that it would happen, so it was hard to face the fact that it might not just "happen." What if it doesn't? How could it not? How long do I wait?<br /><br />All kinds of people meet their mates and start families. My confidence about myself as an attractive, smart and lovable woman is a bit tangled up in that dream. I never wanted to visit the possibility that it might not happen. It's negative. It goes against the idea of having faith. But as time went on, I had to start to untangle my sense of self and my specific hopes from that dream. And I thought long and hard about starting my non-traditional family on my own. But for me it was also the ease of a traditional family that I needed-- having someone else to share in everything--emotionally, practically, financially. And lucky me, I'd finally found that -- a partner to share in everything -- it's just that he already has teenage kids, and is not up for any more.<br /><br />At age 36 (had I seriously considered this then) my decision could have gone the other way. I always trusted that I would meet that fella I wanted to share my life with; I just assumed it would happen sooner than it did. I was never willing to go it alone...until the point when it became very real that I may never have children if I didn't do it as an SMC.<br /><br />So I weighed everything-- financial feasibility, flexibility, willingness to make whatever change necessary, priority of motherhood, etc. For me, the partnership with a soul mate always came first. That may not be the case for everyone. You could go ahead and become an SMC and then meet someone afterward (there does come a time when the age appropriate men who are looking for age appropriate women aren't necessarily looking to become a first time dad, and would welcome someone who's already got a child).<br /><br />It's so hard to know. And yes it's scary, it's a huge leap of faith, but as they say, with great risk comes great reward. I would encourage everyone to read as much as possible, and to talk to as many women as you can who have gone through this before making a decision. The women in this group are a fabulous resource. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Martha</span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-40084658851650861862010-10-29T03:23:00.004-04:002010-12-11T14:25:50.417-05:00The Magic of Mom’s Bed<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9JJpvq748KWlM8ZCqzG5pbEgTQna-Syz1RnSn6Z-l7FjzjSxVjmISwF9KVcCo9E7mi00g8xDbZcupSMGUjIwmMfZn_XUcvEIlbugI6p7rpxlJOCDfmtJAqycAJkqe_jQE45oGBk3L5Oin/s1600/iStock_000003756524XSmall.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9JJpvq748KWlM8ZCqzG5pbEgTQna-Syz1RnSn6Z-l7FjzjSxVjmISwF9KVcCo9E7mi00g8xDbZcupSMGUjIwmMfZn_XUcvEIlbugI6p7rpxlJOCDfmtJAqycAJkqe_jQE45oGBk3L5Oin/s200/iStock_000003756524XSmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543900460050677698" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">By Nancy Nisselbaum</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />I don’t know what it is about mommy’s bed. But apparently, when a child can’t fall asleep, the only place to go is mom’s bed—and like magic, the sandman comes and knocks said child out. What I found out recently is that it doesn’t even have to be your mom. Marshall was having a friend sleep over the other night. Both boys were snoring happily by about 10 p.m. and I blithely went to bed. About 1 a.m., I sensed a presence by bed. It’s Max saying he can’t fall asleep so I groggily tell him to climb in. He’s asleep in seconds. When I awake in the morning, there’s a boy in bed next to me. No big surprise. But it takes me a minute to realize it’s not mine.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I never intended to co-sleep. But Marshall had other plans. From the minute he was born, he liked to be next to me—in my arms, lying by my side, lying on top of me. For the first week, the only place he slept was on top of my chest. At least he slept, right? I had heat rash from having his sweaty little (warm, lovely) body on top of me practically 24/7.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">For the next two years, I pretended that we didn’t co-sleep. I’d put him in his crib and he’d pretend he would sleep through the night. It never happened. At some point, the crying would outlast any visions of sleeping alone dancing in my head. My goal was sleep, and it was best achieved with him beside me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">When he was 2.5, I changed his crib into a toddler bed and built a small wall around the dining room so that he would have more of an official bedroom. Well, that was the end of that. For the next year, I succumbed to the inevitable, stopped pretending, and put him to sleep in my bed. It just worked. My personal cutoff point was sitting in the room until he fell asleep. I refused. To me, that time was more important than sharing my sleeping space with a snoring, kicking, flip-flopping boy who for some reason slept well when in mom’s bed.