Adoption: No Returns [Opinions wanted]

There is a reason why retail stores have tightened up their return policies. Indecisive or sometimes remorseful shoppers will abuse a lenient return policy, purchasing items and then returning them rather than carefully thinking through their buying decisions while still at the store. To stop this, stores have made it tougher to return items hoping people won't devalue the integrity of the products.

It's hard to believe the same thought process is having to be applied toward adoption.

Wait. WHAT?

Did I just compare adopting a child to buying clothing? No and yes. Certainly, there is no comparison. An article of clothing is essentially a dispensible inanimate object whereas a child is a human being with emotions, psyche and deserving of certain inalienable rights. I think we can all agree on that. Right? 

No.

Not if you're Torry Ann Hansen of Shelbyville, Tennessee who adopts a 7 year old Russian boy and then "returns" him to his country of birth by sticking him on an airplane by himself accompanied by a note.

Hansen claimed that she was deceived and misled by the adoption agencies when learning about her future son. She later alleged that the boy was "violent and has severe psychopathic issues." Rather than work with the agencies to seek help and counseling to deal with disruption issues (which are common in adoption), Hansen essentially returns her defective product to where she obtained it.

The problem is, this is no defective product we're talking about. It's a boy. A seven year old boy. A human being. A seven year old boy who has now been given up not just by one family, but now by two.

What must that do to a kid?

If Hansen thought the boy had psychological issues before, she sure helped him tremendously by abandoning him, sending him on an airplane alone and wiping her hands clean of him.

I can't imagine returning a pet to where I bought it, let alone a child to where I adopted him.

For the thousands of U.S. families desperately seeking to adopt a child, Hansen has single-handedly tainted the integrity of the adoption process, especially between the U.S. and Russia who is now threatening to cease all adoptions between the two countries.

As though adopting a child wasn't hard enough already.

But I'm curious what YOU think.

Was Hansen wrong?

What should/could she have done differently?

Or do you think she was right?

Is it best for the boy to not be in her hands?

What does Hansen's case do to the adoption process for families who are seeking to find a child?

Marching for Maddie – Photos

You won't see me in this photograph because I'm the one behind the lens, but I couldn't be prouder to be a part of this amazing group of people who showed up to march for Maddie in Los Angeles this past Saturday.

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[Click to enlarge]

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[My son and I]

You can see all of March for Maddie March of Dimes Walk photos here.
  

Field Trips: Designed to make you love *your* kids more

After spending a good portion of the day on a farm picking strawberries with about 100 three, four and five years olds in 60 mph frigid winds it's a goddamn miracle I'm able to type this, let alone make dinner too. While still in clothes. DID YOU HEAR THAT CANDY ASS? I'M MAKING DINNER DESPITE MY VERY LONG CRAZY POKE MY OWN EYES OUT DAY. And I'm not even in pajamas yet. YET.

But that's me, Mom of the Year.

Oh shut-up.

I've helped with enough of these field trips to know better than to volunteer yet I do it anyway and not just because I've got this weird YOU'RE GOING TO KILL MY KID IN YOUR CAR WITH YOUR WRETCHED DRIVING SKILL MRS. LEXUS phobia either. I do it because I can and I should and really it's fun getting to pick strawberries/pumpkins/tour grocery stores (WHY THE FUCK DOES A KID WANT TO TOUR A GROCERY STORE? I'm an adult and I don't even want to shop at one.) with my kids.

Key words: my kids.

The other kids? Good god. I hate to say it BUT SOMEBODY HAS TO and the truth is (we all know it) that other peoples' children – for the most part – aren't nearly as smart or cute or tolerable as our own. Except yours, of course.

Oh you know it. Sure, there are a few cute ones you don't mind helping pick out the red versus the green strawberries. But the rest? Well, god bless those teachers and AMEN.

My kid has a snotty nose? Gross, but I grab a tissue, wipe it and move on. Someone else's kid has a snotty nose? I find another parent and point dramatically while yelling EWW! EWW! EWWWWWW! someone send that kid home before he gives my kid the probably just allergy induced snot!

My kid gets all hyped up and obnoxious over the idea that We! Are! Going! On! A! Field! Trip! and it's like Oh look, my son is so excited! How cute! Someone else's kid kicks the back of my seat while screaming and speaking in tongues about 'wabewwies' as I drive his overzealous short self to the farm (all 25 freaking minutes, KICK! KICK! KICK!) and I have to stop myself from threatening "No dessert tonight!" to the little boy who is clearly not as well-behaved as mine.

And my kids were exceptionally well-behaved. Except for a couple of quote/unquote bad things they *might* have said during our day at the farm that Jesus or Mary or Moses might not approve of. But then again, Jesus or Mary or Moses weren't at the farm, were they?

OR WERE THEY?!

And besides, it was my 3 year old who said those "bad" things; who obviously wouldn't know better than to yell "JESUS CHRIST!" when he fell a second time in the mulch. (I only got two dirty looks from that one. Then again there were only two adults nearby. HE COULD HAVE BEEN PRAYING OR HAVING A REVELATION for all they knew. Christ.)

