Jeg vil arbejde lidt på min blogs udseende og begiver mig af sted i ukendt territorium, da jeg aldrig før har arbejdet hverken i html-sprog eller redigeret i sidernes CSS. Men nu vil jeg prøve at give bloggen et lidt mere spændende og indbydende udseende.

Derfor kan der i den næste tid komme lidt uregelmæssigheder og ændringer, som hurtigt ændres igen.

På vejen håber jeg at blive klogere på det grafiske udtryk og redskaberne, men nu får jeg se…..

Nog voor ik zelf begonnen was met bloggen, ontdekte ik de SISTERS-blog.  Ik was meteen onder de indruk van hoe fotograaf Jason Lee zijn kinderen in beeld bracht en bleef hem volgen.  Onlangs kwam het bericht dat een boek gemaakt werd met blogfoto’s en -tekst.  Van de uitgeverij kreeg hij bovendien een aantal boeken om uit te delen.  Ik was er als één van de eerste bij maar mijn geluk was van korte duur toen bleek dat er geen boeken buiten US gestuurd werden.  Via een collega, die in de US woont, heb ik het toch kunnen regelen en zo kon ik vorige week mijn boek afhalen in het postkantoor.  Een leuk boek om in te kijken en te lezen.  Warre en Lomme hebben al goed zitten lachen met die gekke zusjes.

Dear Jason,
Thank you very much for the beautiful book I received.  I really like it and I’m obviously not the only one.  My boys are having lots of fun with the crazy sisters.

Warre meets Kristin and Kayla.

et des bisous

on n’est pas sérieux quand on a dix-sept ans…
bon, Mélie c’est fait !
on n’est pas sérieux quand on a dix-sept-ans…
bon, Zélie c’est fait aussi !
on n’est pas sérieux quand on a dix-sept-ans…
celui-là, c’est pour Virginie !
ouf !!! font caguer toutes ces nanas à toutes… vieillir en même temps
ça en fait des bises, ou des roses, mais tout compte fait ça vaut mieux que trois jours de suite
parce qu’elles ne savent faire que des gâteaux les nanas, des gros machins ridicules et roses bourrés d’aspartame, et l’aspartame c’est cancérigène, ou en tout cas addictant, après t’as qu’une envie, avaler de l’aspartame et encore de l’aspartame ou avaler du sucre et encore du sucre
et leurs gâteaux, trois jours de suite, c’est pas bon pour ce que j’ai, même s’ils passent assez bien avec le jurançon
n’empêche, à elles trois elles te dépassent le demi-siècle pour de vrai, et c’est presque autant bien plus que moi pour de faux

happy birthday to you, Virginie

6 frimaire

hier aussi c’était un anniversaire, alors Camille et moi on a découché pour aller se mettre au chaud, lui chez Christophe et moi chez Daïdou, sorry !
m’enfin, on n’est quand même pas sérieux quand on a…
… 17, 26, 35, 44, 53 … rayer les mentions inutiles
51 ? ah bon !

crazy

hier au soir, Arte m’a donné à revoir C.R.A.Z.Y. le film de Jean-Marc Vallée (Canada, 2005)
j’suis trop bon public, j’ai encore pleuré, ouf, ça fait du bien

prochainement sur cet écran

mon prochain billet, nique ta mère, mais ce n’est peut-être pas le titre définitif, est en cours d’écriture
je suis le roi des…, par inadvertance et par imbécillité j’ai laissé passer ici son brouillon, le temps d’un court somme…
… et devine ce qu’il advint ? une bête immonde, vraisemblablement tapie dans mon disque dur, un virus maousse costo et crapoto, y est allée de son commentaire…
bon, je les publierai, le billet et par honnêteté -tu me connais- ce commentaire abject, mais pas avant mercredi et jeudi, parce que ce sera en deux parties, d’abord ce que certains ont -oh nnnooon- déjà lu, et puis la suite, qui reste à écrire

Reading Dawn’s post about her transracially adopted daughter’s conversations on race made me think about Cricket’s matching and not matching. While he is as white as all four of his parents, I am a practicing Catholic, whereas Ruth and Nora are Jewish (Nora is not from a Jewish background and has not officially converted, but attends services and celebrates with her wife). Before his birth, we had several conversations about circumcision; I made it clear that I wasn’t going to have him circumcised and would not choose that for a child of mine, but that I assumed that they would want him to have a bris. When pressed for my reasons, I explained that I talked to a nurse (years ago, in a women’s studies course) who refused to perform them—she said that it was cosmetic surgery on someone too young to consent. It made sense to me, and the arguments in favor never have—Mr. Book is also opposed to circumcision. Ruth tended to agree with us, but she worried that it would be one more thing making him different from other Jewish kids. I also mentioned that circumcision made sense for me as a religious gesture–I like the idea of a visible sign of the covenant with God. Ruth found that part less important, saying that if it became important to him in his relationship with God, he could have it done as an adult. In the end, however, they couldn’t bring themselves to have him snipped; their rabbi performed a snip-free conversion for Cricket, a simchat ben. I assume that Orthodox Jews would not consider Cricket Jewish, but they would also have some problems with his moms, so I guess that’s not a major concern.

I chose Jewish parents (and therefore Judaism) for my son with an untroubled mind; mine is a fairly liberal theology, I believe that most of the major religions are praying to the same God, and I don’t think you have to be Catholic to be saved. But. I made one plan for Cricket that I never told his moms about. When he was mine, on that first day, before I signed the papers…I baptized him. I used that “extraordinary circumstances” clause and didn’t even mention it to Mr. Book at the time. But it was important to me; on that day, I was his mom, and I made several parenting decisions. The others I had discussed in advance with his moms-to-be, but this one was private. I don’t know whether I should ever tell them—or even Cricket—about that, and I probably won’t. I did tell my mother later, and she cried, and told me that she was glad; that she had wanted to do it herself, but understood that it wasn’t her place. And then she told me that before I was baptized in church, I was baptized by my dad. Apparently on one of the first nights of my life, my mom started to worry that I could die before I was baptized (I was perfectly healthy, this was just new mom stuff), and she talked my dad into baptizing me just in case. So apparently I was just carrying on the family tradition.

