Nobody Likes a Tattletale But…

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It is one of the few moments I remember from kindergarten. I stood in the seafoam green hallway with the rest of my class as we gathered to attend an assembly.  Susie or Cindy or Mary curved her small hand around her mouth and whispered into my ear “Tell Mrs. Duane that John and Steve were talking during prayers”  I turned toward my teacher, her black hair curled around soft milky skin.

“John and Steve were talking during prayers,” I blurted.

She looked down at me, pink matte lipstick spread on her thin lips.

“Don’t be a tattletale,” she said.

I’m honestly embarrassed when I think of this memory.  Sure, it was all what’s-her-name’s idea but I was all too eager to oblige.

I’d like to think this was a rare occurrence, that the times I tattled as a child were few and far between. And I do think that is possible as I was always taught not to tattle by my parents.  I grew up knowing a tattletale was something I never wanted to be.  So much so that I’m still ashamed of five-year-old me ratting out little John and Steve.

I always assumed once I became a mother, I would pass on this aversion to tattling to my children.  So far, though, as a parent, I am finding tattling to be much more of a gray area than I thought.

Nix the Snitch

Let’s be honest. Nobody likes a tattletale.  Tattling done for the sake of tattling is simply unkind.  And on the list of qualities I hope to instill in my daughter, kindness resides at the top.  Why, therefore, would I ever teach her to do something I see as mean?  Why would I want her to tattle on her classmates just to get them in trouble as I did to John and Steve?  I wouldn’t.  I don’t.  I don’t want her to do something that hurts others just for the sake of doing it.

Tattling isn’t just a childhood act either.  As an adult, I have worked among tattletales.  I was once ratted out to my bosses by a man twenty years my senior.  And I assure you there was no reason for this tattling.  It did not help the situation.  I had not done anything malicious or unethical.  An honest mistake had been made. He believed it was mine; I believed it was his.  Either way, it could have been easily rectified between coworkers with no repercussions. Yet, this man felt the need to tell both our bosses.  It was tattling in its truest form and I thought it was reprehensible behavior.  I didn’t hold a grudge or treat him differently, but my opinion of him did change.  I just didn’t think he was very nice anymore.

I certainly do not want my daughter to be like him.  I don’t want her to find satisfaction in causing others trouble.  Isn’t that what tattletales do?

A Time to Tattle

No, I do not want Rosemarie to be a tattletale, but there are times when I think I would want her to tattle.

If a classmate repeatedly singles out Rosemarie, takes her toys or makes fun of her, wouldn’t I want her to tell the teacher?  As a former teacher myself, I know it is hard to see everything that goes on in a classroom.  I know it is quite possible that a student can be mistreated or even bullied without the teacher witnessing the behavior.  How else is the teacher sure to know, then, unless I tell Rosie it’s okay to tell her?

Beyond possible issues with her peers, there are other scenarios in which I would want Rosemarie to tattle.  We live in a scary world with dangers around our children that are simply unspeakable.  God forbid my daughter ever falls victim to a predator of any kind, I want her to know that not only may she tattle on this person but she must do so.

And there is also the issue that I do not want to discourage Rosemarie from sharing information with me, any information.  I want my daughter to feel comfortable talking to me.  I want her to know she can tell me things that are troubling her.  I want her to know no matter what she tells me, I will still love her.

And, yet, a few months ago after playing with her cousins, she ran up to me to tell me about something one of them had done.  Maybe her cousin took a toy; maybe she wouldn’t give her a turn on the iPad.  I don’t know what it was because when she began to speak to me and I heard her utter her cousin’s name, I quickly cut her off with “No tattling, Rosie.”

As she walked away from me, I was immediately guilty.  She had tried to tell me something and I didn’t listen.  She had tried to share something that was bothering her, and I shut her mouth instead of opening my ears.

I learned from this moment and I will not do the same again but, in essence, if I teach her tattling is wrong, aren’t I telling her it is wrong to tell me certain things? Aren’t I already teaching her that she cannot tell me anything, an idea that is the very opposite of that which I want her to believe?

A few weeks ago a friend posted a quote on Facebook that caught my eye:

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I can’t say it any better than that.   If I agree with Wallace, and I do, I need to listen to my daughter no matter what it is she wants to say.

 

 

As I said, for me, tattling has become a gray area and I am trying to find ways to address it that are appropriate.  When Rosemarie approaches me now to tell me that a friend hit or or pushed her, I start by asking if she is okay.  Once she says yes, I sometimes simply say “Good, I’m glad.”  Other times, I might mention that we need not tattle unless we need help.  I’m trying to simultaneously instill in her that she can tell me anything while also teaching her that tattling shouldn’t be done without a reason.  Maybe I’m just confusing her instead.  I’m not sure.

I try also to explain when tattling is necessary and when it isn’t.  I tell Rosemarie I need to know if someone’s hurting her or mistreating her or anyone else for that matter.  But I don’t need to know that Dina drew on her hand with a marker or that Michael ate one too many cookies.  In truth, Rosemarie is too young to tell the difference at this point, but maybe if I start now, she’ll get it by the time she is old enough.

I’m not sure if I’m doing it right just yet.  So much of parenting is trial and error after all and I suppose we shall see.  I do intend in some way to teach Rosie when it is right to “tattle” and when it is time to mind her business.  Learning to the tell the difference will be a valuable skill to have as she grows.

What about you?

What is your take on tattling?

How do you address the issue with your kids?

 


A Second Child: To Have or Have Not?

 

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I have written about this subject before, the question of whether or not Anthony and I should add another child to our family.  At the time, that question seemed to loom ahead in the future.   It felt distant and far away.  I said if I did have a second child, I wanted to wait until Rosemarie was somewhat self-sufficient:  potty trained, walking well on her own, and climbing into her car seat, before I had another baby to take care of.

It is clear now that that time is almost here.  It is no longer a decision to be made down the road.  One never knows how long it will take to bring a baby home, adopted or otherwise, and since I would want my children to be fairly close in age if I had another, the time to act is now.

And yet I can act.  I can’t move forward because I still don’t know the best answer.  I still don’t know whether or not I want a second child.

There are times that I do.

When my friend brings over her eleven-month-old little girl, and Rosie bends down to her face smiling ear to ear, calling her “baby”, tickling her and giggling all the while.

When frosty snow covers the ground and Rosemarie stands at the door ready to go out and play.  And guilt fills my heart that she will have to make snow angels all by her lonesome, that she won’t have a partner for a snowball fight.  Of course, I can play with her but let’s be honest.  The older she gets, the less fun it will be to have her mother as a playmate.

