The Truth About Siblings

http://community.today.com/parentingteam/post/the-truth-about-siblings?cid=sm_fbn_pt

The Truth About Siblings.
Published on November 2, 2016

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Ah, siblings, the tormentors of the soul and the reality slappers of life. Siblings don’t care about boosting their sister’s fragile self-esteem or protecting their brother from the sure sting of football team failure and they certainly don’t give a rat’s patooty about navigating the hormonal minefield that is adolescence. Oh no, siblings just wade right on into the middle of that muddled mess saying all of those life truths that we parents gingerly sidestep. Things such as:

Yeah, it was totally your fault your team lost. You suck.

Why do you look like that? Is that on purpose?

The way you breathe…it’s super annoying.

I can’t tell if that haircut is hysterical or just plain awful. I say don’t leave the house for a month, at least.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s not the outfit that is making your butt look huge. Maybe it’s time to cool it on all those Frappuccinos.

I just read your “journal” and God, was it boring! Seriously, get a life already. Oh, and stop being so pathetic, that cool guy is never going to ask you out.

Yes, that science teacher totally hates your guts.

You. Can’t. Sing. You. Will. Never. Be. A. Famous. Singer.

Is that a pimple or a tumor on your forehead? That thing belongs in the Guinness Book of World Records! Where is my phone? I need to Snapchat that now.

Why are you wasting your time reading all that Shakespeare crap? Haven’t you ever heard of Spark Notes?

Hahahaha! How embarrassing! Of course everyone saw you! And believe me, tomorrow at school, they are ALL going to be talking about it.

If you EVER touch my stuff again, I will post that picture of your ginormous tumor- zit online.

Yes, siblings are the humble makers and bull-crap cutters, but along with all of their never-ending tactless observations they also occasionally throw out these two gems:

“What did he (she) say to you? I’ll kill him!”

And,

“OMG, Mom and Dad are soooo weird!”

And it is these last two truths that are really the most important because they confirm that even though it doesn’t look it or sound like it, your siblings actually do have your best interests at heart and like it or not, you are bonded together forever by your weird, weird parents.

https://tentotwenty.com/the-truth-about-siblings

This post comes from the TODAY Parenting Team community, where all members are welcome to post and discuss parenting solutions. Learn more and join us! Because we’re all in this together.

 

 

 

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Hey Mom, can you buy me a case of beer?

http://www.bluntmoms.com/hey-mom-can-you-buy-me-a-case-of-beer/

Here is my latest article that was featured on BluntMoms this week. This is certainly a hot topic amongst my peers. We all think when our little ones are cute-as-a-button five or six year olds that we are going to answer this question with a loud no, but as your little cutie grows and morphs into a teenager, life becomes, well, complicated….

I was at a party the other night when one of the parents got a text from her seventeen-year-old son. Could he have friends over? Yes, she said. Can the friends sleep over? Sure, she said. Would she mind stopping on the way home and picking them up a case of beer? Wait, what?

When I was a teenager I NEVER would have been brave enough, or stupid enough, to ask my parents to buy me a case of beer because the response would have been, “What the hell is wrong with you?” followed by a quick slap upside the head. Oh no, back in the good old days of the 1980’s we didn’t ask our parents for help with breaking the law, we just did it. We stole liquor from their cabinet, ran deep into the woods and drank ourselves silly. Then, fueled by alcohol and the thrill of getting away with something absolutely forbidden, we would laugh, smoke, and generally make fools of ourselves before stumbling home, sneaking upstairs and passing out in our beds.

Once in while someone’s mom would still be up watching a late night episode of Cheers only to see the front door creak open and her son stumble in, or a missing bottle of Scotch would be found carefully hidden under a pile of Madonna albums in a daughter’s bedroom. And once in awhile bad things would happen, and everyone would shake their heads and mutter “too bad” before going back to the unspoken arrangement between teenagers and adults of “don’t ask, don’t tell.”