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Yes, I woke up with toes in my nose. Yes, I woke to the sound of a child falling on the floor. Yes, I woke when he flip-flopped till he was lying on top of me. Yes, I got kicked in the kidneys, the ribs, anyplace he could land a good one. But overall, we slept. Overall, the amount and quality of sleep was better than when he was in a separate room.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">At 3.5 years, we went bed shopping. He got a low loft bed and slept in it. Went to bed in it and woke up in it. Sure, there were times when I woke in the morning and there was a boy in my bed. Not sure how or when he got there, but he would wake up, come to my room, and crawl in beside me. And honestly, there were times I missed him, missed climbing in next to warm, snoring, flip-flopping little body. But it was time and he was willing. And again, for the most part, it worked. He went to bed and stayed there, and I got my own space back.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">It’s not for everyone. But it worked for us. And now? Marshall is nine and there are still times when I have a boy in my bed. The night before the first day of school, I don’t even ask. I let him choose and consistently, he’s chosen my bed. It’s a comfort thing, a safe feeling, a primal urge. I don’t know and honestly, I don’t mind. Will he be there the night before the first day of middle school? High school? Probably not. But for now, he knows that if he needs the safety and magic of mom’s bed, he has it. And I guess his friend Max does too.</span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-7335600206139062872010-10-23T05:14:00.003-04:002010-11-26T14:17:46.443-05:00Life Lessons from Klickitat Street, Part One<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLJZtzYjMZx6Qc_OBRGcaXvj9jGYcJUsBUL7vmNFWcJ6ZAEIkhh4ou0Sbu2vVE8hpNub8uaZOi8NxwNjXWTo0lBQX-mOiPIBjqX83zWoB4PKmPNGFDwOwKD2rPhPUM4SE1VTLgJQw5GIZk/s1600/momwtwinsgrass.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 143px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLJZtzYjMZx6Qc_OBRGcaXvj9jGYcJUsBUL7vmNFWcJ6ZAEIkhh4ou0Sbu2vVE8hpNub8uaZOi8NxwNjXWTo0lBQX-mOiPIBjqX83zWoB4PKmPNGFDwOwKD2rPhPUM4SE1VTLgJQw5GIZk/s200/momwtwinsgrass.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543939745313181810" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">I took Pink and Purple to see <i>Ramona and Beezus</i> at our local discount theater over the weekend. I didn’t expect to spend most of the movie in tears.<br /></span></span> <div style="font-family: verdana;" class="post-header"> </div> <div style="font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">In the interest of full disclosure, I tend to cry at most kids’ movies. I don’t know why. I’m a notorious non-weeper in my personal life. Oh, I feel pain and sorrow, no doubt about it. It’s just that I internalize the negative emotions until they settle in the pit of my stomach like a pile of rusty razor blades, or clench them in my jaws like tetanus. But there’s something about movies that makes it ok for me to release all of that. I don’t know whether that’s particularly true of kids’ movies, or if it’s just that kids’ movies are all I seem to see anymore.</span></div><div style="font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div style="font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>Ramona and Beezus</i> was a little bit different, though. Setting aside the fact that [SPOILER] Ramona finds the cat dead of old age in his basket [SPOILER], which was rough for all of us, I found that the movie brought up a host of complicated feelings for me. </span></div><div style="font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div style="font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">John Corbett plays the dad. I’ve always had a yen for John Corbett, ever since his <i>Northern Exposure</i> “Chris in the Morning” days. I find him physically attractive, and I associate Chris the character’s philosophical nature with John the actor (regardless of the actor’s personal shortcomings), and that makes the whole package pretty appealing. </span></div><div style="font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: verdana;" face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">So right away I have a higher-than-normal level of investment in this character. Then he loses his job, and the family feels the stress of his loss of income, so I also relate to his need to keep that stress from the kids as much as possible. I worry that my daughters will, like 9-year-old Ramona, feel compelled to do something to “save the house,” that they will shoulder a burden that is not theirs.