Long Time Neglecting

Thoughts:

The short is strange. He likes to wear things backwards and proclaim "I DON'T CARE" when I point them out. This pic does not illustrate that, but I love him for his spirit anyway.

Anywho, I've been a bad bad blogger. I can't be disappointing the three people who check this blog like that. Who do I think I am? What right do I have to waste precious seconds of other peoples' lives when they go to the trouble to find this blog and then realize it's not been updated in a month? For shame!

So I'm reading and I'm writing, thinking about this story that's been lurking around in my head for the last couple years and I'm actually making progress on it, even if it's just typing stuff into my computer and saving it there. I call it editing. I don't know if I have anything original going on in my head, if I'm writing anything original, or if it's worthy of the mere megabytes it takes up on my hard drive or the hours and hours I've spent on it, but maybe someday I'll show it to someone. I'm sick enough to have To Kill A Mockingbird aspirations here, but I'm sure I'll fall short. But I know one thing is for certain: it will be better written that Twilight. I'm not saying the story will be better, but thanks to Stephenie Meyer, I am hyper aware of overwriting my story and relying too heavily on adverbs and adjectives to describe everything down to the texture of his eyelashes. Sorry kids, I'm going to leave some things up to imagination.

Did anyone else think the movie was pretty much exactly what the book described?

Oh shit, did I just mention that I've seen the movie? Only the first one. I'd like to see the others just out of curiosity, but I don't care enough to go to the trouble. And yes, I read the books. And I was crazy about them for about 20 minutes until I started seeing the gear come out. I'm sorry, I'm not a groupie. Not a Twihard. Not a Twilight mom. I say hell no. I say fuck that. I relinquish any giddy interest I have in spending another dime on this collection of poorly written nonsense and no longer acknowledge what a fun ride her stories are/were. (And besides, the quality of the story slips dramatically lower in each novel. First = Fun. Last = Dragged ass. Boring as hell. TL; DNR.)

And I'm swearing today. At least in that paragraph. You can do that when you know no one's reading. I'm all about that today.

I bet you're wondering about my birth mom.

In a word? Awesome. I dig her. We look a lot alike. I have three talllll brothers, all handsome and dark haired. And we've hung out quite a bit. She's so cool air conditioning turns off when she walks into a house. She's down to earth, easy going, friendly, sweet, and has a beautiful smile. I do not have her smile. We have the same laugh lines and the same body build (trim), and the same flaws: short, sausage fingers, fat knees, saddle bags, flat chest. It's pretty amusing that after 20+ (lots of plus) years of living that I can say I look like someone and mean it because we actually share the same genes.

Maybe I'll be nice and post a pic when I get off my lazy can to ask permission. Gotta keep the three of you happy. ;)

We're on

At 1:00. It's currently 9:26 and I'm in a tizzy already. What do you wear to meet your birthmother? Do I curl my hair or leave it messy and natural? Do I wear contacts or wear my glasses?

I've opted for a white t-shirt, a simple necklace, my wedding ring and my bracelet. And jeans. And my simples.

I love my simples.

I know it sounds petty, but cripe, I haven't agonized about my appearance so much since my first day of high school. And even that was an epic fail. Even if it was 1989.

Thoughts on a meeting

I'd be a liar if I said this whole birth mother thing wasn't on my mind a lot. For cripes sake, I spent two hours today putting together a little scrap book of my baby pictures in chronological order. I think I've covered the first four years of my life. Just about every photo I can find that my parents took with their camera. And I have to admit I feel slimy that I put this thing together but can't send it home with her. As if Ishould. I was thinking I'll scan the pages and reprint them, but I don't know if that would be an insult to her.

There's so much to share, so much to tell. So much to learn and figure out. Am I looking to fill some gap or missing link in my life? No. I just want to satisfy my curiosity. I'd like to know where I came from. See the faces of the people whose blood I share. It's not of crisis level importance. But still, it's important to me.

Speechless.

More like laryngitis. It's kind of stupid, really. I can't talk but I keep forgetting. I blame this cold I got a week ago. It's earned me a couple of days off work, though. If you can't talk, how can you teach? I hope it gets better over the weekend, though, because this is some kinda bull.

I have a lot to update you on. Some pretty cool things have been happening.