Apparently the rules are different in the 21st century. In this age of now over involved, helicopter-parenting, teenagers are not only telling their parents when they are drinking but they are even asking them to buy them the liquor! This new arrangement has set up a quandary for all of us parents who grew up under the old “don’t ask, don’t tell” rule.

What do we do?

Do we say, ok, yes we will buy you beer because we don’t agree with the stupid legal age of 21 anyways?

Do we allow them to drink because in a year or two year they are all going to college where there will be lots of drinking, so they might as well do it at home first because somehow this “teaches” them how to drink responsibly?

Do we say, well, if they are going to just go into the woods and get drunk and god-forbid perhaps drive home, we might as well let them drink in our basement where at least we can supervise them and keep them safe. Don’t worry we will collect all the keys and make sure no one leaves. Ok, that sounds like a half reasonable plan, so… then what, do we do we call all the other the parents first and ask their permission? Or do we just assume it’s ok for someone else’s underage child to have alcohol?

Do we set a limit: three, four beers per child? Or do we watch as someone’s child does shots of tequila, drinks him/herself into oblivion, throws up and passes out on our couch? Do we call 911? Do we sit down in the middle of the group and teach them all of the old drinking games we use to play? Or do we leave them downstairs alone to figure it out, while we go upstairs for a mature glass of Cabernet? By saying yes, do we actually think we have some sort of control over their actions? That bad things won’t happen? That kids won’t make foolish choices when drinking?

Before my friend responded to this last text, we sat and had a long conversation about all of these questions and at some point we found ourselves laughing and and shaking our heads saying, “What the hell is wrong with kids these days? Why can’t they just leave us out of it? Why can’t they just steal, sneak and lie like we did! It sure would be a lot easier, wouldn’t it?

Finally she gave her son her answer and said her goodbye to me, and I was left wondering… what would I do?

About the author: Anne Sawan is a psychologist, writer and mother to five wonderfully aggravating children. Her work has been published on Brain-Child, Scary Mommy, Adoptive Families and BluntMoms. She also has several picture books on MeeGenuis and a new book book, What Can Your Grandmother Do? Is scheduled to come out this year through Clavis Publishing. You can find out more on her website.

Don’t Be A Sh**Head

summed up in 10 pieces of advice. That’s all I got…

via Don’t Be A Sh**Head.

A Real Mom

I haven’t written anything here for so long, but something irked me recently and I have something to say, and when a mom has something to say, she says it! So roll your eyes if you must, here it is.

I was perusing my Facebook news feed the other day, checking up on friends, reading various articles, when I stumbled upon this post posted by a well respected, well known online news publication.

A photo of three dogs with the caption: We’re adopted? OMG!!! You mean you’re not our real mom?

And underneath the post: Precisely why I’m not letting my pups know. What they don’t know, can’t hurt ’em.

Immediately I stopped. Now obviously it’s about dogs, great, I get it, and I know, it’s suppose to be funny, I should lighten up, but… those words, “You mean you’re not our real mom?” stuck with me all day: at the supermarket, the post office, the coffee shop; everywhere I went I saw infants strapped to their moms, young children skipping along next to their moms, teenagers slumped down in the front seats of cars next to their moms, adopted or not? I don’t know. I am sure some of them were and some of them weren’t but all of those moms sure looked real to me. I tried to talk myself out of my silly thoughts, perhaps I was overreacting, so I went home and reread the post, which by now had thousands of likes, hoping to see it through different eyes, and then I scrolled down and read the comments, here are a few:

“I never say, “adopted” in front of my fur babies because I know they understand English”

“I never say the “A” word.”

“Mine would never believe you if you told them I wasn’t their real mom.”

“But you said that we’re your BABIES!!”

And then came another photo of a dog, that said, “I’m adopted??? OMG! You mean you’re not my real mom?”