</span></div><div style="font-family: verdana;" face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div style="font-family: verdana;" face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">And Ramona’s dad, as played by Corbett, is warm and funny, creative and demonstrative. If I could go to the dad store and pick one out, that would be my preferred model. It wasn’t lost on my kids, either; early in the movie, Purple leaned over and whispered, “I wish I had a dad.”</span></div><div style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">I’m a grown-up. I know better than to believe the rom-com tropes. I used to dream of finding a "Chris in the Morning" of my own; I used to be a hopeless romantic who suffered because I hadn’t found that perfect cinematic love, and it took me longer than it probably should have to figure out that movies are escapism, that reality is much more complex and less pretty, that while reality does have its moments of breathtaking beauty and bliss, those moments are to be found sandwiched between a whole lot of mundane minutiae, daily grind, worry, and heartache. (It's taken me even longer to realize that heartache is the real meat of a life fully lived.) Real families don’t have screenwriters and editors and lush scores. But my daughters are 7. They haven’t figured all that out yet, and they probably won’t for quite a while. And that’s why I cried. I cried because they believed that what they were watching was more than just a Hollywood confection; they believed it was something very real, something they were missing.</span></div><div style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Though it hasn’t come up very often, I’ve always been very open to discussion of the Daddy Issue. My daughters know, in an age-appropriate way, the mechanics of their conception by anonymous sperm donor. I’ve gone out of my way to acknowledge their feelings, to not be defensive or over-sensitive, to make sure they feel safe to bring up the subject without fear of upsetting me. I agree that, yes, sometimes it would be nice for me, too, if we had a dad in our family. I probe—gently—to find out what “having a dad” means to them. When they were younger, “having a dad” meant he would pick them up from preschool sometimes, like Z.’s dad did, and hug them. This weekend, discussing it on the drive home, I learned that “having a dad” also means having a fun guy to hang around with. I agreed that Ramona’s dad was pretty cool, and that, yeah, he’d be nice to have around. (Boy, howdy.) I asked if this was something they thought about a lot, the not having a dad, and they both replied that, no, most of the time they didn’t think about it at all. I explained that, if they had a dad, he would probably be at work a lot of the time, and he would get impatient sometimes, or be busy doing grown-up stuff when they wanted his attention, just like I often was. And I think they’re starting to understand that, on some level. But it doesn’t stop them from believing the fantasy exists out there somewhere.<br /><br />Holly Vanderhaar<br /><br />From:<br /><a href="http://helterskelterhome.blogspot.com/2010/09/life-lessons-from-klickitat-street-part.html">http://helterskelterhome.blogspot.com/2010/09/life-lessons-from-klickitat-street-part.html</a><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br /></span></div>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-24791342096569339242010-10-16T04:30:00.006-04:002012-05-05T17:49:48.038-04:00Grieving a Bio Child<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirG_Fdrwd6G_YO0gephZ9VbPfR9wQ3BX17dFcoWPr_WGZTNEx_4PiuWlD2nFyIMgUzBYBq-Q1kwECZ_Aov9U4Vfn7dT10KuETK0EOQ3FqwMmrEtZQEeNO9Z3igdwZ-XAFqZ2fTBQa6AN3g/s1600/sadwomanjpg.