First, I sent the letter to my birth mother. It ended up being something like the letter I posted here.

Second, at the end of the Choose to Lose competition at the Y, I had lost 20 pounds. I don't know how exactly that happened, though, since two days before I weighed 4 pounds more than that. But whatever. I'm still fitting into the clothes I was wearing 4 years ago and that feels good. Am I satisfied? Not really. I'd like to lose a little more, but not this week. I just need to get out more, but since Michigan decided to return to December temperatures and I caught this cold, well, I've been out of the game for about a week. I feel like a sloth. Probably because I am one. I've been making every excuse. Today I didn't let myself go work out because I stayed home sick and had guilt.

I'm staying home tomorrow, too.

Things at work have changed. Again. The person who got to keep the other half of my current position asked if I'd like to trade with her and I agreed. So next year, if I'm there, I will be back to teaching technology. That doesn't make me want to cry.

I found a job I wanted, so I applied. I ended up getting a letter letting me know that they weren't going to hire for it due to proposed state budget cuts at the state level. I'd go on and on about how I hate this new GOP Governor, but this is not a political blog. Nor do I ever want it to be. That would be my father's blog.. I'd give you the URL, but I can't seem to find it.

I'm still "keeping my options open" regarding job hunting. I don't think that's a shock to anyone. I found a part time job but I don't know if we can afford if I went down to a part time job or two. Yay student loans and car payments. I dug my own hole on that one, I blame no one but myself.

And the most exciting news:

I got a letter back from my birth mother. I read it, then called my mom and read it again, started to post about it on Facebook, but then thought the better of it and called my dad, but couldn't get a hold of him. Later that evening, I called her and we talked and talked and talked for almost an hour.

It was crazy. I think I can safely say we're both bubbly people. And we have horrible timing. A bunch of times we started talking at the same time. It was awkward but exhilarating. So much fun. I've been driving by her house for years. I have three half brothers. I guess my birth father lives not far away, either. And her story really fleshed out the basic ideas I had in my head. She was going to marry him, but she woke up one day and realized moving away from her family at 17 to be a Navy wife wasn't really going to be the happily ever after she thought it would be.

And who can blame her? I thought picking up and moving to Australia was going to be a piece of cake. HA! It was hard to be away from familiar things. Somewhere between a hormonal withdrawal and homesickness I spent days on a futon crying my eyes out. Then near the end of my visit, on another hormonal bender, I felt like I was slogging though a one-minute-at-a-time existence. But that was because I was knocked up and every part of my body was kicking into high gear. Either that or it was the anxiety of having to tell my parents I was soon to become an unwed single mother. Regardless, I knew it was time to go home when my richest daydreams were visual fly-overs of streets I drove down almost every day for 24 years. Hardly exciting, but the desire to see them again was almost overwhelming.

Even moving an hour away sucked for a while. It wasn't like I couldn't just jump in the car and go home whenever I wanted. It wasn't that simple. Or maybe it was but the excuses not to up and go were compelling enough to keep me curled up on my futon, staring out my big picture window and across the boulevard I lived on down there. I remember crying to my ex-boyfriend (still thanking God every day that one didn't work out) about it. He said, "What can I do?" I said, "Can you move this little town closer to home?" He said he couldn't. Whatever. He didn't care enough, that's all.

Once I got beyond homesickness there, I looked upon the time I lived in the little town very fondly. It was a great time in my life. Free. Mostly. I didn't feel too lonely. Spent time with friends, worked, hung out with the short... I ended up dating someone damn cool, too. But alas, things changed, and here I live in a new city. It's not bad. It's no where near as charming as my old town and no where near as familiar and beautiful as my home town, but we can't have it all. At least this town has an awesome farmer's market (like Trader Joe's but locally owned). That's about the best thing I can say about this place. Oh, and my husband lives here. And so does his sister, who is awesome. Three good reasons.

But that's about where I'm at. I need to go cough for a while. And maybe get some sleep between coughs. It's good to have goals.

This week in ..stress.

They're doing it to me again. Taking me back out of my element. We got our assignments for next year and I'm going to be... drum roll please... TEACHING 5TH GRADE!

Tell us what she's won!