Maybe I shouldn’t have read those comments by all those ignorant people, but I did and my blood began to boil. “I never say adopted”, “The A word.” “You mean you’re not my real mom?” Wow, I thought, how would my daughter or someone else’s child feel reading this? I had always promised myself I wouldn’t become one of those crazy, over the top, annoying, politically correct parents.  I believe that the world should strive to laugh more at itself; I don’t want to be one of those people that everyone has to be extra cautious around, and maybe four children back I would have been the one saying, “Oh calm down! It’s just a joke!” But life changes you, love changes you and I am not the person I use to be.

What does it mean to be “real?” Real means to be actual, genuine, valid, true, physical and tangible; something not imagined. I am my daughter’s real mom. I worry when she is sick, I laugh when she is silly, I hold my breath when I see her struggle, I get annoyed when she acts up, I cry when she is hurting and sometimes, as I watch her sleep, her hair a dark tangled mess, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheek, I have to take a deep breath, humbled by how fortunate I am to have this child in my life. These things are not imagined. These feelings occur with all of my children. I love each of them to my core, to the center of my soul, to the middle of my bones, whether they grew beneath them or not. I am a real mom to all of them and I am tired of people insinuating otherwise when it comes to adoption. Adoption is not the “A” word something to be hidden or ashamed of, adoption is something to be celebrated and we will celebrate because we are a REAL family. Real: actual, genuine, valid, true, physical and tangible; something not imagined.

And by the way, the dog joke…it’s not funny.

Princesses

 

Watching Princess Kate on the “telly” with her impeccable manners, fantastic clothes, and her jet setting life style it’s hard for a girl not to think, wouldn’t it be grand to be a princess? Always perfect, always poised and pretty, but… what if you just aren’t that type of girl? What if you prefer messy spaghetti to neat finger sandwiches; and overalls to long gowns? Can you still be a princess?

I have two wonderful daughters. Two daughters, two girls, two VERY different people.

When my oldest daughter was little she was a princess loving freak! She wore dresses and tutus and loved anything that glimmered and shined. She watched Ariel and Jasmine and Belle over and over; beautiful (and overly priced) dolls littered the hallways and stairs of our home and she dreamed of one day actually living in her own giant, pink, plastic, elevator-equipped Barbie Dream house.

My younger girl…not so much. Most days it’s all I can do to get a brush through her hair, and she barely made it through one year of ballet class. This little girl spends much of her time being a Ninja warrior, and for her birthday this year she wants Legos (not the pink ones), an extra large plastic container of orange cheese puffs, and karate lessons (God help us).

 

 

 

 

 

 

It takes all kinds of girls, and thank goodness for that.

So for my two girls, and for the millions of girls in this world, those that are quiet and those that are loud, those that are graceful and those that are not, those that dream of being princesses and those that already are, I wrote this little rhyming picture book.

 

 

 

SOME PRINCESSES

 

Some princesses wear high heels, shiny and new.

Some princesses wear flip-flops, or red running shoes.

 

Some princesses walk slowly, their heads held up high,

Some princesses like to skip, leap and soar to the sky!

 

Some princesses’ attend grand balls and waltz all about.

Some princesses rock the drums and totally jam out!

 

Some princesses play croquet, gently tapping the ball.

Some princesses play baseball, hitting one up, Up, UP…

and over the wall!

 

Some princesses eat sandwiches, with the crusts all cut off.

Some princesses crave tacos, or spaghetti with sauce.

 

Some princesses watch their manners and try not to slurp,

(but all princesses pass gas and ocasionally burp).

 

Some princesses’ dress in long gowns covered in jewels.

Some princesses wear overalls, with pockets for tools.

 

Some princesses have hair that’s always shiny and neat.

Some princesses have hair that just FREAKS out in the heat!

 

Some princesses make a mess, and have maids put it all away on a shelf.

Some princesses have moms that say, “Princess, go clean that mess up, YOURSELF.”