pute borgne, quelle saucée !
il eût plus plu qu’il eût moins plu, mais ça c’était à la fin, n’empêche, aujourd’hui j’ai la crève et je crois qu’avec ce premier rhume je rentre dans ma morte saison
compte rendu détaillé et circonstancié ! et c’est moi qui ai écrit ça, pas plus tard qu’hier, avant mon équipée sauvage
ça n’engageait à rien, mais faut quand même être un peu con pour écrire de pareilles… sottises, parce que maintenant je me sens comme… obligé

adonques il s’agissait de “trouvailles” de blogueurs autour de lamelles fines et carrées de fromage, de patates à l’eau et de charcutailles roulées façon cigare
accessoirement aussi de verres de vins blancs, il n’y a pas eu de mélange, c’était que du blanc, sauf à l’apéro, mais moi, tu me connais, je n’ai bu que de la minérale, ça me permet de rester… froid, et… debout, par contre ça ne me protège pas en face des intempéries, de la froidure, du vent et de la pluie, pute borgne, quelle saucée !
tu connais les blogueurs, faut toujours qu’ils commencent par la fin
quand tu feuillette leurs pages, t’as d’abord demain, puis aujourd’hui, hier et avant-hier en suivant, et tu remontes, si t’es patient, jusqu’aux premiers vagissements et jusqu’aux premiers souvenirs de la vie fœtale intra-utérine, ou en couveuse pour les plus précoces
comme tu as l’habitude, je vais te le faire à la blogueur mon compte rendu, je m’en vas te conter les événements par ordre antéchronologique, façon retour vers le futur, mais je suis pas chien, je ne veux pas te retrouver cul par dessus tête, je te mets des titres aux différents chapitres
attends un peu, je me mouche

le taxi

pépère n’a pas l’accent russe mais il en a la gueule, il regarde mon billet orange de cinquante comme si je lui avais sorti mon laguiole pour le menacer
- z’avez pas aut’chose ?
- ben non, un billet de cinquante tout neuf, à peine sec, tout frais sorti du distributeur, et une pièce de deux, c’est toute ma fortune…
il m’a jeté un regard couleur vodka, il a hésité
- moi je m’en fiche, tu peux ne pas le prendre, me suis-je pensé, je suis arrivé devant chez moi, il ne pleut plus, tu vas pas m’emmener jusqu’à Vincennes…
s’il avait eu quelques années de moins, pépère, je fais toujours ça la nuit, je lui aurais bien proposé de lui tailler une pipe, on aurait été quitte, mais je me suis dit que ça allait prendre des plombes, question d’âge, il était presque trois heures du mat et je n’avais envie que de mon pieu
j’ai vu mon chauffeur remonter la jambe de son pantalon, sa recette était planquée dans sa chaussette, il m’a rendu deux billets bleus de vingt, des vrais, pas comme mon cinquante
je dois avoir une tête de faux-monnayeur
il avait une bonne tête pépère, il n’a fait aucune difficulté pour nous amener, Tibo et moi, à des destinations différentes, il s’est arrêté rue de Charenton, là où elle est le plus étroite, et il est descendu de voiture pour pousser un gros carton dans le caniveau, il m’a expliqué qu’une fois, sous un carton, il y avait un parpaing et qu’il avait flingué un pneu…
il était sympa pépère, il allait bosser jusqu’à neuf heures, il n’avait pourtant plus d’âge ou en tout cas celui de la retraite
dommage qu’il m’ait pris pour un faux-monnayeur

le dernier métro

je suis certain d’avoir flingué mes godasses tout cuir, et je ne donne plus cher des mocassins en vair de Tibo
faut pas être bien fini non plus pour patauger comme ça dans la gadoue, à pas d’heure
mais quelle idée aussi, vouloir prendre le dernier métro !
quand on s’est retrouvé devant des grilles tirées, comme trois couillons, on aurait dû au moins penser à se mettre à l’abri, à attendre une accalmie, ben non, on s’est planté devant un plan de l’arrondissement, vous êtes ici, dans un rond rouge, se trouvait tout au bord mais on en a quand même déduit que pour Max c’était par là, pour Tibo et moi c’était par ici et ça sortait de la carte, on s’est bisouillé, et on a marché vers une hypothétique station de taxis
en racontant antéchronologiquement les choses, on devrait pouvoir opter pour d’autres solutions que la plus bête qu’on a choisie
tu vois, je m’étais dit que j’irais chez jf en voiture, because le retour, mais au moment de partir je n’ai pu mettre la main que sur la clé de contact de la Mini, le bip pour sortir du parking et les papiers, avec mon permis, avaient fait poche restante
mon chéri est coutumier du fait, ça m’agace, et là il était parti courir le guilledou, ou je ne sais quoi, avec bip et papiers, et moi j’avais rencart à 20 heures
alors métro
chez jf, on a entendu la pluie qui faisait des claquettes, et on a attendu la dernière minute pour se décider à essayer de choper la der des der des rames, comme si…
je me demande pourquoi j’étais aussi pété que les trois autres, il ne doit pas y avoir que l’alcool et le vin blanc qui grisent…
parce que c’était à moi de dire holà, on se calme, on téléphone à G7 ou aux Taxis Bleus, on demande une voiture, elle nous attendra en bas dans quelques minutes, juste le temps de remettre les chaussures et de se faire tous les mamours qu’on veut
ben non, je suis parti marcher sous la pluie
mais ce putain de dernier métro, on l’a quand même manqué de peu Tibo et moi
après avoir quitté Max, on est passé devant une bouche qui n’était pas encore fermée, le composteur a gloutonnement avalé mon ticket, on est descendu fissa jusques sur le quai,
on a croisé des voyageurs tout plein qui remontaient les marches, les hauts-parleurs grésillaient
- qu’est-ce qu’ils disent ? m’a demandé Tibo
- on est prié de regagner les sorties !
tu sais pourquoi on l’a loupé, en fait ?
en partant, quand on est arrivé devant la porte sur rue qu’il fallait tirer, on n’a pas su bien s’y prendre, déjà qu’à jeun ce doit pas être facile
Max appuyait comme un âne sur le bouton de la gâche électrique (la bobinette ?), Tibo tirait comme un mulet sur une ficelle (la chevillette ?), en vain…
jf avait oublié de nous dire qu’il fallait donner en même temps un grand coup de saton dans le bas du vantail

avec l'aimable autorisation de p.a.b.