When I see my adult friends who are only children with sick parents and the weight of that burden, far too heavy for one person, rests solely on their shoulders.

When Rosemarie grabs my hand as I fold the laundry asking me in her sweet voice to come in the play room to build a tower.  While I’m tempted to finish folding the towels in front of me, I can’t refuse her, for all I see in my mind is her sitting all by herself on the chevron rug, placing the Legos on top of each other, yelling “tada” once she’s done to an empty room.

When we drive away from her cousins’ houses, and her cries fill my ears as she calls their names from her car seat long after we have left their homes behind.

When I realize almost all of the children around Rosemarie have siblings. And no matter now much they love her, no matter how much their parents instill in them that they must love Rosie and protect as if she is their sister, she isn’t.  Believe me, I am not speaking biologically here.  What I mean is they have siblings with whom they will grow every day, siblings with whom they will share bedrooms, parents, and the kind of memories you can only make when you live in the same home.   In this way, they all have sisters and brothers.  But Rosie only has them.

I know I sound dramatic.  I am not claiming Rosemarie spends all her days weeping from her loneliness.

Still, these are the moments when I want a second child.

But, alas, there I times when I don’t.

When I do enter that play room with Rosemarie.  I can sit on the floor and play with her because I have time to do so.  Because I do have to hold the house together and wash the dishes and cook dinner, but I can find the time for it all because there is only one child to tend to.  I don’t have to change someone else’s diaper or help someone else with homework.  I can give her the attention she needs and also give some attention to my house, my husband, and myself.

When I am around my sister (Love you, Kris) and her three children and I see how incredibly busy her day is. When I see how it just never ends.  Because when one child is settled, the other needs juice and when that child’s thirst is quenched, the baby needs a clean diaper.

When I see my own mother with her four grown children (Love you too, Mom) and I notice that sometimes she too is stretched across her daughters.  She babysits for me on Monday, helps Kristen plan a party on Tuesday, visits a college with my niece on Wednesday and cooks dinner for my nephew on Thursday.

And I’m not saying my mother or sister is unhappy with her life. I’m not saying anything for either of them. I’m simply saying maybe I don’t want the the same thing.

Maybe I want to have time.  Time to write.  Time to read.  Time to wrap every Christmas present with ribbon, tree branches and candy canes.  Time to decorate for Valentine’s Day.  Time to see my friends.  Time to just do.  No, I don’t have time to do everything I want to do.  Just yesterday, I got my nails done for the first time in three months, but I think I have more time than mothers with more than one child.

I know what you’re thinking. The list of reasons to have a second child far outweighs the list not to have another, right?  Plus, my reasons to have second are all in the interest of Rosemarie; most of my reasons not to have one are about me.  As mothers, isn’t it our job to put our children’s needs before our own?

When I consider this, two things come to mind.  First, I think of the other major reason I am unsure about a second baby:  my stamina.  I will not delve into this in depth again as it was discussed at length in my other post on this subject, but it’s a huge factor in my inability to decide.

Of course if we adopt another child, I will fall in love again.  All my fears of having not enough time, of feeling too chaotic will pale in comparison to the joy a son or another daughter will bring to my life.

But my stamina will not just magically increase.  My frequent need for a midday nap will not instantly disappear. There will still be times when I feel I can’t keep up as a mother of a toddler or a preschooler or a teenager.  And it’s possible having a second will only make matters worse.  It is possible Rosemarie and this other child will have a less attentive mother, a mother who needs rest more often and who will have less energy to give to her kids.

And what about this other child?  All of my reasons to have him or her are about Rosemarie.  Is that really fair? Is it right to have a second child just for the sake of your first?  Let’s remember.  This is a bit different when adoption is involved.  If I were to have a biological child, that child literally would not exist unless I decided to have him.  But with adoption, the adopted child will exist and will live whether or not Anthony and I adopt him.  Is it right to bring the child home, to make him ours, if I want him mostly because of the child I already have?  Is it right when another couple desperate for a first child or second or third could adopt him instead?

(Sidenote:   To my second child, if you do come into our lives, please know I love you with every bit of myself.  Please know that now that I have you, I can’t imagine life without you.  When I wrote this, I just hadn’t met you yet.)

Perhaps all of this means I am just thinking too much.  Perhaps not.  I know people who have had more children without every really knowing if it was what they wanted.  I also know people who have always wanted two or three or more.

What I don’t know is what I want.  What I don’t know is the best choice for my family.  And what I really don’t know is how I will ever decide!

Some couples leave such a question up to fate.  Some couples can just say “if it happens, it happens.” But others, like adoptive parents or those who need infertility treatments, have to definitively decide if this is what they want.  We must decide.  We must move forward.  I just don’t know how.

 

 


New Year’s Blues

Is it just me?  Am I the only one who doesn’t feel excited as New Year’s approaches? Am I alone in the fact that the hours spent before counting down those ten seconds until we enter a new year don’t fill me with joy but instead a sinking sense of sadness?

Granted, I do spend every New Year’s Eve watching at least twelve hours of The Twilight Zone, which isn’t exactly uplifting, but it must be more than that.

Because it wasn’t always this way.

Party All the Time

Growing up, New Year’s Eve was one of the most fun celebrations for my family.  Filling the long rectangle of my aunt and uncle’s dining room, we ate and laughed and sang and cheered.  My uncle always brought out his karaoke machine and we passed the black microphone around the table singing Frank Sinatra, Sonny and Cher, and Billy Joel.  I can still picture my little grandmother, the mic in her sweet, wrinkled hand as she sang “Where Or When”, her voice a little shaky, but still filled with the talent of her youth.

By the end of the night, the other children and I always performed some sort of musical number.  Our first ever was “Just a Gigolo”; my sister Kristen wore a plastic New Year’s hat to play the main role.  I was one of the girls on her arm.  But my favorite of all time was “Copacabana.” I can still remember the joy that filled my chest when I picked Lola’s name out of the hat and knew I would be the star of our little show.  A half hour later, I danced around the blue carpet of my aunt’s den trying to move as a showgirl would.  Kristen and Fannie fought over me as Ricky and Tony, poor Kristen falling dead after that fatal gunshot.  Our family exploded in applause.

New Year’s Eve was a blast then and well into my teenage years.

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The More Things Change

I know the change must have begun when my father died.  The first New Year’s after that, we simply pretended it wasn’t New Year’s at all.  We spent the night together but Dick Clark stayed off our televisions and no countdown was shouted out loud at midnight.  Of course we were sad that year.  We were distraught.  Our loss was only four months old.  We hadn’t even begun to grieve yet.