 

Some princesses have brown skin, some freckly, some fair.

Some princesses wear eyeglasses, some use a wheel chair.

 

Some princesses may be quiet, while some are quite bold,

but all girls are princesses, with hearts spun from gold.

 

It’s true.

 

No matter who they are or what they like to do;

ALL girls are princesses, especially,

 

Girls.

Just.

Like.

You.

 

Anne Sawan 2014

Do You Believe In Magic?

I am in a really bad mood today. Don’t know why, maybe its the never-ending pile of snow outside my front door. Maybe it’s because the door on my car was frozen shut when I went to drive the kids to school.  Maybe it’s because I had zero gas in my car once I finally opened the car door and then had to stand out in the snow and wind and freezing rain to fill my tank. Whatever the reason, I am not in a good mood. So on the advice of my sister I am headed to HomeGoods to buy something with a starfish on it and then I am going to bake a cake. A chocolate cake. In the meantime here is a little story I wrote about a girl who woke up in a bad mood, and the help she gets from her brother to turn it around, because sometimes all it takes is a little, fun, child-like magic…(and sometimes it takes HomeGoods and chocolate cake)

Harry’s Magic

 

Eliza woke up on the wrong side of the bed,

her hair all askew, her eyes seeing red.

She didn’t know why but she felt angry and mad;

her insides felt twisted, and crinkly and bad!

Her head was all groggy, her lungs full of steam;

she wanted to shout, she wanted to scream!

She put on her shoes and downstairs she clomped,

Each step getting louder: stomp,

STomp,

STOmp,

STOMp

STOMP!

 

“Hello!” Called her brother,“ What’s that? Whose out there?

Is a there a dinosaur in the house?  A monster? A bear?”

“No, Harry, it’s me,” Eliza said with a growl.

“I woke up feeling grumpy, my mood is just foul.

I don’t want to laugh or smile or play.

I just feel like yelling, so stay out of my way!

I am furious, irate, annoyed and quite fuming.

I feel like a beast, like something not human!”

 

“A beast!”  Harry said. “Well, I can fix that!

Quick, bring me my wand, my cape and my hat!

I will drive out that fiend! I will shatter that curse!

I will make you a potion before it gets worse.”

 

“Now, let’s see…

First, I will need the dog’s chew bone, then some old bubble gum,

three hairs from a hairbrush and an earring from Mum.

A sock that is smelly, a Band-Aid that’s new,

a crayon that’s green and dad’s left running shoe.

Some Halloween treats, an old boiled egg,

a button from your sweater, a scab from your leg,

some bologna that’s slimy, an elephant with wings,

three rotten apples and a dolly that sings.”

 

Eliza reached under sofas and reached under chairs,

she peered into closets, and ran up and down stairs.

She pulled back the curtains and opened the drawers,

she climbed into the bathtub and searched behind doors.

She gathered it all, the old and the new,

the smelly, the gross, the slimy, the chewed.

 

“Let’s go!” Harry said, throwing open the door.

“Outside! We aren’t done, there is still a lot more!

We must search all around and find all that we need,

like that slippery worm! Quick! Over there, by that weed!

Next a butterfly, then some flowers: both yellow and red,

a grasshopper and a rock from under the shed.

Wild goose feathers, and a jumping bull frog,

a nut and a twig and some moss from that log.”

 

So, Eliza ran and jumped and climbed into the trees,

she crept through the bushes on her hands and her knees.

She gathered it all up and put it into a pail.

“And lastly,“ said Harry, “one teeny-weeny snail.”

 

Eliza searched and searched until at last she found one.

“There!” She said, “Is that it? At last, are we done?”

“Almost,” said her brother, slowly stirring his brew.

“But there is just one more small thing I still need you to do.

You must jump! Dance! Leap! And sing out a song!

And when you are done, that beast will be gone.”

 

Eliza growled and groused, but did as he said,

singing sort-of-a song and barely nodding her head.