la menace

pour la première fois de ma courte existence, j’en ai croisé un
un virus !
je ne peux pas m’en empêcher, faut que je donne des sobriquets à ceux qui sortent un peu de mon ordinaire et que je ne connais pas nommément
c’est le cas de Max, faut te dire que sur son blog (un de ses blogs !) il signe ses billets Maxivirus, alors Max, ça n’est jamais qu’un diminutif qui m’arrange bien, il me permet de zapper le côté viral de la chose
quand je dis la chose !? rends-toi compte que ça fait plus de quatre décennies que cette chose-là nous empoisonne la vie, mais que fait la recherche ?
regarde le h1n1 de la grippe A, on lui a trouvé un vaccin, non ? et d’ailleurs je le suis, vacciné !
regarde vha, ou b ou c, on a les vaccins, et là je m’en bats l’œil, je me suis immuno-immunisé tout seul comme un grand, pour une fois que je passe au travers !
il y a aussi l’autre connard de vih qu’on sait pas trop comment le prendre çui-là, mais je t’avoue que je sais pas à quoi il ressemble, il aurait la tête tout hérissée de poils, un peu comme Max, mais comme ma charge est indétectable, il me fout une paix royale, pour le moment
il doit pas se dupliquer trop facilement chez moi, alors j’ai pas trop la pétoche, par contre j’ai bien l’impression que le maxivirus (c’est exprès que je mets pas la majuscule ici) est vachement expansif et volubile, il cause comme il écrit, ou vice-versa
moi aussi je cause, mais pas tant, moi aussi j’écris, mais je rame, et puis je suis pas contagieux, je ne sors pas couvert puisque je ne sors pas
et d’ailleurs, quand j’ai le malheur de sortir, je me mouille
lui, j’sais pas
j’avais mis la capuche de mon coupe-vent, et lui pas, elle pendouillait dans son dos, coincée sous son sac à dos, et je suis sûr qu’il s’est pas enrhumé, le bougre

t’es pas beau tu sais

t’es mieux que ça, t’es… t’es… t’es jeune !
un moment, il me faut un kleenex
Tibo avait un parapluie tout riquiqui juste bon pour un demi comme lui, à deux ça l’aurait pas fait, merde
alors je me suis mouillé
de toute façon, j’aurais tout pris, je ne sais pas à combien il culmine ce mec, il nous a dit que chez lui il touchait au plafond, alors fatalement il a de grands pieds
je parie qu’il chausse du 48 et je croise les doigts, parce qu’avec toute cette putain de flotte j’espère que ses escarpins n’ont pas rétréci, ce serait… fâcheux
moi, j’adore les pieds, les grands pieds des bomecs, et je me fous bien un peu qu’ils riment, je suis un peu… pédiphile
je le lui ai dit au Tibo, t’es timide, et puis j’ai nuancé, t’es… réservé
c’est peut-être pas vrai, c’est sans doute pas vrai, parce que quand on parle de coming out il te répond rieur qu’il n’a -vraiment- pas besoin de faire le sien
alors, pourquoi est-ce que je le trouve timide ?
il ne m’a pas offert un p’tit coin de parapluie, c’est peut-être pas de la timidité, le parapluie était si petit
il ne voulait pas monter dans “mon” taxi, ni qu’on se détourne, ce qu’on n’a d’ailleurs pas fait, c’est peut-être pas de la réserve, on a dû lui apprendre à ne pas accepter un bonbon de… n’importe qui
mais quand je suis arrivé chez jf, j’ai fait la bise à jf, puis j’ai serré la main que Tibo me tendait avant d’aller frotter ma barbe contre celle de Max, et puis j’ai dit
- pourquoi on se fait pas la bise nous deux ?
et je me suis hissé sur la pointe des pieds, on se l’est faite aussi la bise, j’ai oublié d’enlever mes chaussures, je suis allé m’asseoir, gêné, j’ai cherché une contenance, j’ai essayé de lire ce qu’il y avait d’écrit sur les chaussettes blanches de Max, j’ai vu près de la porte, à l’autre bout de la pièce, trois paires de godasses vides
jf m’a regardé en souriant
- c’est pas grave, tu peux les garder
alors je me suis déchaussé en regardant les pieds de Tibo

un jean foutre

de ma courte existence je n’avais jamais rencontré de jean foutre, je ne pourrais plus le dire, parce que c’est ça que ça veut dire jf, Jean-Foutre
je préfère l’appeler jf parce que c’est zarbi comme prénom, je trouve que c’est mieux le mien, janjacq qui claque comme un coup de trique et qu’est plus doux qu’un truc en ic
je t’ai déjà dit qu’ils me filaient le hoquet les prénoms en hic ?
‘tain, j’aurais pas aimé être à la place de jf, recevoir deux inconnus (*) qui se sont invités et qui ne viennent qu’avec une bouteille (des ? ah bon !) de jaja, leur bite et leur couteau, enfin, je parle pour moi, tu sais bien que je ne me sépare jamais ni de mon sifflet, ni de mon laguiole, et puis lancer la conversation, mettre la zizique en fond et les patates dans la cocotte-minute, et tout le berzingue, quoi, tu te doutes bien, en bonne maitresse de maison
il lui faudrait un petit copain au jean foutre, un petit gamin à qui on aurait pu laisser la vaisselle pour ce matin, avec un petit tablier de devant blanc, et le cul nu, pour faire joli
au lieu de ça, il s’est tapé tout le taf, je ne me suis levé qu’une fois, après la raclette, pour emballer la cochonaille qui restait dans du papier alu
bon, jf m’avait vaguement dragouillé pour que je vienne faire le quatrième (ce con de Tibo, il sait jouer qu’à la bataille !) et content, il avait pris un point d’interrogation laissé en commentaire sur wizzzzz pour argent comptant
notre hôte m’a confié qu’à tout prendre quatre c’était parfait, trois ça se finissait au lit, qu’est assez grand, cinq ça devenait tout de suite séparatiste, trois plus deux, deux plus deux plus un qu’est allé pisser ou qu’est bloqué dans la cuisine
il y a un truc que je ne lui ai pas dit, son casque sur le lit c’est pas de ça qu’on parle quand on dit de sortir couvert, faudrait quand même pas qu’il confonde avec capuchon sur le stylo, je dis ça moi, je me mêle peut-être de ce qui ne me regarde pas
ça ne me regardait pas non plus, mais là je le lui ai dit
on était déjà demain et les bouteilles étaient presque vides, jf a pris son portable sur les genoux, c’est comme s’il était en manque, il nous a dit
- vous avez le bonjour de Christophe…
et il est parti dans un chat, l’avait qu’à venir Chrisbi, j’aurais bien aimé le rencontrer d’ailleurs
à quelque chose près, jf et moi c’est la classe, mais il me doit le respect, je suis né le 2 janvier et lui le 4
par contre, au niveau zique je suis complètement largué, lui il va des Platters et de only you à Willem et Berlin
- tu connais Devendra Banhart ?
- qui ?
jf m’a regardé avec des yeux ronds, derrière des verres carrés ça faisait un effet bœuf d’autant qu’il avait la bouche en cul de poule et qu’il était très moôognon com’ça
j’ai pas répété ma question, je me suis dit qu’il fallait peut-être que je sorte le iPod qu’on m’a offert de son étui