A trip straight to my principal's office. I only managed to utter something about it being okay if I shut his door before he started in with, "Let me explain--"

But it was too late. I was already hysterical. For the record, Parker is a cool principal. He was my boss when I taught kindergarten and totally had my back. I'm sure he took a lot of flack for that, amusing year that it was. And by amusing I mean completely INSANE.

Anyway, he pointed out that I'd be working with a great team (and he's completely right-- some of the best names in the district are gonna be teaching 5th grade), and that I'd be out there with him as principal again. Which is a big plus.

Not stopping me from leaving no stone unturned whilest looking for a new library job. I've changed jobs 7 times in 6 years down there. I'm tired of being a first year teacher.. I get to do it every damn year and it's OLD. And I have to be really critical here: 7 jobs in 6 years screams either "we don't really have a place for you, but we're obligated to keep you because of the union" or "you suck. A lot. So we're going to keep you because we're obligated to because of the unions, but really, we'd really like you go away..."

This is where unions fail. I'd rather be laid off than this bullshit.

I know, I know, cry me a river, at least you have a job. But I hear so much about quality education meaning that you have the right people in the right seats on the bus, and I don't belong in the teacher seat. I belong in the media specialist seat. Too bad no one believes in them anymore. They're filling them with reading specialists instead. So they can drill kids on the skills until they hate reading instead of giving them something they might fall in love with and read because they want to. They'd develop those skills on their own instead of having someone shove it down their throat, but you know, what do I know about reading. I'm just a librarian.

I have a random idea that I think is brilliant and that I think I can really sell, but I think that, because of budget cuts, won't fly. (WTF with the budget cuts, Snyder? I knew it was going to be bad when you took office. Thanks for not disappointing.) But I'm a jaded optimist. I like to hope that I can make a difference somewhere.

And then, on Wednesday, I learned that my sticky clutch on the Jetta car is a bad clutch and needs to be replaced for the low/low price of $800 (better than the dealership that wants between $1400 and $2300).

So now I'm looking into modifying a loan so I can get a new(er) car. I love my jetta, but at 300,000 miles, I'm guessing this is where everything's going to start going wrong. So I'm thinking Honda Civic Hybrid, another Jetta TDI, or a Prius. But the Prius highway gas mileage isn't that great. It's more of a save-you-a-hell-of-a-lot-of-gas-in-town-kinda-car. I'm leaning toward another Jetta TDI or a Civic Hybrid. Kind of exciting but scary at the same time. We were thinking we'd have to not do the Australia trip, but maybe we still could if I can modify this loan...

I have the letter written. Now I just have to make sure it's right. Here it is in all its unedited glory (with internet safety in mind):

Dear... I don’t know your name yet. I’m sorry.

I hope this letter finds you, and finds you well.

I’m going off advice about how to write a letter to a birth parent. So this is going to sound formal and lousy. It’s my fourth letter draft and it’s taken me two months just to get this far. I’m sorry if you’ve been waiting... I’m not going to offer any excuses; none are good enough.

My name ended up being Nic---. And we just learned a couple years ago that I was born on December 9, 1974. Before that we thought it was the 7th. Afterall, that’s what was on the reissued birth certificate. I think someone wrote a sloppy 9. Anyway, I’m your daughter. (this form is stupid. I’m sure you’ve picked up on who I am by now.)

I’m writing strictly out of curiosity. I’m not ill, in fact, I’m one of the healthiest people I know. I’m out of shape, though, but I’m working on it. That’s beside the point, anyway. You should know I never had a day in my life that I felt abandoned or otherwise was offended by the choices you made. My adoptive parents always pointed out that you loved me enough to let me go and the decision you made was probably (hopefully) the hardest you would ever have to make in a lifetime. That’s my current view on the whole thing, too. You have nothing but my utmost respect. I am thankful for the life I’ve had and I give you a lot of credit for it.