She gave one leg a slow shake and the other a jiggle,

she wiggled her backside and then… she started to giggle.

Huh?!

 

Eliza’s eyes grew round, her mouth opened wide.

“Harry,” she whispered.  “I feel different inside.

I am no longer crabby, or mean, or a beast!

I feel silly, elated and not mad in the least!

All gone are my monsters, my meanies, my pout,

I just feel like singing and dancing about!

I feel crazy and happy! I’m Eliza! I’m me!

Oh, thank you! You did it! You set my fun free!”

 

“You’re welcome,” said Harry, with a wink and a bow.

“My magic always works and I’ll tell you how.

First you conjure up some sillies, then stir in some fun,

give a hip and a hop and… ABRACADABRA! It’s done!

Because no beast can survive, no grumpies will stay,

if you just let a little Harry-magic into your day.”

I Love You!

       Happy Valentines Day everyone! Here is a small, silly, rhyming children’s book I wrote for my kids about all the ways in which we can express and keep I Love You in our heads and hearts. Hope you like it and feel free to share it with those you love…especially if you love a publisher of children’s books 🙂                                                  

I Love You

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

 

I can yell it out real loud,

or whisper it real low.

I can chant it, I can hum it,

I can tap it with my toes.

I love you!

 

I can holler it as I wiggle,

I can whistle it as I skip.

I can shout it as I jump,

I can shake it with my hips.

I love you!

 

I can say it in Chinese,

or how they do in France.

I can sing it hopping on one foot,

or while I do a crazy dance.

I love you!

 

I can quack it like a duck,

I can croak it like a frog.

I can spout it like a whale,

I can bark it like a dog.

I love you!

 

I can be a scary monster and say it with a growl,

or maybe with a grunt…

or a roar,

Or a HOWL!

I love you!

 

I can scratch it in the sand,

and scrawl it in the snow.

I can write it in the clouds,

and in the brown dirt down below.

I love you!

 

I can spell it with spaghetti,

or from carrots, or even peas!

I can scribble it in the bathtub

while I scrub my dirty knees.

I love you!

 

I whisper it in my bed

while I’m counting sheep,

and I see it in my dreams

when I’m fast asleep.

I love you!

 

I hear it in my head,

but I keep it in my heart

for those times when we’re together

and those times when we’re apart,

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

Anne Sawan, 2014

Sweet Sand

Sweet Sand

 

I went to the beach last week with my kids. After forcefully applying sunscreen to my two older boys they finally broke away and ran off, quickly gathering a group of kids for a wiffle ball game, while my five year old, Eliza, plopped herself down on the sand by the edge of the water and began digging.

Soon a stout little girl in a flowered bathing suit sidled up.

 

“Whatcha ya doing?” She asked.

“Building a mermaid castle,” my daughter replied. “Wanna help?”

“Sure.” The girl said, picking up a shovel, “I’m Ava.”

 

(Amazing: a bat and ball… a bucket of wet sand, apparently that’s all you need to spark a few friendships. We adults certainly have a lot to learn, or unlearn perhaps.)

 

The two little girls planted themselves not far from my chair and began to dig, chatting as they worked side by side: How old are you? Do you have a cat? How many teeth have you lost? Important stuff like that.

“My mom had a baby.” I heard Ava say as she flung a shovel full of sand into the air.

“Oh,” said my daughter, pouring a bucket of seawater into a hole.

“She’s my sister. Her name is Sophie. See?”

 

Ava pointed a few seats down to a woman sitting under a large umbrella with a baby sling wrapped protectively around her body.

 

“Do you remember being a baby?” Ava asked.

 

Eliza shook her head.

 

“Me neither,” said Ava, diligently digging. “But my mom said I was sweet.” She laughed, “She said that she ate a lot of sweets when I was growing in her tummy that’s why I came out so sweet. She’s so silly! What did you mom eat when you were in her tummy?”