Oh and then on the drive home he saw some horses on the side of the road and exclaimed (in his best Eastern Tennessee accent) "Wha da hell?"

I mean really, WHA DA HELL? Horses where we live? I hear ya kid. I hear ya.

Did I mention the teacher was riding in our car? Yeaaah. Aw well, add it to my Bad Parenting Rap Sheet. Wha da hell.

We won't even discuss whether tethering other peoples' children to the back of the tractor ride to exhaust some of their pent-up energy is legal or talk about the parents who do come along on the field trip, but obviously not to help… just to socialize with other parents (who does that nowadays? That's what Twitter is for. Duh.) while I tell their daughter to quit flashing her little 'underwears' at the farm workers or their son to not stick his hand in the emu's cage. IT WILL PECK YOUR EYES OUT, SON.

You're welcome, parents of Holy Christian Loves Jesus Praise the Lord Preschool. 

They get their coordination skillz from me

My mom used to joke that my middle name should have been "Grace." It was her little take on irony since I lived in her house for 20 years and never stopped running into the walls or slipping on the just-waxed kitchen floor despite her putting a basket in front of the doorway that made it damn near impossible to walk into the room at all.

There's even a photo album with those sticky clear film pages that have now yellowed somewhere in my mom's house with moments of me in a *cough* beauty pageant *cough* and there, captured on Polaroid film is me in my little smock dress tripping on-stage.

Next to it she wrote "Grace."

As I watched my boys do MMA (Mixed Martial Arts) today I realized giving any one of them the middle name "Grace" would have been wrong on many levels, but when it comes to their coordination and those damned jumping jacks, well, it seems there's a little of me in them after all.

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Gravity is a bitch.

You say potato, I say filet mignon. The right way.

Let me tell you a little something about Candy Ass. He is a Candy. Ass. I know what you're thinking: Way to use your words, Megan. But really, there's no better way to describe him which is why when I started this here blog I gave him that moniker. 

Things are so much clearer for you now, aren't they? 

Anyway.

Every day on his way home from work, Candy Ass calls me and talks to me as he makes his commute from the craziness that is work to the complete chaos that is home. And before you get all Wow. How sweet of him to call you every day! Let me just give you a little taste of what these conversations entail.

Our last deep conversation (and it is *still* on-going, kill me now) dealt with the correct pronounciation of "filet mignon." Don't get me started on how brown-skinned, bushy-eyebrowed Candy Ass suddenly acquires a French accent when saying "filet mignon" (correctly pronounced: fi-lay min-yawn, btw) brutually butchers the cut of meat (heh) by pronouncing it fi-laaaay mi-yah. JUNK! PUNCH! STAB!

But today, something else was on his mind…

Him: Have you bought me a handkerchief yet?

ME: Um, noooo. Was I supposed to?

Him: Yeah, I've asked you like 3 times.

ME: Why would you need a handkerchief?

Him: To wrap around my head while working out.

ME: *stifling laughter* You mean you need a sweatband?

Him: NO! No… I don't need One Of Those.

ME: Oh what? You're too "cool" to wear a sweatband?

Him: Uh, yeah.

ME: I think you mean you want a bandana to wrap around your head then.

Him: No, a handkerchief.

ME: Noooo, a bandana. A handkerchief is something you wipe your nose on. A bandana is something you wrap around your head.

Him: No, you're wrong.

ME: No, YOU'RE WRONG.

Him: IT'S CALLED A HANDKERCHIEF.

ME: IF YOU WANT TO WIPE SNOT ON IT THEN YES, IT IS A HANDKERCHIEF. IF YOU WANT TO WRAP IT AROUND YOUR HEAD IT'S A GODDAMN BANDANA.

Him: Fine. I need a bandana. Have you bought me one? I've asked you like 3 times.

ME: *reaches through phone, grabs his balls and switches the testes*
____________________________

To the men who read my blog, I'm sorry you had to read that last line. But really? It's not like you've never heard that threat before. And if you haven't, well now you have and now you know how I roll and if anything, whoop-dee-doo and congratulations to Candy Ass, suddenly there's a few people on his side. For once. AND MAY I NEVER KNOW WHO YOU ARE. *TWIST*

My highly technical review of the iPad

If you're looking for a highly technical, riveting review of Apple's latest cocaine fix for gadget geeks everywhere, I'm here to help. My expertise stems from the few minutes my husband "let me" graze his 34GB iPad when he left it unattended while going to the restroom and my ability to relate technological advances to how it effects me personally in life.

You're welcome.

Without further ado, as a Windows user, here is my totally unbiased review of a product I knew I would never buy even before I saw it:

It's a bloated iTouch.

It's sleek and thin and all Calvin Klein-ish waif the way all Apple products are and yet oversized enough to be considered inconvenient to carry.