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543948568721294994" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirG_Fdrwd6G_YO0gephZ9VbPfR9wQ3BX17dFcoWPr_WGZTNEx_4PiuWlD2nFyIMgUzBYBq-Q1kwECZ_Aov9U4Vfn7dT10KuETK0EOQ3FqwMmrEtZQEeNO9Z3igdwZ-XAFqZ2fTBQa6AN3g/s200/sadwomanjpg.jpg" style="float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 134px;" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">As I sit here writing, my house is filled with baby items from friends and freecycle. All I need is a baby. At least now I have hope—I’m on an adoption waiting list. But what a long journey it has been…</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">I became a thinker and joined SMC at age 39. People encouraged me to move forward, but I was stuck. I wanted a husband, then kids—the traditional family. At 40, I met someone I hoped could be Mr. Right, who turned out to be Mr. Autonomy Issues. At 41, I broke it off. I was devastated. I went into a depression, sought counseling and was stuck—I wanted biological kids, but I also wanted a traditional family. I kept thinking.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;">Looking back, I see how uneducated I was about fertility for women in their 40s. Despite the many women in the news having children well into their 40s, I didn’t know these women used donor eggs—not their own. So, with my eggs growing older by the day, I continued thinking.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">Finally at 42 (and 10 months), I made what I thought was the most difficult decision of my life—to try to conceive on my own. I passed fertility tests with flying colors, but after seven tries—IUIs and IVFs—I had low egg quantity/quality. I had another difficult decision to make: Should I keep trying with my eggs? I had to think about finances, my age (43 and a half) and my desire to be a mom—how would I feel if I found myself six months later, age 44, still not pregnant?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">I went to the counselor and grieved and grieved. All my dreams down the drain—my desire for a husband with three biological kids. All those years of envisioning my children, who they would take after—my mom, my sister, my brother? My connection to my heritage. It was one of my darkest hours.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">But my desire to be a mom pushed me forward. I weighed donor egg vs. adoption. Donor egg seemed like an easier route. I picked a donor and did my first cycle at 44. Cut to me a year and a half later—three miscarriages and an inability to carry to term due to an immune issue. The first two miscarriages were devastating. By the third, I’d selected an adoption agency and knew if the pregnancy didn’t take, I’d immediately move on.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">Last July, after learning my final pregnancy wasn’t viable, but before the actual miscarriage, I contact the adoption agency. They were enthusiastic at a time I needed enthusiasm. I was exhausted—2.5 years of fertility treatments, disappointments, miscarriages, poking/prodding and money out the door—all for nothing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">I did my home study and got on the waiting list in September 2009. I’m excited about adopting. With adoption I will be a mom. With fertility treatments, it was a crapshoot. Moving to adoption was a relief—no more needles, doctor appointments, miscarriages, disappointments, hormones. I could live my life more normally while I waited, although I have moments of grief that sneak up on me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">I try not to be bitter. Everyone has her own journey. I just never thought I’d have such a long road to motherhood. I believe God has a plan for me, even if I can’t see it. I date, trying to find someone to share my life with and be a father to my children. I keep busy while I wait for my match. I’m now 46 and, although I sometimes can’t believe it, this circuitous route to motherhood is my story.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana; font-style: italic;">Leslie C</span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-77859744230508122892010-10-10T02:19:00.004-04:002010-11-26T19:01:41.843-05:00Our Last Weeks Alone<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvweZQolGrSQRITiD-GdBghYoyF7hoZzqPYJAPDPMNMwImHoPx-iUdEMyTRtEVskzTJZQXld_Hov8PDJKdmtV37npI5ErXaNTLcWAxRNlZzItUvPzPxadVSstTeMf_TwBLnmgNhjiNOkUI/s1600/pregmomboy.