The next year, we celebrated mostly for the sake of the children.  At my aunt’s house, we laid bubble wrap along the floor.  When midnight hit, the kids jumped up and down in glee popping the bubbles with their tiny feet.

But the sadness was still there.  And midnight came with just as many tears as it did smiles.

I suppose every year it got a little bit easier.  As more babies were born, the more fun and joy returned to our New Year’s Eves.   And for the past several years, even though we could feel the void of my father’s presence, we had a good time.  My mother’s house was often crowded with family and friends.  Some years, we munched on fried rice and egg rolls.  Others, we snacked on spicy chicken wings and slathered ribs.  We drank and talked and laughed and cheered.

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But no matter how much fun we had, that melancholy mood still lingered within me.  Each year, at some point in the night, I found my way to the couch in the den, curling up to watch some more of Rod Sterling’s chilling stories.

This year, I didn’t even make the effort to make sure we had any real plans for the Eve.  With Anthony working and most of our normal companions having other plans, we ended up with midnight bells of no more than five people.

I know it’s my fault.  I didn’t plan because I don’t really care about celebrating on New Year’s but I don’t believe my father’s death is the only reason for my aversion to the last night of the year.

Because for me, New Year’s is a unique holiday in this way.  I think of him on every holiday and every day of every year and there are moments when his death hits me all over again, but I am still able to feel the joy of special moments.  I was elated watching Rosemarie make the sign of the cross during Grace on Thanksgiving, seeing her press her small palms together as she said “Amen.”  I felt true joy on Christmas morning as she ripped the wrapping paper off her Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and yelled “Meeska, Mooska, Mickey Mouse!”

But New Year’s still brings that pit in my stomach, the kind you feel on a Sunday night as a child when school looms the next morning.

 

What is it about New Year’s then?  I know I am not the only one who feels this way.  I have friends who also admit to feeling down on December 31st every year.  And these friends don’t all have a loss they consider to be life-changing in their past that could be the reason for their melancholy.

Is it just the fear of getting older?  Is it the unavoidable pang of sadness we feel when we realize how quickly our children are growing?

 

Let’s Get This Party Started

Whatever the reason, I’ve decided it’s time to shake that sadness off and bring the joy back to New Year’s.  I don’t want Rosemarie growing up with a New Year’s celebration that’s tainted with her mother’s sulkiness.

Next New Year’s, I have to find a way to cheer myself up and jazz up our night.  Maybe I need to fill the night with more friends and family.  Maybe I need to plan activities ahead of time.  Maybe I just need to psyche myself up for that night.

The good news is that I have a whole year to figure out how I can make this change.   And there I have my first resolution for 2014.  Somehow, someway, I will give Rosemarie a New year’s Eve that’s filled with the fun and joy that I remember feeling as I danced around with yellow feathers in my hair, as I counted down with a sparkling sip of champagne in a plastic glass.  Rosemarie will have New Year’s celebrations to remember.  I resolve to make it happen.

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Ten Tiny Thanksgiving Thank Yous

In a week’s time, we will all sit in our dining rooms surrounded by our families, a steaming turkey in the center of the table, savory stuffing, fluffy mashed potatoes, and ruby red cranberry sauce scattered around its surface.   We will eat together and talk together.  We’ll laugh and giggle and probably yell a little too.

Before we eat, many of us will say grace and some families, like mine, will share those things they are most thankful for this year.  At my cousin Robby’s Connecticut Colonial, we will go around the table, one at a time, as we do every year.  Memorable mentions of the past include Robby’s returning health after his terrible but heroic battle with cancer, the arrival of Rosemarie, and my eight-year-old nephew’s words of gratitude for his “family and the soldiers.”

There are so many important things like these that I am thankful for this year.  The big things.  My wonderful family, a beautiful home, an excellent report at my most recent visit to the cardiologist.  I am grateful for all of these blessings.  And on Thanksgiving and every day, I thank God for them.

Of course, the big things are important.  Of course, these major aspects of our lives determine our happiness.  But, for me, the little things matter too.  Sometimes, it’s the little things that make the difference in our days.

So, this year for Thanksgiving, I’m not only going to thank God for the significant blessings in my life.  I’m also going to take the time to thank Him for the little ones as well.

Here are ten little things I’m thankful for this year:

  1. DVR – How lucky are we?  Remember the days when if you missed the spring dance on 90210, you simply couldn’t see Kelly and Brenda fight over the same dress? Or when you couldn’t be home for the series finale of Full House, so you set up the VCR before leaving only to realize you left it on channel 2 and the tape showed nothing but Poltergeist fuzz when you pressed Play? Oh, the horror!
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    Thank you, DVR.  Thank you for allowing me to watch over fifteen shows regularly without ever missing an episode.  Thank you for letting me press record if I need to go out but catch only the start of a segment on Dr. Oz that interests me or if I just need to know if the cursing, yelling man is really the father on the latest debacle that is The Maury Show.

  3. Etsy – How did anyone plan a party before Etsy came along? Or decorate a house? Or celebrate the holiday season? I literally have instant access to a smorgasbord of artists all over the country. And not only do I get to reap the fruits of their talents, but I can personalize their work to my own specific needs.  If I don’t like the color of that shirt or the font of that invitation, I just message the seller and a week later, I have my customized “Worth the Wait” onesie for Rosie’s arrival in New York, the yellow pitcher-shaped invitations for her lemonade-themed birthday party, a handmade diaper bag in a fabric the seller ordered just for me.  It’s amazing.
  4. When I Can Unexpectedly Pull Forward Out of a Parking Spot  -  Gosh, that is just the best.  I park in a crowded lot but by the time I exit the store, the wonderful stranger who was parked in front of my car has already left.  And, now, I don’t have to back out of my spot straining my neck in the process.  Instead, I just put that baby in drive, and smoothly sail forward.  I.  Love.  These.  Moments.
  5. My LifeProof Case -  I can do anything to my phone!  Those that know me well know “anything” has many meanings.  After all, I am the person who dropped a drinking glass directly onto the front of my phone cracking the entire screen.  I am also the woman who slid her phone into her cup holder while driving only to later look down and see the phone bobbing in a cup of seltzer she had forgotten about.
  6. With the LifeProof case, I can do these things and more and the phone will be just fine.  I can let Rosie play games and view pictures on my phone without worry.  And best of all, on the rare occasion that I get to take a shower without Rosemarie in the bathroom pulling back the curtain and throwing squeezey toys into the tub, I can bring my phone right in the shower, lean it on Anthony’s 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner and watch Netflix while I exfoliate.  Just fantastic.