(*) jf et Tibo se connaissaient (se “connaissent” ?) d’avant

20 heures pétantes

je m’étais fait la barbe de cinq jours, pas un poil qui dépasse
putain, j’étais beau comme une camionnette repeinte, j’ai vérifié une dernière fois dans une vitrine en rentrant le ventre
c’est triste le Sentier la nuit, enfin, un samedi soir, y a que des rideaux métalliques baissés sur des rues hérissées de biroutes pour empêcher le stationnement, et puis pas un chat, pas un rat, pas un péquin pour te faire un peu peur
j’étais en avance, un quart d’heure, je suis toujours en avance, on se refait pas et pourtant là, j’avais bien l’impression d’y aller à reculons, faut dire que c’est pas tous les jours que je vais me faire voir, alors j’ai pensé qu’un petit tour du quartier me donnerait un peu de courage
j’ai descendu la rue, j’ai remonté toute la rue, je suis revenu sur mes pas, 123, c’est là, une porte étroite, un interphone, j’ai essuyé les verres de mes binocles avec la chiffonnette qui ne me quitte pas, j’ai sorti mon portable pour éclairer les touches et les noms, j’ai noté l’heure : 19:57, je me suis dit que c’était bien
pas de Jean-Foutre ! j’ai vérifié le post-it que j’avais dans la poche pour le nom de famille…
Jean ! moi, j’avais jf en tête et c’est Jean qui me sautait à la gueule
- merde, il habite le même immeuble que ses parents, il habite peut-être chez ses parents !?
j’ai appuyé sur le bouton à côté de Jean, il était 19:58
- euh… janjacq…
- deuxième étage !
pute borgne, je n’avais même pas les trois minutes du retard de politesse

blond(e)

on est prié de laisser ses chaussures au vestiaire

ce soir, je sors
ouais, je sors du bois (de Vincennes !), je sors de ma tanière, pour la ville, pour la… vie (la vraie vie !)
ouais, j’ai accepté d’aller chez un inconnu (et blogueur !) rencontrer d’autres inconnus (blogueur et blogueurs !) et accessoirement chipoter devant une raclette, enfin, j’sais pas, je vais peut-être avoir assez faim pour me goinfrer de cochonnaille et m’empiffrer une tonne de patates
et puis, la bouche pleine, tu me connais, je ne pourrais pas trop dire de conneries
c’est pas que je n’aime pas dire des conneries, mais j’ai ça de bien, on m’a appris à ne pas parler la bouche pleine
écrire, c’est pas pareil
alors, au retour, je pourrai me fendre d’un compte rendu détaillé et circonstancié
c’est à trois conditions :
- que je n’ai pas de mal à dire, ni rien à redire, je vais quand même pas jouer les langues de pute
- que tu sois… sage
- que tu me dises qu’est-ce que tu penses de ma dernière trouvaille environnementale, il est pas beau comme ça mon blog ?
fais excuse, mais il faudra d’abord que j’ai… décuvé

on est prié de ne pas fumer

Many thanks to Ron Coleman at LIKELIHOOD OF CONFUSION® for the kind welcome to the trademark blogging community!

As Ron has duly noted, I am indeed “terrifyingly youthful,” and it’s my goal to blog as prodigiously as Ron when I grow up!  And, pending the outcome of the Battle for Dan’s Hairline, I may or may not keep my profile picture for some time to come.  Stay tuned for updates on that front as well as news, information, and conversation about all things trademark (with a Pittsburgh flavor, of course).

OK so here’s a brand new idea from the talented Unknown Mami.  All of us make comments elsewhere in blogland and sometimes they’re so blindingly brilliant that it seems a shame that they will be buried, lost and forgotten in the merest blink of an eye.  Well, why not show a little of your utter brilliance by joining in ‘I Comment, Therefore I Am’?  Gather together those memorable comments in a draft post during the week and then post them on your blog on a Monday.  Don’t forget to link back to Unknown Mami.

While I can hardly claim that my comments are the height of pithy wit, I think this is a great way to effectively highlight other people’s writing.  I started gathering these late in the week so I’ve been going back through OPB’s (other peoples’ blogs) and here is a selection:  

On Carma’s post ‘Call the Bitter Police’ covering the subject of ‘celebrity’ (the air brush she referred to is the ‘Temptu’ which you may know of …I still don’t).

I don’t know this air brush thing you mention…might a plant sprayer filled with makeup do the same thing do you think?    
Yeah I’m with you, celebrity nepotism makes me barf.

~~~~~

On Carma’s post ‘And I said It Wouldn’t Last’ documenting the end of a bromance involving a guy with a Hummer and many, many pairs of skates.

He was too busy to text a quick reply on Saturday? Very arrogant and how insulting. What a jerk.
Pooh to him and the Hummer…and the 10 pairs of skates he rolled in on!

~~~~~

Last one on Carma’s site …what can I say, she inspires me to better commenting … On her post ‘Oh Snickers!‘ where she told us of her son’s sneakiness in capturing the ‘phantom treat stealer’:

Haha…what made him suspect enemy action then?! Crumbs…stealing sweets from the kidillywinks…tsk tsk tsk.

~~~~~

Moving swiftly on… Jane at ‘They Call Me Jane’ often writes thought provoking blog posts.  This week she wrote about how history will peceive George Bush, and in fact Barack Obama (whose support is currently wavering), in a post called ‘Before You Speak Walk A Mile In Their Shoes’.  My comment…

I wonder whether those who are now so quickly disillusioned were more influenced to vote for him by that huge ‘tide of change’ thing that was going on, than by actually considering the politics, policies and implications. I’ve maintained for quite some time that whilst Bush may not go down as one of the best US Presidents, he almost certainly wasn’t as dumb as he was sometimes made to appear. Political decisions cannot be seen as black and white, there are always grey areas – pros and cons have to be weighed up (national + international interests + how much co-operation / opposition one can expect from other nations). The best any leader can do is to make an informed judgement (and let’s not forget that there is always a huge team of advisers in the background). It’s awfully easy to talk about a Utopian world of peace and harmony – and it’s definitely a vote grabber. It’s a whole lot harder to achieve it.

And finally…it was a sad week for blogland as we contemplated the loss of  ‘The Vintage Kitten’ from our ranks.  Mrs K is hanging up her white elbow length gloves and putting her mink stole into cold storage.  How will we cope without the cocktails, the glam and the glitz?   I was gutted…gutted I tell ya: 

Oh no! Things won’t be the same in blogsphere without Mrs K.
I guess I’ll see you by the Flickr water fountain then …. (walks away with a trembling lower lip).  

13 November 2009 08:19

(See that date …I knew Friday the 13th was an unlucky day)!

I’ve commented in many more blogs of course and if I didn’t feature you this week, its simply because I thought that featuring too many would be overkill.  There’s always next week….

I’ve been reading more and more adoption blogs recently—I should start adding names to my blogroll, I guess, as it is sadly incomplete. Of course, there are some I read that I wouldn’t link other people to: blogs whose authors have points of view that I find offensive. Yes, I often keep reading…but probably I shouldn’t.

Sometimes I write whole posts and delete them because I worry that I’m just rehashing old territory. I should either be a mother or not at all a mother right now, the limbo is my fault: check. I feel ambivalent about visits: check. Sometimes I cry about Cricket but I never tell his mom that: check. What more can I say?

I mean this blog to be mostly a space for me to work things out—so maybe if the same things keep coming up when I sit down to write, I should just write them out, see whether I can say or see something new. On the other hand, does it really benefit me to indulge myself in a sad sack game of broken record? I honestly don’t know what the best course is.

There have been so many little kids on the planes this trip. The first I saw were a pair of (I assume) transracially adopted little kids, a boy and a girl, two and four years old. They were adorable, and I let their family in the queue ahead of me and then valiantly didn’t watch the kids as they chatted with their parents and looked around. At some point (yes, I know how bad this is), I decided that if someone noticed me watching the kids and babies and asked whether I had or wanted any, I would tell them that I had a son stillborn last year. What is wrong with me? I’m glad that it didn’t come up—even though I did end up chatting with a few of the moms when their kids ran up to me, or into me—I would, I’m sure, feel even worse if I’d actually lied instead of just planning to. Usually I just tell people that I don’t have any kids.

I sometimes realize that I could end up bitter about the adoption, but have to acknowledge that if I do, it will be entirely my own fault. On some level, I loathe myself for making that decision—for even being able to make that decision. Shortly before our wedding, Mr. Book was treated to some no-doubt-delightful sobbing phone calls along the lines of “what the f%ck is wrong with me that I could do this,” and you know what? I haven’t really resolved that question to my satisfaction. Did I place give Cricket up because I thought it was the best thing for him? Yes, and.

I don’t know that any of my questions have one-word answers anymore.

The Open Adoption Roundtable is a series of occasional writing prompts about open adoption. It’s designed to showcase of the diversity of thought and experience in the open adoption community.

This round we’re going to consider one critique of fully open adoptions. Have you ever heard–or perhaps even made–statements like these?

“We have medical histories and can share the information we have about their birth parents with our children now. If they feel a need to initiate contact with their birth families when they are adults, we will fully support them.”
“The decision to have a relationship with her bio family should be hers when she is ready. Creating a relationship between them before she wants it might cause issues in the future.”
“Children deserve to have just one family during childhood and not to deal with anything adoption-related until they are more mature. A fully open adoption robs a child of a normal childhood.”
These statements are from people participating in closed and semi-open adoptions. I paraphrased them slightly, but left the meanings intact.

The writers share a certain point-of-view: that direct contact during early childhood between birth families and children placed for adoption may not be the best idea. Adopted persons should be free to initiate relationships with their first families–or not–on their own timetable. The parents (first and adoptive) in an adoption shouldn’t make such an important and personal decision for them.

What is your response? Do you agree or disagree? Why?

This afternoon, I got a package from UPS—it was a small box containing the birthday card that I ordered for my son a couple of weeks ago. In about four weeks, I will fill it out—Dear Cricket, Happy Birthday, thinking of you, all my love, your birth mama Susie—and mail it. There are a number of arguments to be made against the perceived scariness or inappropriateness of open adoption, but I want to start here: Who on earth could think that it’s a bad think for a child to get one more sweet, harmless card on his birthday? What is the loss to him, really? When I talk to people who think that my card is damaging, a bad thing, a violation, I don’t know what I could possibly say to them. I just get stuck on “But it’s his birthday, and I sent him a card. You’re supposed to send cards on someone’s birthday.”

I know, of course, many of the arguments against open adoption, but I think that most of them are predicated on this idea of the birthmother as a dangerous woman: an unstable, baby-snatching, drug-using creature with wild eyes and snatching hands who signs that birthday card “ALL MY LOVE FROM YOUR REAL MOMMA!!! P.S. I AM COMING TO BRING YOU HOME BABY” Thing is, I’ve talked to a lot of first parents and I’ve never met that madwoman. I’ve met grief-stricken women and women who’ve had a lot of trouble in their lives, but I think that the birthmother who tries to climb in through the nursery window is a very rare creature. I think that open adoption works best when prospective adoptive parents and prospective birth parents choose each other; when they know that the people on the other side of the relationship are not something they can’t handle. If you are matched with someone who frightens you, perhaps this is not the match for you. In situations where children have been removed from the birthparents’ home by the state, you may or may not be able to have a healthy open adoption. But for the rest of this entry, I’m going to talk about domestic infant adoption.