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvweZQolGrSQRITiD-GdBghYoyF7hoZzqPYJAPDPMNMwImHoPx-iUdEMyTRtEVskzTJZQXld_Hov8PDJKdmtV37npI5ErXaNTLcWAxRNlZzItUvPzPxadVSstTeMf_TwBLnmgNhjiNOkUI/s200/pregmomboy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544012894483489170" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">During the last few weeks the world around us has changed suddenly. Hot sticky days with harsh bright sunlight have been replaced by cool, crisp dry days that smell of fresh mown grass and distant fires. Many of the 6-foot-high corn fields have been mowed down, and the guy selling 12 ears for $4 out of the back of his truck has sold out for the season. The soybean fields are starting to turn golden, and maples and ash here and there are flaming red and yellow. It isn’t fall yet, but fall is definitely in the air. We leave the windows open at night, and some nights the brisk prairie winds from the west cool the house so much that I have to get up and close the windows. We leave for town every morning just as the sun is coming up, and as we turn east to head for Jamie’s Play Palace, the blinding sunlight makes Sammy demand that the sun go away. “Go away, icky sun. Go away,” he says.<br /><br /> But the weather is not all that is changing. I am slowing down, trying to memorize and appreciate every single moment I have with Sam. Our last few weeks alone. Our last few weeks before we have to share each other. Every night before bed we rock in the double-sized rocker in his room and talk about what we did during the day. He no longer lays on my lap… partially because my lap shrank as my belly grew bigger but mostly because he always wants to remind me that he’s a big boy, that he wants to sit next to me rather than on me. We squeeze into the chair side by side and I wrap my left arm around him and he leans into me resting his head on my belly. Sometimes he jumps up and makes a joke that Baby Sister just kicked him, but mostly he leans and tries to find a comfortable position for his head. He sometimes takes a while to settle with all the excitement he has when we talk about our day. The walks we took, the vegetables we picked, the friends we visited, the pies we baked, the bubbles we blew. Sunday he was so excited about the 3-man tent set up in the living room and the flashlight we used to read our bedtime stories (until he accidentally slammed it into my nose) that he could hardly sleep. Tonight he told me how excited he is to stay at Jamie’s house tomorrow night. <br /><br />I’ve decided to give myself one night off every week. A night to recharge and stay horizontal and not have to cook or clean or sit on the bathroom floor next to Sam’s potty chair while he pushes and reads his Elmo potty book for fifteen minutes. I have been looking forward to giving myself these nights off for weeks, looking forward to a relief from the battle of do-this-why-because-i-said-so. But on the eve of my first weekly night off I find myself a little sad, a little unsure of whether I want to give up a night with him when we have so few left of just us, so few quiet nights when I’ll be able to sit and talk and cuddle and share and remember how truly lucky we are to have each other. <br /><br />Tonight on the way home we saw a digger for sale just down the road from where the guy used to sell corn out of his pickup. Sam was telling me for the 25th time that he didn’t want pizza for dinner and he didn’t want noodles for dinner and we needed to stop and buy mangoes. Yummy mangoes. I had tired of the broken record conversation we were having and I pointed out the digger, told him it was for sale. “<br /><br />Can we buy it?” he asked.<br /><br /> I told him it was big and expensive and we didn’t have enough money. <br /><br />“TT can buy it. TT has money.” TT is his grandma. <br /><br />“No,” I said. “TT doesn’t have enough money either.”<br /><br /> Last week as we were pulling away from the daycare, the father of some of the other children was just pulling up. Outside the window Sammy heard Jamie say “Look whose daddy is here.” After we had turned the corner and gone a few blocks down the road, Sam said “I don’t have a daddy.” <br /><br /> “No,” I said. “Our family doesn’t have a daddy. Just a mommy.” <br /><br />“I have a mommy,” he said, and I shifted the rearview mirror to see him smile. “Just a mommy and just a TT!” <br /><br />“Yep,” I said. “You have a TT!” I didn’t remind him that in a few short weeks he will also have a Baby Sister. <br /><br />Tonight as we rocked in the chair in the 7pm bedtime routine darkness, the flashlight put away on the “big boy dresser” across from his bed, he told me he loved me very much and stretched up to kiss me on the nose. “Sorry I hit your nose, Mommy. I hope your nose is all better,” he said. He patted me on the head with the same soft touch he uses whenever he apologizes to get off the naughty mat and I reassured him that I knew it was an accident, that I was okay. He kissed me on the nose again and repeated, “I love you very, very much.” <br /><br />[sigh] <br /><br />How do I take a night off from that?