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  7. Microsoft Excel - I never said I wasn’t a geek.  I love to be organized.  I love to-do lists and I love charts.  I can use Excel to organize just about anything.  A list of invitees for a party I’m throwing, my Christmas shopping list, our monthly bills.  Not only does Excel help to organize names and addresses or keep track of gifts and spending, but it helps keep my brain neat and tidy as well.  And that makes me very happy.
  8. Holiday-flavored Lattes  - It doesn’t matter if it’s Starbucks or Dunkin.  If it’s gingerbread or peppermint mocha.  The moment I take my first sweet sip of the season, I just get that feeling.  That cozy, nostalgic feeling that makes me think of Christmas Eves I spent with a knot of excitement in my stomach as I tried to fall asleep.  Of the tattered cover of the paperback Twas the Night Before Christmas we read growing up.  Of the Christmas night I lay under our tree staring up at the white lights, my brand new American Girl in my arms wearing her white nightgown with pink ribbon trim.

    And they’re delicious too of course.

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  9. A Great Bargain on Just What I’m Looking For - It doesn’t matter how much money you have.  A great bargain just feels good.  And it doesn’t matter to me if I save 50 cents or $20.  But when the exact item I am looking for is on sale like the organic macaroni and cheese at Stop and Shop last week or when I find a coupon for 20% off plus free shipping for the website I just happen to be using, it just feels as though things are working out for me.  It makes me smile to know the universe is on my side even if it’s just for a minute and just for a few bucks.
  10. Remote Start in My Car -  When it’s freezing out and I not only have a diaper bag to lug but also three bags of returns as well as Rosemarie, my little turtle, walking beside me on our way to the car,  I am practically shivering by the time I put her in her seat and then climb into mine.  So when the car is warm and toasty including the seat I slide into, it is just a joy.

    And the reverse is true in the summer.  As I drag myself to the car, the sun beating on my back after two hours in the park, the cool air that soothes my skin the moment I enter the car is pure elation. 

    Thank you, inventor of the remote starter.  Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a clear answer on your identity.  I’m sorry about that.  You should be a household name because of your genius work.

  11. A King-sized Bed – Anthony and I are always hot.  Our ceiling fan is on full speed twelve months of the year and our thermostat pretty much stays at 68º or under unless we have company.  We CANNOT sleep in close quarters. We love each other but we need our own space.  A lot of it.  And a king-sized bed offers just that.  I can stretch out my arms or bend my knees and still be inches away from him. 

    I kid you not, when he worked nights, I once woke up in the wee hours of the morning and called his cell phone to find out why he still wasn’t home.  I soon heard his phone ring on the other side of the room.

    He was home.  In the bed.  Next to me.  There is so much room that I had no idea he was there.

  12. The Goldbergs – ABC’s new show on Tuesday nights?  Just watch it.  You’ll be grateful too.
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No,  these aren’t the most important things in the world.  I could live without any one of them or even all of them really.  But I am so glad I don’t have to do so.

The truth is that the little things do matter.  Because sometimes the big things don’t work out.  Sometimes the big things become really hard.  We lose jobs.  We lose money and sometimes homes.  We lose our health.  We lose people we love.

And the only way to make it through the times when the important things are just falling apart is to find joy in the not-so-important things.  To let a BOGO sale, a delicious drink, or a good hair day make you smile.

Sometimes, the little things are what keep us from falling apart too.

So, this year I thank God for all the small but happy parts of my life.  All the frivolous, little things that keep me smiling.

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Mommy’s Bruised Ego – Dropcam Campaign

If you are a regular reader of my blog, you may recognize the story below.  I posted it a little over a year ago, but I am sharing it again for a special reason.  I am participating in a campaign by Dropcam, “a cloud-based Wi-Fi video monitoring service with free live streaming, two-way talk and remote viewing.”

Dropcam is doing a campaign called Life’s Mysteries, which is about sharing the missed moments in life.  Moments that make you wonder how they happened and make you wish you could have seen them take place.  As I thought over my past two years as a mom, searching my memories for a missed moment, the Cascade Incident arrived front and center in my mind. 

So here it is.  One more time.  Feel free to read it again and laugh once more at my humiliation. 

Last October, only a couple of days after Hurricane Sandy hit our Staten Island community, I was cleaning up Rosie’s room, putting her books back in the their trunk and fixing the bedding in her crib while she played in the kitchen.  There is one drawer in which she was allowed to play; she would open it, remove the dish towels inside, and amuse herself by laying them over her head and piling them on top of each other.

I made my way into the kitchen to check on her and noticed she had just spit up a large amount.  Confused, I bent down to pick her up and that’s when my eyes met the Cascade packet.  Its massacred body lay sprawled on the kitchen floor, its blue powdered insides spread out on the creamy tile.  I looked down at Rosie and saw powder residue on her chin and clothing, and I knew what the packet’s fate had been:  Rosie had eaten it to death.

And the reason she was able to get to the packets is because I, her careless mother, failed to fully close the cabinet under the kitchen sink.  The baby-proof locks are useless if you don’t actually close the door.

I grabbed a washcloth, wet it, and washed out Rosie’s mouth as I called my husband Anthony who wisely suggested reading the Cascade container.  This is what I found:

 

Swell.  I ripped open the package of water we had bought for the hurricane and attempted to pour sips into her mouth.  I mostly succeeded in soaking her pajama top and onesie, which I then had to remove as I dialed Poison Control.

“If she threw up, you must take her to an emergency room.  Get there as quickly as you possibly can.”

Alrighty.  Remember, this was only two days after Sandy had hit.  I had not yet been on the roads, but I had heard Hylan Boulevard, the road I needed to take to the hospital, was moving like a parking lot.  My only option, then, was to call 911.

I wasn’t entirely comfortable doing this; I knew other people needed emergency service and I hated to take man power away from them, but what could I do?

Now, keep in mind that I have a heart condition and I sometimes need to call 911 for myself.  Usually, even though at these times I need to be seen in the ER immediately, I am not unconscious or anything of that nature.  At that time, we had lived on our block for two years, and I had probably called an ambulance on at least five occasions only to return home soon after looking perfectly healthy.

So, imagine you are one of my neighbors, who has repeatedly scene the red flashing lights stop in front of our paved driveway.  Now, two days after an unspeakable disaster has struck Staten Island, you see not only the ambulance arrive at my door, but also a giant, green and black camouflaged army tank, with two fully uniformed soldiers inside.

Then, my mother (who had arrived by then), walks outside holding a laughing baby only to be followed by me, rushing out to the street snugly holding a container of Cascade dishwasher packets.