“Children deserve to have just one family during childhood and not to deal with anything adoption-related until they are more mature. A fully open adoption robs a child of a normal childhood.”

This is a bit of a head scratcher for me. What you grow up with? That’s your normal, whatever it is. I grew up dirt poor and abused, and that was normal. I know kids who grew up surrounded by extended family, wandering from house to house because everyone in the neighborhood was an uncle or an auntie—and that was normal for them. I grew up with three siblings and young parents, and that was normal; Mr. Book grew up an only child of older parents, and that was normal. The fact that an open adoption can provide the adopted child with an even bigger network of relatives who love him or her doesn’t seem freakish, to me—it sounds like one of the better things about adoption.

Part of the reason that I’m confused by this one is that I can’t think of anything we’ve done or planned for Cricket as part of his open adoption as potentially harmful; he’ll have one more birthday present at his birthdays, he will occasionally visit Stumptown and its museums, and his birth parents come over for dinner every so often. In so far as a baby cares, he has seemed pleased to see us so far. He is especially fascinated by Mr. Book, and spends a lot of time staring at him—Mr. Book is his only dad, and I suspect that having his birthdad around and able to answer questions may be really important to him as he gets older. I do emphatically not think that kids raised by queer couples are missing out, but I do think that the ability to have man-to-man talks if he wants to might be valuable to Cricket. Mr. Book and I are planning to have a child in a year or two—it seems like just a good thing for Cricket to get to see futurekid.

My perspective may be skewed by the fact that Cricket has several factors from having the prototypical All-American childhood—he is already the adopted child of Jewish lesbians, open adoption isn’t going to be the one thing that makes him stand out in a WASPy population. Life is complicated, and family is complicated, but more loving family can be a very great gift.

“We have medical histories and can share the information we have about their birth parents with our children now. If they feel a need to initiate contact with their birth families when they are adults, we will fully support them.”

Well, I have a problem with a couple of assumptions made here. At the most practical level, medical histories can change—Mr. Book’s mother has just had a tentative diagnosis of multiple sclerosis, which is not on the medical histories we gave the agency because it hadn’t happened yet. But more than that, there are two biggies here: (1) “[We] can share the information we have about their birth parents with our children now” and (2) “If they feel a need to initiate contact.”

First off, I think there is no substitute for a birthparent’s explanation to the placed child of the reasons for and circumstances surrounding the placement. If and when Cricket asks why I “gave him up,” Ruth can say, “Why don’t we call her and ask?” Don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking forward to those conversations—but I owe them to my son, and I don’t think that even the most well-intentioned adoptive parents can explain as effectively. And, just like medical histories, the information about the birthparents changes—they marry, they have other children, they go to prison, they win Nobel Prizes. The only way to provide really accurate and up-to-date information about the birthparents is to keep in touch.

That idea about “if and when the adoptee feels the need” worries me—if the adoptee has to ask, then he or she is raising the issue, and that may lead adoptive parents to feel betrayed or hurt—so perhaps the adoptee will wonder and never ask. And if there is a reunion, that is a complicated and difficult emotional experience in and of itself: a whole lifetime of hurt expressed over a short period of time. There’s a forum post that I have saved on my computer, made by an adoptive mom, that bothered me so much that I took the trouble to copy it. One fragment of it runs so: “And as for the “reunion” word….it is very one-sided. From the bparents side, I can totally see why they would feel like it is a reunion but (infant) adoptees do not remember their bparents so how can you feel reunited with a stranger? I think adoptees create a very idealistic scenario and create emotions that they think they should have. Genetics do not determine emotions toward a person….I’m sorry, I just don’t get it!” Of course I disagree with this woman about almost everything, but one thing that struck me is that her fear about adoptees idealizing their firstparents is mostly easily dealt with by letting the adoptee meet his or her firstparents. My firstmother is not Joni Mitchell; she is a very nice woman who had a wild adolescence and now works in advertising (for example). I once read a different woman, a birthmother, talking about her open adoption relationship (a forum post long ago, and I can’t for the life of me remember who she was); she said that if her teen birthson ever ran away to her house, she’d call his adoptive mom first thing. They are friends—not enemies. This I suppose also ties into the statement:

“The decision to have a relationship with her bio family should be hers when she is ready. Creating a relationship between them before she wants it might cause issues in the future.”

Everyone has issues in the future—creating a relationship makes it possible to resolve them. And, of course, parents make these decisions for their children all the time; you do not ask Junior whether he wants to have a relationship with Gramma, or smelly Uncle Rick. You are the parent, and you help to build relationships between your child and his family. You make decisions on behalf of your child all the time, and I think that to suddenly adopt a hands-off kind of policy in regards to the birthfamily is intellectually and emotionally dishonest. Your child can’t create familial relationships on his or her own—by leaving it up to the adoptee, you make a relationship impossible at first and then merely difficult, handicapped by the years spent in the dark.

“People say my hair looks like a rooster” is one of the Google searches that led someone to my blog yesterday.

Kind sir or lady with the rooster hair, you’re certainly welcome here, though I’m not sure my knitting is exactly what you’re looking for. (Although I did knit several hats last month…)

I managed to knit a few rows on Bracken yesterday, and I’ve finished the waistband ribbing.

Happy Wednesday, folks.

Via Tess en Klavertje4 kreeg ik een award! Woehoe!

Merci dames, merci ook voor de complimentjes. Tess, Ik denk dikwijls met veel heimwee terug aan mijne studententijd als ik jou blogje lees. Karen, ik bewonder jou (en je man), naar het andere landsgedeelte verhuizen, kindjes tweetalig opvoeden, chapeau!

Nu rest er mij alleen nog tien nieuwsfeiten te vertellen die jullie (nog) niet weten.

1. Ik heb een navelpiercing gehad. Ooit in een opwelling laten steken maar weer laten weghalen toen ik zwanger werd van Alexander. Sindsdien zit er nog steeds een gaatje in mijn navel.
2. Ik was als kind een heel slechte eter, ik moet daar trouwens meer aan terugdenken als ik weer eens foeter op Joost zijn eetgedrag.
3. Door mijn lief heb ik leren genieten van lekker eten. Met een gastronomisch etentje kan je me nu enorm plezier doen.
4. Van hetzelfde lief kreeg ik een nieuwe (occasie) auto. Sinds zaterdag voel ik mij de queen of the road.
5. Heb ik al gezegd dat ik een fantantisch lief heb?
6. Ik kan eigenlijk niet goed tegen koffie maar ik drink het wel graag. Als ik een tas gedronken heb ben ik een vier tal uur een opgefokt stoned duracell-kieken (en ik doe er massaal veel melk bij).