</span><br /><br />Barb<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-22122464437160200552010-10-04T05:27:00.002-04:002010-11-26T21:40:16.815-05:00My Journey to Motherhood via Adoption<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEVgw9BpYW0iVW4BRvRR8OidByl9YvmWTkHXz3gn8GU8M6xssSwXrrAdvJIFSInkWcxorHuAoNPoNJtjWgHRU2ZPyG1BV9napQoYG_QW7aQOO-wBlVzZiPl0OWpBh0bNRO3DNc7dTqDZeV/s1600/babykissingmomjpg.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 141px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEVgw9BpYW0iVW4BRvRR8OidByl9YvmWTkHXz3gn8GU8M6xssSwXrrAdvJIFSInkWcxorHuAoNPoNJtjWgHRU2ZPyG1BV9napQoYG_QW7aQOO-wBlVzZiPl0OWpBh0bNRO3DNc7dTqDZeV/s200/babykissingmomjpg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544053709215678626" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">I am single by choice. Did you know weird girls in high school who never wanted to get married (and/or have children)? That was me. I had my own philosophy about what marriage does to a woman's career choice and trajectory, self esteem, independence, you name it. My mother worried I'd never "get a man" with that attitude.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Though I knew I didn't want to marry, I was on the fence about becoming a parent. I put it that way because I never wanted to birth a baby. I always knew that I wanted to become a parent through adoption. </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">At the age of 40 - two failed marriages later - I recognized I did indeed want to be a mom. So I dated while preparing to begin the adoption process.<br /><br />Like many of us, I went the online dating route. My criteria were pretty strict: no kids, wanted or would consider having kids, age difference no more than +/- 5 years. It seems that most men in their late 30s/early 40s seek younger women if they want kids. One even said, "I like you, but I really want kids, and I don't know whether you'll be able to produce them." <gasp> I chuckled and advised him to get a health check from a "young breeder" because age doesn't guarantee a woman can conceive or deliver a baby.<br /><br /></gasp></span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">Anyway, I met a wonderful man (4 yrs my junior). His profile listed "undecided" in the kid category, but he said during our second date that he was leaning more toward no kids. We talked about my adoption plan during that date. I was very clear that I wasn't looking for a co-parent. Fast-forward two years when I informed him that I was beginning the adoption process. I gave him the opportunity to bail before the madness started. He just laughed.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Now, 4 months and 1 day into being a single parent at the age of 44, I know I did everything just right! I have an amazingly beautiful baby *and* an incredible boyfriend. I am a single mom by choice! I should have stuck with Plan A all along!<br /><br />Joy<br /></span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-67221156380634913692010-09-26T05:27:00.003-04:002010-11-26T21:42:39.795-05:00Seeking Happily Ever After<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfDZ9mxB39JKw5CHAH-qNLQZ3HS5GflQzrUErsWLc2dRWidD74KwXQ8fZsmZg6_2sfMiXxId2Pzos8SZGEvzEwfaG_YQgpCBZbWx0gOt82O3EbUNqBmxkM0e1OGaJK7jcaFK6qOvaXKeBb/s1600/seekinghappilyeverafter.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 111px; height: 166px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfDZ9mxB39JKw5CHAH-qNLQZ3HS5GflQzrUErsWLc2dRWidD74KwXQ8fZsmZg6_2sfMiXxId2Pzos8SZGEvzEwfaG_YQgpCBZbWx0gOt82O3EbUNqBmxkM0e1OGaJK7jcaFK6qOvaXKeBb/s200/seekinghappilyeverafter.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544054335522334226" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">Are Women Redefining the Fairytale?</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">By Michelle Cove</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Three years ago, I was sitting with my friend Becky at a coffee shop talking about how lame the media was when it came to reporting the rise of single women. Sure they were reporting accurate U.S. Census numbers (such as New York Times’ 2007 posting that 51 percent of adults are now single). But in terms of reflecting who these women are and what they think about, they were totally off the mark. For the most part, single women in their 30s and older are portrayed as desperate to marry.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Ever year, a gaggle of women battle one another for a wedding proposal from one man (a stranger) on “The Bachelor.” In today’s hottest sitcoms, single 30-something women act like mindless fools to get a date. “Emma” in “Glee” spent a whole season mooning over the married Mr. Scheuster; “Liz” on 30-Rock planned a root canal for herself on Valentine’s Day so she wouldn’t have to deal with being alone. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Is this really how single women act and feel?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Hell, no. That’s why award-winning producer Kerry David and I have made the feature-length documentary Seeking Happily Ever After: One generation’s struggle to redefine the fairytale. (<a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.seekinghappilyeverafter.com">www.seekinghappilyeverafter.com</a>). We wanted to find out from women across the country how they really feel about being a single woman today. Do they see being single as a choice? Do they feel desperate? Do they want to marry? What do they think about becoming a single mom?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">While it’s certainly true that plenty of women are redefining happily ever after (by opting not to marry for various reasons), most of the single women we interviewed do want to get married and have babies. But what’s different about “happily ever after” today is that these women are not willing to settle for the wrong guy. They are the exact opposite of “desperate”; they feel good enough about themselves to wait until the right guy comes along, no matter how long it takes. In fact, headlines from The Washington Post last week reported that there are now more women giving birth after age 35 than there are teen moms giving birth (hear, hear!). </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">And if the right guy doesn’t come along at all, most of the single women I interviewed said they will find a new path towards happiness. As the main character we follow in our film puts it, “You can have several happy endings for yourself, and happily ever after is putting the steps in place to get to any of those endings.” Now there’s a single 30-something woman in the media women can cheer for…</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Michelle Cove is the Director and a Producer of the feature-length documentary Seeking Happily Ever After, and the author of Seeking Happily Ever After: How to navigate the ups and downs of being single without losing your mind, which will be published this September by Tarcher/Penguin. </span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8434051313035946945.post-18901623353166677822010-09-20T04:29:00.006-04:002010-11-27T14:52:06.274-05:00A Glimpse Into the Past: Meeting Ana’s birthmother.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKaWoC0WVJs0_F1VpvD8e11Hopru1WimVpch30fJh-NBhYsxwXGHgs4jIq7lBmSftUHWONygU3ajGqBAAW9oOakddfRblSQo94cdR5KNfgnCtsGbuZshK7DssX7rYCEqhDgb2NpYyZTtsD/s1600/sadhispanicbabyjpg.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKaWoC0WVJs0_F1VpvD8e11Hopru1WimVpch30fJh-NBhYsxwXGHgs4jIq7lBmSftUHWONygU3ajGqBAAW9oOakddfRblSQo94cdR5KNfgnCtsGbuZshK7DssX7rYCEqhDgb2NpYyZTtsD/s200/sadhispanicbabyjpg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544319575775559026" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">When I started the process to adopt from Guatemala, I knew that there was a strong possibility that I would meet the birthmother. The majority of Guatemalan adoptions are relinquishment cases where the birthmother gets to know the in-country facilitator or attorney. I was excited about the prospect as I thought it would be good for my child to know something about her birthmother.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Unlike some other countries, Guatemala has no minimum-stay requirement. All of the processing has been completed prior to the arrival of the adoptive parent and the adoption is legally complete. All you need is a day in Guatemala City to go to the U.S. Embassy and apply for a visa for your adopted child. The visa is issued that same afternoon and you are free to return home as soon as you can catch a flight. With such tight timing, there’s not much room for a visit with the birthmother. In my case, I was traveling alone and my three-year-old daughter, Pearl, was at home waiting for me. I was to arrive on a Monday night and leave on a Wednesday morning. That meant Tuesday was Embassy day and the only day I would have to meet Ana's birthmother.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"> I had told my U.S. facilitator that I wanted to meet the birth mother. We weren’t sure it would be possible because the in-country facilitator who coordinates with the birthmoms was out of the country. Her 20-year-old son, Gerson, was handling cases in her absence.