Needless to say, I was humiliated.

Rosie was seen quite quickly when we arrived at the ER.  She slept on my lap as two doctors examined her and assured us that if she had been harmed by the soap she ingested, there would be some sort of symptoms telling us so.  They researched the ingredients of the Cascade to be sure, but since they didn’t find anything, she was soon discharged and we made our way back home.

My point of telling this long and embarrassing story is simply to say that I do make mistakes.  No matter how careful we are, all of us moms will mess up.  It doesn’t mean we’re not good mothers or don’t love our children.  So, if you are an expectant mom, a new mom, or even a seasoned one, remember that you’re not alone in this.  Just when you think you’re the worst mother in the world, you’ll hear about a mom who let her daughter eat dishwasher soap.

 

Check out Dropcam’s campaign here:  http://blog.dropcam.com/join-dropcams-lifes-mysteries-campaign/.


Nightmare on Grandview Street

It’s that time of year again.  Front windows, porches and lawns are adorned with glowing Jack-o-lanterns, crumbling tombstones, and airy white ghosts.  It is the season of fright, a time for horror movies that speed up your heart and send shivers through your skin.  Corpses that rise from their graves bloodthirsty and hungry for human flesh.  An escaped mental patient with a knife in his hand and a mask on his face who stalks a small town on Halloween night.  These are the makings of a scary story.

photo 2              photo 1

 

 

I have a Halloween tale, though, that is far more frightening.  A story that will terrify any child, teenager or adult who remembers growing up.  A story that is entirely true.

It took place many years ago on a cold October night.  The dull gray moon hung on the black of twilight while wisps of clouds drifted across the sky.  The crisp wind blew through the distorted branches of dark bare trees and sent shrill whistles through the air.

Okay, not really.  It did happen many years ago, twenty to be exact.  Replace the eerie moon and spooky branches with some scattered folding chairs and bottles of soda at a seventh grade party, and the stage is set.

Let me be a bit blunt and totally honest:  I was a pretty little girl.  Before I hit puberty, each part of my face just worked photo 3well together.  Sleek, arched eyebrows swept above big brown eyes.  A cute nub of a nose.  Pink, curvy lips.  I was pretty and boys liked me.  I dated the most popular boy in my class in first, fourth and (I think) sixth grade.  Our entire dating history only totaled about three weeks but still; it meant something.

Underneath it all, however, I was the epitome of uncool–a truly natural nerd.  A socially awkward first and second grader, I mostly kept my eyes down and my mouth closed.  Once third grade came, the other girls began to talk and giggle with the boys at recess, shop in Limited Too and listen to music I had never heard of.  I still preferred the corner of the schoolyard where my best friend Clarisse and I would play babysitter, shopping in a make-believe supermarket for strawberry-banana baby food.  I wore clothes from Kids R Us, wrote letters of aspiration to Bob Ross and still cried when my mother went away for the weekend.

I wasn’t cool and the cool kids scared me.  But I was pretty.  And in the social hierarchy of our elementary school, that put me right on the cusp.  So, from first to sixth grade I wasn’t exactly popular, but I wasn’t a reject either.

But, oh, the joys of puberty.  Just before I turned twelve years old, my small, round nose began to thicken and expand across my cheeks.  My other features must have been intimidated because they refused to follow suit.  My face now became the opposite of its original form with relatively small eyes, thin lips and a broad but flatly squashed nose sitting in the center.  To this day I swear one of my eyes got lazy for two years as it became smaller than the other.  My eyebrows grew darker and instead of spreading apart as they usually do when one’s face grows, they merged closer together, the inside end of one reaching away from the rest of the hairs to create a miniature Asian fan in the middle of my brow bone.  And, of course, I needed braces.  I opted for clear ceramic brackets, which turned a horrid yellowish beige in six months’ time.  It was at this age as well that I apparently forgot blow dryers had been invented.  After cutting my excessively thick, mousey brown hair to my chin, I washed it each night, slept without tending to it and simply threw in a headband every morning, ignoring the tumultuous curls, waves and indentations all over my over-sized head.

photo 4

Now in seventh grade, other girls my age were beginning to wear bras and hip huggers.  Unfortunately, I had nothing to hold up and nothing to hug.  My legs were literal sticks with bowling balls for knees; my arms were long, skinny, and dangerous due to my markedly pointy elbows.  My feet and hands were both way too big for the rest of my body while my ankles, hips and chest were too small.

photo 5

Blunt and honest:  I was ugly.  And as my reflection grew more and more ghastly, my link to the popular crowd began to slip further and further away from me.

In the early months of seventh grade, though, I held onto the very last shred as tightly as I could.  In October, I was invited to the first big party of the year at Jenny Pheifer’s* house.  Jenny Pheifer was popular.  She was tall, dark, and beautiful.  She had a muscular, hot older brother who threw keg parties and a mother who let her wax her legs.  Her party would be THE coolest.  The eighth graders, the popular eighth graders, were invited–and they were coming.

The only question left was what I would wear to this big bash of coolness.  Jenny told Clarisse that some people would be wearing costumes; others would not.  In my wonderful little mind of immaturity, I thought, “Yay! A costume party!

Of course, on Halloween day I wouldn’t be running around the streets spraying shaving cream on friends like other kids my age.  No, I’d be going door to door gathering candy from my neighbors as usual, so I already had a costume all set:  Cleopatra.

At 8:00 on the night of the party, Clarisse rang my doorbell.  When I opened the door, I saw that her costume was hardly a costume at all.  One quarter Indian herself, she was dressed as an Indian woman.  Wearing her black Raiders Starter jacket over her sari, she could have been wearing jeans and a t-shirt underneath and no one would know the difference.  Her hair was pulled back into a neat bun and she wore a red dot the size of a match head in the center of her forehead.

She, however, saw a very different sight standing in my front doorway.  I wore a shimmering eggshell kaftan that bloused bountifully around my waist, which was cinched by a lustrous gold belt.  A short gold lamé cape rested on my shoulders while a chunky gold necklace inlaid with deep red jewels hung around my neck.  A jet black triangular wig concealed my light brown hair and extended four inches past each side of my head.  As if the cape, necklace, and wig were not sufficient enough, a gleaming golden crown sat atop my head with a snake that protruded out of my forehead, gazing at all standing near me with emerald green rhinestone eyes.  My own eyes were surrounded in thick black eyeliner with half-inch cattails on the outer corners, my cheeks were streaked with crimson blush and my lips were painted Coca-Cola red.