7. Ik heb een eindeloos engelengeduld, maar als mijn geduld op de proef gesteld wordt dan moet je oppassen, dan kan ik geweldig uit mijn krammen schieten. Gelukkig komt dat niet te veel voor
8. Ik ben opgegroeid in een (groot) nieuw samengesteld gezin. Toen was die term nog niet eens uitgevonden en was ik een buitenbeentje.
9. Ik ben nogal traag. Daarmee bedoel ik traag zoals in, leerstof verwerken (heeft me parten gespeeld in de humaniora), emotionele zaken verwerken (ik kan er meestal pas een paar dagen later iets zinnigs over verwoorden).
10. Anderzijds ben ik wel handig, een kast van ikea ineen steken zonder plan, iets in elkaar steken uitzoeken hoe iets werkt, no problemo. Bij ons thuis ben ik de handige harry

Ik kan niet meer volgen wie de award al gekregen heeft. Voor mij part verdient iedereen hem. Hier is ie….vang!

Thank you for all of your happy thoughts about Tuesday’s lecture! I finally was able to do a bit of knitting and spinning last night in order to recover from all of the week’s stress and extra adrenaline, and I decided to reward myself by spinning a special treat: a gorgeous batt from Amondale Farms that Lisa Knithound sent my way as a Rhinebeck souvenir. (I was going to try to crack a Halloween joke or two about batts/bats…but I won’t.)

I know, Boh does not look pleased. But these are his colors! Lisa said that this batt reminded her of the southwest, and I agree: these colors make me think of the gorgeous sunrises I witnessed almost every morning when I lived there.  I did a little bit of reading about spinning batts, divided the 1.5 oz. batt into two equal chunks by unrolling the rectangle and splitting it down the middle, and sat down at the wheel.

I mostly used the long draw technique to spin this, but I did a lot of smoothing of the single before I let it wind on to the bobbin, so it certainly wasn’t a “true” long draw. I let the singles rest an hour, and then plied them together!

Here’s the plied batt on my niddy noddy…

And here is my finished skein: 51 yards of lofty 2-ply that runs a bit thick and thin, from dk to worsted.

I’m already thinking about turning this into a calorimetry for me!

Spinning and plying this batt last night just made me want to get something else going on the wheel. It was so much fun to try something new — this is my first batt! — that I decided to take my fast flyer out of it’s plastic wrap and put it on my wheel.

This is Finn, from the Hello Yarn Fiber Club, in the Winter Storage colorway. I’m aiming for a 2-ply light-fingering/laceweight.

Happy Friday!

c’est aujourd’hui que Christophe doit mettre en ligne sur son blog des photos de cul
ou plutôt les photos des culs de ses lecteurs, filles et garçons, qui concourent donc pour être élu(e)s plus belles fesses que les miennes, tu meurs !
je n’ai pas réussi une… capture convenable des miennes
ça m’embêtait de ne pas me mettre sur les rangs, alors j’ai proposé à chrisbi & co une zolie zimage
celle que j’ai piochée ailleurs sur la toile et que j’ai intitulée pile
mais face m’excite davantage, sans doute à cause du ballon de rouge si délicatement tenu du bout des doigts
je n’aurais jamais cru que le bon vin me monterait ainsi à la tête ni que des aiguilles pourraient me piquer de la sorte
et toi ?

pile, au balcon

face, sur la terrasse

bon, je cours chez Christophe
on s’y retrouve tous, hein ?

baptiste giacobini

de lui, il semblerait que tu n’aies retenu que les talons aiguilles

ce -beau- garçon est le top des top-models de tous les défilés de mode 2009, et le chouchou entre autres de Karl Lagerfeld
il mesure 1m88, il chausse du 45… et a quand même trouvé chaussure à son pied



(ce billet a été complété et mis à jour le 2 novembre 2009)

Roundtable time! Write about a blogger (or bloggers) who influenced your real-life open adoption, and how. It might be someone who became an offline friend who supports and challenges you. Or a writer from a different perspective who makes you uncomfortable, but gets you thinking. Maybe a blogger who doesn’t even know you are reading. Tell us about them and how they’ve affected you.

Reading This Woman’s Work feels like looking in Ruth’s window, sometimes—Dawn and Ruth have a lot in common. I mean, there are of course huge differences as well, but they’re both Jewish women who are the primary caregivers for their kids: Dawn has a son and a younger daughter, and Ruth has a son and plans to adopt again. They process things in similar ways. They even both have dogs named Peanut. My blog isn’t a dialogue with Cricket’s parents, and in most ways I’m grateful for that…but reading Dawn’s blog lets me imagine that I’m hearing some of Ruth’s thinking about adoption, seeing something of what it’s like to be an adoptive mom in her circumstances.

Without Thanksgivingmom, I wouldn’t be blogging; hers is the first adoption blog I read, and I had no idea that first parents could blog before reading hers. She revealed for me a whole world of women writing about their adoptions from all three sides. More than that, of course, she is a voice of compassion and a sometimes frustrated wisdom in the “thousand points of light” that seem to make up the online adoption community. She was the first woman I heard say “Well, I regret that I had to do the adoption, but I don’t see what else I could have done—my daughter’s amom is awesome, my daughter is awesome, and here we are.” It helped me to get grounded when I was drowning in my own grief.

The newest blog I’ve been reading is The Happiest Sad; it’s written by a woman who has only very recently relinquished, and it’s heartbreaking. Reading her words, I see things that I say and have said, and it’s been helping me to process some of my own adoption issues. I hope she wouldn’t be offended to know that I pray for her (me being Catholic and all)—she knows in her head that what she did was right, but knowing in your heart…heck, I don’t know if that ever happens.

En kollega nævnte i går, at hun af og til læser med her…

Vi talte lidt om, hvorfor bloggere blogger, hvilket jeg også ofte har spurgt mig selv om.

Hvad er det, der får mig til at bruge tid og kræfter til at skrive til en ubekendt skare af mennesker?

Et blandt mange svar er Google! Når der nu om dage er noget, jeg ikke ved noget om (og der er en del af den slags), går turen først og fremmest til Google. I gamle dage gik turen til Lademanns 27 binds leksikon, men den tid er ovre.

Men hvis der ikke var nogle, der skrev til nettet, fandt Google logisk nok ingenting. Min tanke er altså at give mit mikroskopiske bidrag til det altfavnende internet for at glæde andre med et hit eller fem og da denne blogs målsætning er at handle om “Alt mellem himmel og jord” finder du altså poster om alt fra Gud til dørhåndtag via ØkonomiService Centeret (ØSC) og slægtsforskning. Min glæde over, at almindelige mennesker kan få lov at formidle almindelige tanker, vil aldrig tage ende.

For ikke så mange år tilbage skulle man være “noget ved musikken” (eller i hvert fald selv mene, at man var det) før man udgav noget andre forventedes at læse. De elektroniske medier har heldigvis rykket afgørende ved denne grænse.

Selv tænker jeg ofte over, hvor grænsen, for hvor personlig jeg vil være, går. Men jeg ender altid med svaret, at det er den mere eller mindre personlige beretning om dette eller hint, der rykker. De videnskabelige artikler og afhandlinger er allerede skrevet. Den personlige vinkel er den nye vinkel.

Bloggen ctr. Facebook: Min egen blog-aktivitet er faldet, efter jeg er kommet på Facebook. Facebook er stedet for de korte meddelelser; til længere (evt. holdningsprægede og motiverede) indlæg mener jeg faktisk, at Facebook er uegnet. Personlig savner jeg på Facebook mennesker, der skriver mere, funderer og undrer sig over et eller andet. Mediet egner sig til statements – ikke til pro et contra.