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I arrived in Guatemala on the evening of Monday, February 24, 2003. A cab was waiting for me to take me to the host family’s house. I met with Gerson to go over the required paperwork. I let him know that I wanted to meet the birth mother and he said he would try.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"> I met my daughter that night while I was filling out more paperwork. It was exciting, scary, and tense. I went over my questions with the foster mother and then had to get back to Gerson and his paperwork. All that was going on scared poor little Ana but she held up well and managed to get to sleep.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"> We took care of the visa application the next morning and when I saw Gerson I again asked him about meeting the birthmother. He gave me the same vague answer. But, while having lunch at my host family’s house, the doorbell rang. It was Ana’s birthmother, Ana Rosario. I was tingling all over and couldn’t believe I was meeting her. She was somewhat shy and reserved but had a lot to say. She was sweet and also sad at having to give up Ana. In fact, she cried most of the time we were together. She was dressed in western clothes, a black skirt and a V-neck knit top that didn’t quite cover her bra. Poor little Ana was confused by everything. She had been relinquished when she was six months old and, after four months in foster care, it appeared that she no longer recognized her birthmother. Ana sat on her birthmother’s lap and mostly cried along with her birthmother.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"> I took some pictures and then I asked her if I could videotape her. I told her she could watch the videotape and we did that together. Her message on the video is short, but it will be a gift to Ana as she grows up. First, she wanted Ana to know that she would always love her and would always have her in her heart. She said that she hoped that someday Ana will understand how difficult things were for her and how she was just too poor to raise her. She said that maybe Ana will be able to forgive her for relinquishing her. She also asked for Ana to come back to Guatemala someday to visit: “There are many people in Guatemala who love her and who will always love her.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">She told me a little about her family and it turns out that Ana is named for her mother (Ana) and her mother’s sister (Isabel). I’m even more pleased that I kept Ana’s birth name and the birthmother was, too. I was in tears most of the time while I was taping her message. She was such a sweet, likable, and poor woman who, as a single mom, just couldn’t get the resources together to make it all happen. (Ana’s birthmother probably earned about $100 a month as a domestic. When she went back to work, she had to stop breastfeeding. A month of formula would cost $75.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"> I had a list of prepared questions that I wanted to ask her and we got to go through most of them. I found out some important information—such as Ana’s maternal grandmother dying of ovarian cancer 13 years ago. I don’t know if there is a hereditary component to that but it is good to know. I was thrilled to learn that Ana was breastfed for five months and got to experience the loving bond that comes with breastfeeding.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Ana’s birthmother told me one chilling story that illustrated how desperate her family was. After about five months, she went back to work. She said the family was forcing her to pay a lot of money to take care of Ana and she had to go to work at a bad place. (I didn’t query her on what it was or why it was bad.) One day, she didn’t have any money for milk. When she came home from work, the family had sold Ana’s earrings to pay for milk. Wow. I could tell it hurt the birthmother that Ana’s earrings had been sold. She said that that was when she realized she would have to go through with an adoption plan.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"> I don’t know if I can accurately convey here what it was like to meet Ana’s birthmother. It was almost more spectacular than meeting Ana, I think because I knew it would be fleeting. I cherish the memory of that sweet woman and I hope I can relay that to Ana as she grows up. I plan to send pictures periodically and to someday come back for a visit and go to Mazatenango where Ana was born.<br /><br />Debbie Lynch<br /></span>Single Mothers by Choice (SMC)http://www.blogger.com/profile/10524160238658120095noreply@blogger.com2