I tried to ignore the funny look Clarisse gave me as we descended the stairs on the way to her mother’s blue station wagon.  I tried to ignore the intense fear that was building up inside my chest as we rode to the party, exited the car, and walked up to the back door of the Pheifer house.

And then we entered.  The party stood before me; the room, longer than it was wide, was lined on either side with guests.   Silent guests (or at least it felt that way).  No one seemed to be talking; there wasn’t any mingling or laughing or dancing.  It seemed as if the party had frozen the moment I walked in.  Guys and girls stood there.  Looking.  Staring.

And EVERY LAST ONE of them wore the regular ol’ clothes of 90s tweens:  jeans, plaid flannels, and Abercrombie T-shirts.

My under eyes filled with tears.  In one swift motion I reached up, pulled my wig and crown off my head and slipped into the folding chair against the wall to my right.  There I remained for most of the night.

This was true humiliation.  This has become my definition of humiliation.  The rest of the party is a complete blur.  I don’t know when I finally got off that chair.  I don’t remember talking to any boys and certainly not any eigth graders.  But I do remember the way the heat filled my face in that one moment when we stepped through the door.  I remember the fear, sadness, and embarrassment all rolled into those ten short seconds.

It was absolutely horrifying.  The scariest Halloween story I have to tell.

Sigh.

At least, unlike most horror movies that simply teach us to get the heck out of the house rather than investigate scary noises on our own, I can gain something from this experience and just maybe I can use that something to be a better mother.

For one, I will never EVER allow my daughter to attend a Halloween party dressed as anything but herself without getting complete confirmation that said party is a costume party.  While I will also never allow her to wear the types of costumes I see on many a young girl today complete with Daisy Dukes and thigh-highs, I will do my absolute best to have her dressed in a costume that does not make her look like a second grader attending her big sister’s party.

More importantly, this will be a great story to tell when she has her own utterly mortifying social debacle.  I can tell her this story.  I can make her laugh through her tears at her nerdy, old mom.  And I can prove to her that no matter how humiliated she may feel, she will be okay.  She will get over it and life will go on.

Because, sure, I still cringe whenever I remember that moment.  I close my eyes and shake my head when it is brought up by my sisters, husband, and friends.  But I certainly didn’t let it ruin my love for Halloween or my fascination with dressing up.  I’ll wear it all:  clothes, makeup, wigs.  Whatever it takes.  I’ve been Lois Griffin and Tina Turner.  Carmela Soprano and Daphne of Scooby Doo fame.  And my personal favorite of all time, Bill alongside my husband’s Ted.

Embarrassing things will happen.  Sometimes, life stinks.  But what can you do except “party on, dudes”?

 photo-13

 

*Name has been changed.

 


Hello, Love

Like many young girls, I liked playing with dolls from a very young age.  I adored my Cabbage Patch Dolls, especially the tiny preemie my mother bought for me on a trip to Toys ‘R Us, just the two of us.  I loved to dress my dolls, wheel them in strollers around the house, and give them a bottle when I thought they might be hungry.

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My American Girl, Samantha, was my favorite toy of all time.  To me, she was my child.  I dressed her each day and fed her meals.  I fixed her hair and chose special dresses on holidays, days on which she came to church and sat beside me, her glazed brown eyes staring straight ahead.

I just loved my dolls.

And when my sister Kristen, best friend Fannie and I would play house, we’d pretend to carry these dolls in our bellies.  With a pillow stuffed under our shirts, we’d waddle around with our tiny hands on our aching backs and give birth on Fannie’s four post bed after “nine months” had passed.

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As a young child, I never thought my path to motherhood would be any different than the one we created in our imaginations.

It was of course.

Instead of my hips, it was the word that spread as we publicized our hope to adopt as much as possible.  Instead of nine months of terrible pain throughout my body, my heart ached through fourteen months of waiting.  I did not grab my hospital bag and rush to the hospital to endure five, ten or twenty hours of grueling labor; instead, I quickly packed a suitcase and endured hours of traveling to be followed by days of waiting.

Yes, my road to motherhood was quite different than what I expected.

It seems that some people outside of adoption assume we adoptive parents would change that path if we could, that we would switch our unique journey with theirs if we had the chance.

That question is a complicated one.  We adoptive mothers often begin our journey with a number of losses, a number of things we have to give up or let go.  But that is only the beginning.

Bye-bye, Baby Belly 

It’s the most natural a beautiful thing a woman can do, the most gratifying physical experience of the female body, a spiritually fulfilling miracle.

That is how pregnancy is often described and I’m sure every word is true.

So was I upset when I realized I couldn’t carry my baby in my womb, nurturing her for nine months while she grew inside me?

Of course I was.

I was deeply saddened.  I was envious of the women around me and their bulbous and beautiful bellies.  I would stand in the shower, push out my stomach, and slowly rub it with my palm, pretending there was a baby inside.

Bye-bye, Bio Baby

After accepting that I would not carry my child, we attempted surrogacy.  Six months later when the surrogacy failed, I realized I would also not experience having a biological child.

Was I upset when it was clear I would never see the child created by me and the man I loved?

Of course I was.

Like any other woman who longs to be a mother, I had imagined the child I would have with Anthony since the day we were married.

I usually pictured a boy.  A dark-haired stocky baby boy with carnation pink lips between two chubby cheeks.

He was adorable.

But one day I learned he would never be.  I would never know if my imagination was right.  I would never learn whose features he would hold onto, whose eyes I would see in his, if his voice would be deep from childhood like his father’s.

And it hurt. It was a loss. A loss that I grieved like any other.

But That Was Then 

And Rosie is now.

Yes, I was heartbroken by these losses. My heart seemed to miss these things that I couldn’t touch or see, things I never had at all.

But then I met Rosie.

Then I held Rosie.

Then I felt her crying body settle the moment I placed her on my shoulder.

Then I heard her softly breathe as she slept.

Then she began to laugh, a crinkle in her nose like a backslash.

Then she called me “Mommy.”

Then she held my hand as we walked down the street.

Then she crawled in my bed in the morning, pressing her side to mine as she shared my pillow.

photo 1-10

Do I still wish I could have carried a child in my womb? Am I still sad that I do not have biological children?

Of course I’m not.

Because I love my daughter and, just like any mother, I wouldn’t trade her for anything, not the miracle of pregnancy nor the plump, brunette baby I dreamed up in my mind.

Because to have experienced bearing a baby or to have met my biological child, I would have to give up the little girl with whom I am completely in love.  I would have to give up things like her toothy smile that she gives even when I’m being stern, the softness of her voice as she sings the ABCs, the way her tiny hand strokes my skin while she’s laying on my chest.

The things I couldn’t live without.