It's nothing more than an entertainment device at this point; a gadget you can load up with apps and spend countless hours wasting while using until the long lasting battery dies. (See: my husband all fucking weekend.) Note: You can do the same damn thing on your iphone and itouch right now already.

It took me ten minutes to get bored with it and twenty minutes to figure out how to turn it off.

Despite it's geriatric-sized keyboard for allegedly easier typing, I managed to shoot blanks several times while attempting to tweet about the iPad.

The bitch racks up fingerprints quicker than an FBI database. I have no doubt Apple is in cahoots with the agency already, swiping gadget geeks paw prints in Apple stores everywhere for their database as we speak. SUCKERS!

It's an overpriced kid's toy. My boys think it's cool. Because of a Toy Story app, not because they understand the more technical in's and out's of the device like I clearly do.

And by overpriced kid's toy I include grown men in this demographic. Like my husband. Hang on, there's a call coming through from my divorce attorney…

Still there?

Great. Under my attorney's advice I think I'll be filing "irreconcilable technological differences."

This monsterous iTouch doesn't even have a camera but there's a bajillion photo apps. I'm just as confused as you.

But the iPad is not a total waste. I should also point out its finer points:

Um…

It's easier to read blogs/websites/ebooks on it because it's ginormous?

It has really good sound. Like, it's loud. Especially when you're trying to go to sleep and your husband's face is all a-glow playing some shoot-em-up-blow-em-up-kill-em-dead game he downloaded and the sound of simulated machine gun just isn't lulling you to sleep.

It's not so pretty that it takes away from you.

The screen is so bright it can illuminate your entire house. Do worry about paying the electric bill this month, dear. WE HAVE AN IPAD!

This version is so inept, we won't have to hear about it for too long before there's something else that's newer, better, more functional and hopefully smaller. Oh wait. That's the iTouch.
___________________________

Full disclosure: Apple did not pay me to provide this highly technical review of the iPad nor did they provide with an iPad or the money to buy one. Frankly, the owe me a refund and whatever debt I'm about to incur over divorce expenses.

You.

You were the only one who

didn't think you could do it

wasn't certain you could make it

doubted your ability

thought you didn't belong

was standing in your way.

But we knew all along that you

could do it

would make it through

had the ability

belonged and deserved to be there

were the only one standing in your way.

Because you have always been

better than you've known

smarter than you've given yourself credit for

stronger than the rest of us

braver than the boys

and never cared who was in your way.

We are so proud of you.

_______________________________

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Congratulations to my sister Jamie, who graduates Saturday from the Fire Academy.

For a flower always in bloom…

After hearing about Andrea's brilliant idea to plant a purple flower in memory of Madeline Spohr, my boys and I set out Saturday morning on a mission to make a very lonely planter in our backyard beautiful again in celebration of a little girl who left us a year ago Wednesday.

I still miss her. I still think of her constantly. I can't see a shade of purple without thinking of Maddie's infectious smile. And then I ache. For her parents Heather and Mike, as a parent, as someone who held this precious little girl just a few weeks before…

As we drove to Home Depot, I told the boys what we were doing. Why we were doing it. Rather than complain or scuffle their feet in reluctance, the boys were oddly intent on helping.

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We picked out the purplest rose we could find

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and the boys took turn smelling how fragrant it was…

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We picked out a couple of the most purple African Violets we could find

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and took our bounty to the car and loaded up, ready to get to work.

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Shovels in hand, my boys ceased their normal fighting and bickering to pitch in and be helpful

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turning this box of nothingness into a beautiful garden for Maddie.

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They each had their questions. Hard questions. Ones I wasn't quite sure how to answer appropriately so I did my best to be honest. 

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I had to swallow back tears several times. Teetering between putting myself in Heather and Mike's place - God, what if it were one of my kids? While completely in awe at my own sons - Wow. Look at how much my boys care about a little girl they never met.

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"But why did she get sick, mommy?"

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"How come some people get to live to be 100 years old, mom?"

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"Do you think she'll like these flowers, mom?"

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"Will she see these flowers, mommy?"

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"Maybe we can have her mommy and daddy over for dinner so they can see them. I'll bet they would like steak."

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I had to catch my breath.

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As we finished patting down the soil around the last flower, I stood back and admired the garden, telling the boys, "You guys did a great job. You should be proud. Look at your beautiful flowers!"

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And that's when my 5 year old said quietly, "No mom. Those aren't our flowers. Those are Maddie's flowers. Aren't they pretty?"

***

To Mike and Heather:

My heart aches for you every single day. I love the way you keep Maddie's spirit alive through blog posts and photographs and stories and the foundation. You are amazing people.

To Maddie:

Little girl, we miss you so much. Those of us who had the pleasure of meeting you and the hundreds of thousands of people who have simply read about you and forever been changed by your story. You are a bright spirit and a flower always in bloom.

_____________________

Count the garden by the flowers, never by the leaves that fall.
Count your life with smiles and not the tears that roll.
 ~Unknown