Blather, wince, repeat

I've been working on this entry for awhile. The thing is, I just can't seem to completely scourge the self-righteous tone from it, imo. And I don't mean to be self-righteous at all. I just gotta get this off my chest. So, here we go. Don't say I didn't warn you.

We've already covered my kids and my somewhat-infertility-inspired overprotectiveness. I know that we have.

But I don't think I've shared that I'm a founding member of our local international adoptive families support group. It's a very cool, laid back group. Our quarterly-or-so gatherings consist of 20-30 families, eating supper, while kids of various races/ages/genders run amuck and cause general chaos. I'm about as protective of each one of our "group kids"as I am my own children.

I have also previously mentioned that I have had a gastric bypass. I know it's not a solution for everyone, and I realize that I've had a much easier road than many people. I am willing to share my experience, but realize it's not representative for everyone.

I have also adopted internationally/transracially. I love it. It's been two of the absolute best things I've ever done. However, it's not for everyone either. Adoption done wrong serves no one, least of all the kid involved.

Now, keep those things in mind.

A few years ago, one of our group members brought along their hairstylist to one of our international adoptive families gatherings. We will refer to her (the hairstylist) as Chickie. Chickie and her husband expressed interest in our group, and had confided to aforementioned member of our group about their infertility woes and said that they were interested in pursuing adoption. So, Chickie comes to our gathering, where she and her husband spend the entire evening huddled in the corner, looking horrified and disgusted. It is obvious that Chickie is having some sort of problem dealing with this all; I presume it has to do with unresolved IF issues, but don't pursue it with her. At this time, I'm kind of angered that she's chosen to drag her shit out in front our kids, some of whom are old enough to realize that this gathering is quite obviously not pleasing to her. If it weren't for that, I would have more sympathy for her. Actually, at the beginning of the evening, I do empathize with her, but as she gets poutier and poutier, my tolerance wanes.

A few days later, I realize that Chickie & I work out at the same gym. Seeing me reminds her of "the gathering", and I overhear her confiding to a friend that international adoption is "soooo not for her" and that "she could never do that". I can't remember the details, but it's made painfully obvious to me that Chickie is troubled by the non-whiteness of "our kids" in the group. It's probably a good time to reiterate that I have no problem with anyone who chooses not to adopt, transracially or otherwise, or with anyone who is struggling with IF issues. Most certainly, I've dealt with similar conflicts myself. It was the way Chickie misrepresented herself (as someone who was planning to adopt internationally) to our group and the way she treated our kids and the group members who reached out to her that ticked me off. And my kids are Asian, so her attitude of "a white baby would be better" does kind of rub me the wrong way. Furthermore, using her attendance at our gathering as a means to further the stereotype that international adoption/adoptive families are somehow wrong is mildly pissing me off. Chickie later reiterates to the group member who invited her, "she could never do that." Okay, then don't. Whatever. It's not like we make meth at our gatherings. I decide that perhaps Chickie is suffering from some form of Adoptophobia. For her sake, I fervently hope that a vaccine is available soon. I figure it's probably for the best that she's not adopting anyone, and then promptly forget her very existence.

Fast forward a few years later. I'm having a yard sale in which I sell all my pre-gastric bypass surgery clothing. I was afraid to sell this stuff until post-pregnancy. I was deathly scared that pregnancy would make me as big as I was before surgery. And, it's kind of bittersweet--some of these clothes I really love, but it's hard to believe I was so big. I remember being uncomfortable, but I must've been more uncomfortable than I realized at the time. Oh wait, that's got nothing to do with the point of this, nevermind.

Anyway, at said yard sale, Chickie is in attendance. Only I don't recognize her, 'cause I had already forgotten about her very existence long ago. As previously noted, it's been awhile, at least a few years. Chickie herself suffers from pcos and is plus-size. So even though I hate her (a fact I don't yet recall), I do feel a reluctant kinship, in spite of myself. Chickie tries on several items of my former wardrobe. Some things fit her, but others are too small. As she is crying in my garage (because of her weight, I presume), she tearfully asks whose clothes these are. I think this is an odd question, but I want her to quit bawling so I answer truthfully rather than my usual backsass. I say they were mine. Chickie remarks that it's hard to believe that I was ever that big. (Fat girl on the inside is hurt by this little jab, but decides to be bigger person and overlook it.) Given her emotional state, I decide to share with her that I have had a gastric bypass (normally, I am in the closet irl about my surgery). I do share this because she is so obviously miserable with her size, bawling about it as she is, in my (a stranger, because she does not recognize me either) garage. Furthermore, I share that I not only look and feel better and am healthier, but that my pcos has improved somewhat and that I was even able to have a successful pregnancy. I say these things not to persuade her about gastric bypass, but because she is so obviously depressed and in despair, and I'm wanting to give her hope.

At the end of my little confessional, when I am all warm & fuzzy and feel like we be sisters and all, Chickie manages to dry her snot on some of my clothes that she's not buying and to collect her composure. "Oh. Gastric bypass.", says Chickie in quite a cool tone. I get inkling that maybe we're not like sisters after all. "Well. I mean, everyone dies from gastric bypass.", Chickie says authoritatively. I, quite obviously alive, look at her confused. Chickie continues, "Gastric bypass, I mean, I could never do that."

She could never do that. Where have I heard that before? All of a sudden, the fire of recognition blazes a trail through my brain and I remember who the hell Chickie is! I successfully stifle urge to knock Chickie senseless. And then I laugh my ass off, much to her bewilderment.

See, this is the thanks I get when I try to be nice to people.