So, no, I would not trade my unique journey to motherhood with anyone else’s.  I wouldn’t change a single thing.

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I auditioned for Blogger Idol!

BloggerIdol

Hi everyone! I am excited to say that I auditioned for Blogger Idol, “the premier blogging contest for bloggers. Based on the popular singing reality show, American Idol.”

My hope is to become part of the Top 12.  If I do, I will compete on a weekly basis completing writing tasks created by a panel of judges and face an elimination each week until the one and only blogger left standing will be crowned the Blogger Idol!

If you would like to see www.whenmommymetrosie.com in the Top 12, check out the contest’s Facebook page and post a comment telling them so.

Thanks, everyone!

 

 

 

 


When He Said Goodbye

Today is September 10th.  It was twelve years ago today that I last saw and spoke to my father before he died with thousands of others the following day.  I remember a few details of our family dinner that night.  I remember my father sitting at the head of the table as always while I sat two chairs to his left.  I remember talking about play tickets I wanted to buy.  I remember my mother telling a story about what happened at church that day with her friend Grace and her Yankee T-shirt.

The following day my sisters, cousins and I would sit around the same table, calling 311, hospitals and the families of my father’s colleagues.  This way, we convinced ourselves we were making progress; we were doing something other than waiting.  But that’s all that day really was for us as I imagine it was for the other families…a waiting game.

That very ordinary day, a day that tricked us with its gorgeous blue sky and autumn breeze, and then twisted and contorted itself into a real-life, grotesque nightmare.  A nightmare in which the murderous terrorists weren’t the only villains.  No, the other devil that stalked us that day, that crept up behind us while we weren’t looking was time, the steady and constant passage of time.

Every hour, every minute, and every second was another in which we had not heard, another reason for the prickling truth on the edge of our brains to pull us toward reality.  We tried not to sleep for to sleep was to admit that the day was over.  But soon, despite our resistance, the day turned to evening, evening to night, and night to early morning.  I, along with my mother, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins succumbed to the heavy hand of time. Eyes began to close and heads began to fall. One by one we fell asleep, in chairs, on couches, and at the kitchen table.

Even though most of us slept for less than two hours, I suspect there was a time when we all slept at once and all rested together in the wee hours of the morning.  And I imagine my father came to us then.  I imagine he walked about the house, in and out of each room, looking into each of the faces of those he loved and those that loved him back. And as he said goodbye to each of us, his words were like a lullaby, gently soothing us, for just a moment during this time of horror.

After entering through the front door, he approached the staircase. His hand slid against the grain of the wood as he ascended the stairs. At the top he turned left and crept into the bedroom he shared with his wife. There, he had watched television, a sambuca in his hand, while she lay behind him reading a mystery novel. There, she had held him as he wept, as he had done for her.  There, they had talked about their children, their grandchildren, and parents. There, they had made love. There, they were in love.

Now, she lay on their bed, curled up in pain, in a sleep forced onto her. He looked down at her face that he knew by heart and savored each feature in his mind.  He walked around to his side of the bed and lay down next to her. He brushed his fingers through her hair and wrapped his arm around her. Then, as he softly stroked her cheek, he kissed her lips for the last time.

Good night, my angel, time to close your eyes
And save these questions for another day
I think I know what you’ve been asking me
I think you know what I’ve been trying to say
I promised I would never leave you and you should always know
Wherever you may go, no matter where you are
I never will be far away

Leaving his bedroom, he moved throughout the house to find his four daughters. When he did, he looked on their sleeping faces, thinking of the lessons he had tried to instill and of the many he would now never get to teach. He bent down over each of them and pressed his lips to their foreheads. When he did, a memory of each of his babies flashed in his mind: Michele’s tiny, slender body always dressed in her red plaid jumper, Katie’s blonde ringlets that often fell into her bluest eyes, Kristen’s freckled cheeks each with a coin-slot dimple, and my walnut-sized brown eyes with eyelashes that reached my brow bone. He held each kiss as long as possible, then stood up and smiling at the women he saw before him, he moved out of the room.

Good night my angel
Now it’s time to sleep
And still so many things I want to say
Remember all the songs you sang for me
When we went sailing on an emerald bay

Following those to whom he had given life, he went to those who had given it to him. He encircled his mother in his arms, as he had always done. He held her into his chest and pressed his cheek to her head, her white hair grazing his skin, and then turned to his father to whom he did the same. In his embrace, he used his arms to say thank you for the love they had so willingly shared with him.  He hugged his parents tight, squeezing his gratitude into them.

And like a boat out on the ocean
I’m rocking you to sleep
The waters dark and deep
Inside this ancient heart you’ll always be a part of me

He went next to his four grandchildren.  He wept as he stood above them knowing he would miss most of their lives. He remembered the moment he found out each of them was to be born.  He had wept then too.  Squatting down beside them, he studied their every detail.  He examined Lauren’s plump pink lips, the half-moon shape of Julia’s chin, Joseph’s fleshy cheeks, and the auburn hair atop Vincent’s head.

“I love you,” he whispered to each of them, “I loved you before you were born.” As he stood up, he thought of his grandchildren that had not yet been born, nor even conceived, and he said good night to all of them.

Good night my angel now it’s time to dream
And dream how wonderful your life will be
Someday your child may cry and if you sing this lullaby
Then in your heart, there will always be a part of me

Leaving his grandchildren, he continued into each room of the house until he had seen everyone. Each sibling, niece, nephew, and best friend. And to each face, he gave one last look, shared one more touch of love, and said one more goodbye.

Some day we’ll all be gone but lullabies go on and on
They never die that’s how you and I will be









Joel, Billy.  “Lullaby (Good night, My Angel).” River of Dreams.  Columbia, 1998.


Once Upon a Mom

SPOILER ALERT:  Some details about ABC’s Once Upon a Time and a few Disney films are discussed in this post.

At the end of the month, Disney’s drama series Once Upon a Time will begin its third season on ABC.  The show takes place in a town called Storybrooke; the inhabitants are actual fairy tale characters who were removed from their enchanted world by a powerful curse.  The characters have no memories of their past lives and take on different identities in their new world.

photo 1-7I have been watching the show since its debut in 2011 and taking note of the ever-evolving adoption storyline that lies at the center of the show’s plot.  While there are moments and events that I believe do a nice job of portraying adoption,  there are others that do not.  One concerning aspect is the fact that the adoptive mother in the show is no other than the Evil Queen, Snow White’s stepmother.  The Evil Queen is the central villain in the magical world in which the characters used to live.  There, she made a habit of ripping out the hearts of many of her subjects and keeping them in order to control their owners.  It is the Evil Queen that curses the characters and brings them to their new world in order to finally defeat Snow White whom she deeply despises.