 

I glanced up from my book, curious to hear my daughter’s reply.

 

Eliza shrugged, “I don’t know…Maybe mac and cheese?”

Both girls giggled.

 

The girls worked on, decorating their structure with broken shells and gathering some unsuspecting hermit crabs (excuse me, I mean mermaids) to occupy their castle but soon the tide began to creep in, the water splashing at the walls of sand until at last the mermaid castle crumbled. The girls shrieked as the shells swirled about on the beach and the freed crabs all quickly scurried away.

 

After a brief lemonade and snack break the girls recovered from their loss and happily skipped off to swim together in the ocean.

It was a good day.

 

Later that night back at the beach house after a dinner of charred hamburgers, a trip to the local ice cream shop, and an evening full of silly cartoons I laid down, exhausted, in bed next to Eliza, bits of sand scratching away at my legs and back. Blasted sand, I thought, always sneaking into the house no matter how much I insisted everyone rinse their feet with the hose, use the outdoor shower and leave their flip flops at the door. I tossed and turned trying to get comfortable.

 

Eliza rolled over, flinging her tanned arm across my chest and pushing her nose against mine.

 

“Mom,” she breathed. “What did you eat when I was in your tummy?

 

My heart dropped.

 

“On the beach,” she continued. “Ava said her mom ate a lot of sweet stuff when she was in her tummy and that’s why she’s so sweet. So… what did you eat?”

 

“Well…” I took a deep breath, giving a futile swipe at the sheets, trying to brush the irritating sand away, down, onto the floor. “You were never in my tummy remember? You grew in someone else’s tummy.”

 

“Oh, yeah…right.”

 

There was a long silence then as we lay there together in the bed listening to the soft whir of the overhead fan, little pieces of sand poking insistently at our legs, our backs. Invisible bits that never seemed to leave no matter how hard I tried to sweep them up and toss them away.

 

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“I think you ate a lot of sweets too.”

 

I held her close.

“Me too sweetie. Me too.”

 

 

The Playground

As the weather improves I have been frequenting the playground with my youngest daughter and every time I am there I see parents chatting away on their phones as their kids play and I think to myself, “I wish there was a No Cellphone sign here.” One of those signs hanging on the fence with a picture of a cell phone on it and a big black X through it. Perhaps just a gentle reminder to all of us to hang up and play, run around, be silly.

It seems to me that cellphones have taken over our lives!  We can’t seem to be without one for five minutes and it really is so ridiculous. I know it is hard to believe but I survived a good portion of my life without a cell phone and whats-more my parents never had a cell phone and they not only survived but they managed to raise twelve fairly normal kids! How did they do that?

Believe me, I am not lecturing, I am just as bad as the next person. If I am in my car (or on the playground) and suddenly realize I don’t have my cell phone my heart rate skyrockets. Oh no! What if someone is trying to reach me and I’m not available?! What if there’s an emergency? What if my son stubs his toe at school or my oldest forgot her homework, or my friend calls to tell me about some juicy gossip from the book club that I missed? Breathe, breathe. How far away am I ? Should I go back and get it?

Okay, seriously, how many true emergencies happen to you in one day? Or one week? Unless you’re a brain surgeon or the CEO of Google do you really need to be available at all times to everybody?

I sort of miss the days of going to the playground B.C. (before cell phones) because back then, any news, any “emergency”, any gossip would just need to wait. I simply wasn’t available. I was busy. At the playground. With my kids.

THE PLAYGROUND

You said, “Let’s go to the playground today.

We’ll spend some time together and have fun while we play.”

“Yippee!” I yelled, “I know just what we’ll do!”

And I ran to get my sweatshirt and find my left shoe.

First, we’ll swing high on the swings and go down the big slide,

then hang down from the bars and play “you search while I hide.”

“Hello? Where are you?”  You will say with a smile,

(Knowing exactly where I am, all of the while).