Ulemper? Der er mange! Det er min opfattelse, at det elektroniske medie har reduceret det kvalitative indhold (læs: der sjuskes mere), der er for meget, der ikke er korrekturlæst og der er for meget, der er fragmentarisk. Der er for meget fremmedhad og racisme i den danske blogosfære, og det er som om, man på nettet kan tillade sig hvad som helst. Det virker som om, reglerne – om hvad man gør og ikke gør overfor andre mennesker – er ophævet på nettet – men det er de jo ikke!

Men når det er sagt, så overvejer fordelene langt ulemperne, og hvad gjorde vi egentlig  før Google? Det kan jeg ikke slå op i hverken Salmonsens eller Lademanns Leksikon!

Yet Here I Am!

Blogging!!

The sun is not obscured by a skyful of clouds today, I am not letting the anti-bug hair ministrations (upon my son’s cranium) ruin my morning (at least the girls don’t seem to be hosting any), there is the usual range of washing to do, and….

I got several rows of knitting done last night! There will be more today!! Dancing classes are very good sitting-down time

And…!

I read some blogs last night!! And commented!!!

AND….!!

I have Rav open to see what’s been going on!!!!

WOO HOO!!!!! I am on bloggy FIRE!!!!!!!!

Today is my second blogiversary. I’ve been here, in this place on the interwebs, for two years. It has become an incredible important part of my daily routine, my knitterly education, and my community. It seems fitting to me to share a few pictures that seem to evoke comfort, relaxation, and most of all, friendship. Boh has bonded with our guest this week, and he will be sad to see him go.

Thank you for reading and commenting here, and for sharing, encouraging, supporting, and laughing with me. Boh and I feel pretty lucky, and we’re looking forward to whatever year three may bring.

First things first: dinner tonight will be a cranberry bean stew and then tabbouleh. I’ve decided to take a page from Thanksgivingmom’s book and join the Open Adoption Roundtable. The Open Adoption Roundtable is a series of occasional writing prompts about open adoption. It’s designed to showcase of the diversity of thought and experience in the open adoption community.

Figuring out boundaries is difficult when you write about your personal life. Any on-blog mention of family, friends or co-workers risks invading their privacy. Bloggers who write about or post pictures of their children are accused of exploitation. Where is the line between your own experience and other people’s personal lives? What information is yours to share and what rightfully belongs to someone else?

Add the overlapping relationships of open adoption to the mix and you’ve got yourself a potential ethical and personal mess. And yet it’s impossible to talk about one’s open adoption experience without mentioning the people involved.  Where do you draw the lines–on your blog and in your personal life–and why? What, if anything, don’t you tell?

The only person who knows about this blog is the birthfather, my husband, and he doesn’t have the address. Ruth and Nora certainly don’t know that I blog, nor does any of my family. That makes me feel more personally free to write, to whine about things that make me look petty or brag about tiny triumphs. I get to make decisions on their behalf about privacy, and I think they’ve been good ones; I use pseudonyms, and the occasional picture will be password protected. Of course, the one person I haven’t mentioned is my son–if, when Cricket is older, he wants to read this blog, I will give him the address. I don’t write with that possibility in mind, however.

One of the reasons that I want to feel free to say whatever I want here, without worrying about hurting anyone’s feelings, is that I try to be super, super careful in my relationship with Ruth and Nora. Right now we’re disagreeing about the movie Juno–I told her that I don’t like it, she told me why she disagrees with me–and now I don’t think I’m going to talk about it anymore, because it’s not worth the possibility of creating real conflict with her and then never seeing Cricket again and oh God. I know that’s not the likeliest outcome, but why would I risk it? I told Mr. Book the other night that I don’t think Ruth, Cricket, or Nora will ever see the real, complete Susie. “Why not Cricket?” He asked. And that’s the question that I’ll be looking at for the next couple of decades, I guess. I do like it, though, that his question assumed that I was right about Ruth and Nora. It’s not that I’m lying, exactly–I’m just being a heavily expurgated version of myself. I don’t mean that I’m avoiding doing thinks like smoking crack or firing guns around them, either–heck, the other night Mr. Book and I shared a beer and only got halfway through. I am essentially harmless. But I can be extremely silly, and incredibly sad, and many other things that I don’t think belong in my relationship with my son or his parents. Or, hey, here’s one: If I had it all to do over again, right now I would choose not to do an adoption. Why would I ever tell Ruth and Nora that? But I sometimes feel that I need to say these things or I’ll just lose it.

I grew up in a family that didn’t talk about some important things, and it’s left me with a need to say what’s going on. I tried things their way, and it didn’t work out so good. My adult compromise is to say everything–but not to everyone. My blog is a place for me to say everything without hurting anyone, which seems to me like the best of all possible worlds.

Grown in My Heart gave out this prompt a couple of weeks ago, and I’m tackling it somewhat belatedly. That original post is here. So…here’s what no one told me about adoption.

• No one told me that giving birth was going to flip a switch inside me and then snap it off; It’s baby time, nownownow, and the litany keeps playing in my head. Fortunately I am able to plan on a child in a couple of years, but I’m stuck with this hormonal siren song until then.
• Toward the end of my pregnancy, I did have some moments of feeling like a heifer at the state fair. I’m terribly wide-hipped, so I never stuck out so far as many gals do–so Ruth and Nora (and their families) seemed concerned, and made a couple of casual (strained) comments about that fact. There was no ill-will behind it, but it did leave nasty “incubator” echoes in my head for awhile. I hadn’t realized that I’d be seen that way. Similarly, although I cut out caffeine for the first two trimesters of the pregnancy, I did have the occasional cup of coffee or diet Coke after that, and Ruth and Nora commented on and seemed nervous about that. I mentioned that it’s a miscarriage risk, but at I was less worried about that after seven months, and they seemed slightly less worried.
• That I would dread every visit, and feel awful afterward. We’ve only had three, so hopefully this will pass, but it took me completely by surprise. I wonder whether Ruth or Nora feels anything like this?
• That seeing other people suggest adoption in different situations would make me nervous. I am definitely not anti-adoption, but to hear people talk about it as though it’s as emotionally complicated as getting a Coke from a vending machine makes me really uncomfortable. And yet I don’t want to be That Girl, jumping into these conversations to shrill that “It’s not that simple!”
• That I’d be desperate to hear other birthmothers talk about their experiences.

That’s all I can think of right now.

Mr. Book is exciting about the coming of October, as he plans to spend the whole month watching horror movies. I am going to surprise him this weekend with pumpkin sandwich cookes that have cinnamon buttercream in the middle–I’m making this up, a bit, so wish me luck. The peanut butter cookies are fantastic, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s lukewarm at best on peanut butter cookies. I had hoped that that was just because he hadn’t had great ones, but nope. I will have to make them for my father, who loves peanut butter treats, when I go to their house for Thanksgiving.