Now named Regina, she is the mayor of Storybrook.  Ten years earlier, she adopted Snow White’s biological grandson, Henry.  Henry’s biological mother Emma is the destined savior of the people trapped in Storybrooke and the show begins when Henry runs away from home to find Emma and ask her to come fulfill her destiny and break the curse. 

The underlying ideas about adoption are pretty straightforward if we look only at this set-up:

Adoptive mother → Evil villain

Biological mother & family → Righteous heroes

This is not a comfortable set up for me.  I imagine it isn’t comfortable for other adoptive mothers or even some photo 2-7birthmothers.  I am not saying the roles should be reversed.  Of course not!  And I am not saying that the fact that an adoptive mother is portrayed badly in a fictional television show means the show is claiming all adoptive mothers are bad.  However, the conflict at the center of the show is Regina vs. Emma, adoptive mother vs. birthmother.  And, furthermore, much of this contention comes to be about Henry.  They argue over his parenting; they argue over who has the right to make decisions about him.

In many ways, Regina begins to lose her role as mother in Henry’s life to Emma.  In the Season 2′s episode “Queen of Hearts”, Regina’s face drops in sadness when she hears Henry call Emma “Mom” for the first time. 

Now, in the course of the plot much of this makes sense.  Emma begins to take over the care of her son because Regina is a villain who commits wicked acts such as killing her lover when he threatens the stability of the curse and framing Snow White for murder among other things. 

Also, it is undoubtedly clear that Regina loves Henry. As the show moves forward, she does try to become a better person for the good of her son and she and Emma do find ways to work together in order to put Henry’s needs first.

Still, the portrayal of adoption in the show as a whole is just uncomfortable.  In our modern world in which most adoptions are open and a good relationship between adoptive parents and birth parents is all the more important, it simply doesn’t jive with me that in this show two members of the adoption triad (birth parents, adoptive parents and child) are pitted directly against each other.  It doesn’t bode well with me that the adoptive mother is depicted as better than the birthmother.  And it would bother me if these roles were reversed as well.

I am not so sensitive that I will not watch this series anymore.  I understand that everyone can take offense to something in any show, movie, song, etc.  But I can’t help but think about these things while I watch each week and wonder how I would explain them to Rosemarie if she were old enough to ask.

The truth is she may never watch this show.  By the time she is older, it will likely be off the air or she will be old enough to see the show for what it is–fiction.  This series, however, is not Disney’s only production that has negative ideas towards adoption lurking below the surface.   A few of the animated movies do as well.

I watched many a Disney movie as I grew up with my sisters. We yearned for Cinderella’s wish to come true and smiled with glee when her foot slipped effortlessly into the glass slipper. We envied Sleeping Beauty’s “gold of sunshine in [her] hair and “lips that shame[d] the red, red rose.” We sang along with Ariel about her “gadgets and gizmos” and laughed along with Belle at Lumière’s and Cogsworth’s antics.

I still love these movies today.  Rosie’s Nana buys her each DVD when it emerges from the vault and I want her to enjoy these movies while she grows as I did.  However, a few of the animated films contain a non-biological mother who is painted in a negative light:

Of course, we cannot blame Disney for this since most of these movies are based on fairy tales that existed long before Disney animators drew them into life.  It is through Disney, however, that my daughter will most likely be exposed to these stories and, therefore, that is where my focus lies.

  1. Snow White – Filled with jealousy because of her stepdaughter’s beauty, The Evil Queen hires a huntsman to lure Snow White into the Enchanted Forest and cut out the young maiden’s heart.  When this plan fails, the queen uses magic to transform herself into a haggard old woman and tricks Snow White into eating a poisoned apple that will put her into a deathlike sleep.
  2. photo 1-6

  3. Cinderella - After Cinderella’s father dies, her stepmother forces her to become “a servant in her own home.”  The stepmother’s piercing green eyes gleam with hatred as she orders around her stepdaughter and makes every effort to destroy any chance of her happiness.  She purposely gives Cinderella extra chores in order to spoil her plans to attend the royal ball and locks her in her room so that she cannot try on the glass slipper and be reunited with the prince, her true love.
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  5. Tangled - Rapunzel is raised by a woman named Gothel whom she knows as her mother.  After sneaking out of her home in a tower, Rapunzel discovers that Gothel actually kidnapped her from her birth parents when she was still a baby in order to use the magic that resides in her extra long hair.  Her biological parents have been searching for her since she went missing and she is reunited with them in the end.  Gothel, on the other hand, attempts to kill Rapunzel’s true love stabbing him before Rapunzel’s eyes.

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In the case of Snow White and Cinderella, the message is quite straightforward.  The stepmothers are evil; it is as simple as that.  Thus, neither movie depicts the non-biological mother in a positive way and could imply to a child that step, adoptive, or foster mothers are “bad” as well. 

The implication about non-biological mothers is a bit more complex in Tangled.  Gothel is a criminal; she kidnapped a baby whose hair had magical powers.  Thus, it only makes sense that she does not truly care for Rapunzel.  This, however, is not always clear to Rapunzel and an adopted child may see a similarity between Rapunzel’s situation and his own.  He may notice that Rapunzel, like him, was raised by a woman other than his birthmother.  He may start to wonder about the way in which he came to his adoptive parents; he may wonder if his birth parents, like Rapunzel’s, have been searching for him all along.

I am certainly not trying to say that these movies are purposely portraying a negative message about non-biological parenting.  The issue is more that an adopted child watching the movie may pick up a sense of negativity because he lacks the ability to see the difference between fiction and reality.  Based on different forums and blogs I read while researching this post, it seems some adopted children notice the connection between these films and their own lives and some don’t.  I supposed it depends on a child’s age, perception and personality.  Either way, it is my job to think about these things in case the day does arrive when Rosemarie looks up at me with her gray blue eyes and asks if her birthmother cries the way Rapunzel’s mother does or if I will ever treat her how the wicked stepmother treats Cinderella.

And if that day does come, I want to be prepared with an answer that explains that these movies are fiction and not based on truth, an answer that helps her understand that her birth mother chose adoption for her because she knew it would give Rosemarie the best life possible and finally an answer that assures her that she could run away to live in the forest or sneak out to attend the biggest ball of the year and she would still be my daughter; I will NEVER turn on her and will always love her from the depths of my heart.

What do you think?

Do you watch Once Upon a Time and have a different opinion?

Have you seen any children’s movies that portray non-biological parents or adoption in a negative or positive way?