Then we’ll look up at the clouds and see funny things,

like a rabbit with pajamas and a bear that can sing.

We’ll dig holes in the sandbox and pour sand in the trucks,

then walk down to the pond and feed bread to the ducks.

But when we got to the park I knew it wasn’t to be,

because the first thing you did… was sit under the tree.

“Go and play.”  You said, “I’ll just make one quick call.

It won’t take but a moment, really, no time at all.”

So, I tried a few cartwheels and a front forward roll

went to the sandbox and dug a huge hole.

I called, “Look at this!” to you as you sat,

but you just turned away, caught up in your chat.

You sat over there yakking away on your phone

leaving me to play, by myself… all-alone.

So, I glanced up to the sky but saw nothing there,

no silly cloud animals, just blank, empty air.

I climbed the tall climber and tried out a new trick,

then I sat on the swing and gave a few little kicks.

And after a while you yelled, “Com’on! Time to go!”

and I walked to the car; my head down, my feet slow.

And as you buckled me in, you said, “Oh, what a great day!

I’m so glad that we came to the playground to play.

Wasn’t it fun, but, boy, it went by real fast,

I wish I could find a way to make these special days last…”

Anne Sawan 2013

Man “Adopts” Girlfriend….argh!!

Wealthy Florida businessman “adopts” his long time girl friend….

Have you seen this news headline? I did, and I was horrified and disgusted and outraged (and many other adjectives!)! So I read further…it gets worse.  Apparently this extremely wealthy forty-eight year old Florida man (John Goodman) who was (allegedly) drunk, ran a stop sign, and plowed his car into a car driven by Scott Wilson, 23. Scott’s car was then pushed into a ravine and Mr. John Goodman drove away leaving this injured young man to slowly die; drowning, alone, hurt, and trapped, for over an hour.  Now, in order to save his many, many assets, John Goodman has “adopted” his forty two year old girlfriend (Heather Laruso). This adoption makes her one of his legal “children” and because she is over thirty-five, gives her the right to immediately access his money, for his use of course.

I am not a lawyer. I have no legal training what so ever, but I am a parent, a psychologist and most importantly a person with a heart (and I’d like to think a bit of a brain), and I find this whole legal maneuver pathetic and outrageous. What type of law (state, country) allows a forty eight year old man to “adopt” a forty two year old woman for his own personal gain?  What type of message does this “adoption” of John Goodman’s girlfriend send to our children and to the larger world of people out there that are not personally involved in adoption?

Adoption is not a joke or a game. It’s not some convenient legal maneuver to be thrown around. It certainly isn’t intended to be a way to salvage the material goods of people such as John Goodman and Heather Laruso.

So, what does the word adoption mean?

Adoption is about children and families, period.

You know that deep, bottomless, mysterious love you have for your child? The one that no words can touch, that you really can’t explain but you feel tingling through your core as you watch them try for a big swing in the baseball game, or sing loudly and very out of tune in the choir, or when you kiss the tippy top of their forehead and breathe in that sweet baby scent that never leaves? Well it’s the same love for those parents whose children happen to be adopted.

Words matter, they count.  The words we choose and how we use them define us as a people. They shape our beliefs, our culture and our country.  We can’t deny that what we say influences how we think and what we believe in.

Just ask people with disabilities, the gay community, minorities’ or kids on a playground…words matter.

And the word adoption matters. Adoption is love, it’s important.  (Please don’t tell me this man might love his girlfriend, I don’t belive it. He loves himself, and his money).  Adoption matters too much to let some idiot like this guy abuse it for his own personal gain, and when I see this word, this word with such a significant, out-of-this-world, magical, mystical meaning, being thrown around, mistreated and ridiculed by someone like John Goodman I am sickened.

Oh and Heather Laruso, woman up!  You’re his “child” now; you have a right to his money?  Take all that man’s money, donate it to the adoption organization of your choice and then get out.

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