I grew up living in ---- but going to ------ schools. I was right on the other side of the river from ----, up in the hills. I was an only child in my family, and we lived in a nice middle class neighborhood, and I had plenty of friends. I was bullied some, got beat up by baseballs playing little league, rode my bike without a helmet, and roller skated without pads-- all with reckless abandon (well, I didn’t actually ENJOY little league..). I even climbed trees without a net! (I’m sure you’re hearing how all of these things are utterly unacceptable now, right?) I graduated from --- in ’93 and went off to ---- (mostly because my parents wouldn’t let me go to Oregon for school-- always had a thing for the Pacific Northwest, not sure why). After the bachelor's, I ran off to Australia for 6 months to visit a friend. (We got to be more than friends and that’s why I have a 10-year-old now, but more on that later.) After that, I wasn’t sure what to do; student teaching had been a disaster and I lost my confidence. But after some tests and sound but strangely coincidental advice from some of my profs at school, I went and got my Masters’ of Ed (with a technology emphasis and library media endorsement) from ---- so I could be a school librarian. Too bad no one believes in school librarians anymore.. But I’m working on changing that, at least in the school district where I work. I’ve been there for four and a half years.

The ten year old (the short) says, “Hi my momma’s mother...” (He actually asked if I could put this in.)

I got married two years ago to a wonderful guy. He has an 11-year-old daughter. We all live in ----- (I really miss -----, but at least we have a local store like Trader Joe's, which a nice consolation prize). He works here in -- and I work in CW. I like reading, writing, and drawing, mountain biking and just about anything else outdoors (especially rock climbing, camping, hiking, swimming, and playing with my kids and greyhounds).

I guess all in all I’d like to get to know more about you and the rest of your family, if that would be okay. Stories and pictures would be fine if you’d rather I not meet them; I’m not picky. You’re welcome to share this with other people, too. I don’t want to sound demanding and like I’m trying to put a ton of stuff on you; I’ll go at whatever pace you are comfortable with.

I don’t know what all’s in it, but I have a neglected blog (sheepintrees.blogspot.com) and I’m on facebook (search for Nic---). You’re welcome to peruse those and even friend me, if you’d like. I don’t try to write anything offensive, so I hope you’ll read with an open mind. If you’d like to reach me by phone, my number is -----. You can catch me easily after 4 during the week and just about any time on the weekends. Sometimes I’m hesitant to answer my phone if I don’t recognize the number, but I’ll try to remember to ignore that urge. Otherwise, you can leave a message. We just got unlimited texting, too. Email is fine: ---- , and snail mail letters work great, as well. If the envelope tore, here’s my address again:

----

Please send me a quick message to let me know you got this. I’d really appreciate it.

With warmest regards,

nic

So that's that.

And that's all, really...

TEN YEARS.

Updates.

1. Joined the Choose to Lose program at the YMCA. I hate the diet, hate the pain, but like that I have to be accountable for what I eat, the weight I lose (or don't lose) and what exercises I'm doing, etc. I feel like my life is all workouts and complaining about being hungry for something that's not part of the godforsaken 17 Day Diet. Change is good. Choosing not to eat certain food because of a diet foisted upon me by a sadistic trainer? Sucks arse.

2. Still am not done with the letter to my birth mother. I found a new format that is more appropriate, though, and short enough to write into one card. Which is better than the 32 page workup I wrote after starting here. Granted, the 32 pages included many pictures (which are a bitch to format once you delete something, *flips word processor the bird*). But I'm going to rewrite soon. Probably on here. Don't know when because it seems as if I'm spending all my time on a prehistoric treadmill or a antique bike on a new(er) trainer, but I digress.

3. This story I've been working on for a couple years. I need to get it done, too. I know how it's going to end. That's the first time I've ever written a story that has an ending. But is it a stupid story? Will everyone think it's predictable? Can I really flesh out the characters so that they are vibrant and likable (or hate-able?)... I dunno. But I don't want to really get into the details here.

4. The short got glasses and turned 10. Jesus have mercy on my soul. He started taking piano lessons and playing floor hockey, too. But 10? How in the hell did that happen?! I don't feel any older! TEN YEARS?!

I know this doesn't really go, but the ten years thing fits-- I feel like yelling about it like this. (And if you haven't seen Grosse Pointe Blank, you need to see it. It's a moral imperative.)

5. ...Family is doing well?

I think that's it. Still happily married. Still plugging along. Still a Mac and not a PC. Work is going fairly well. I'm getting into the groove half way into the year. And if the dog doesn't stop licking the couch, I'm going to drench it in Bitter Apple.

Boy needs help with piano homework. Must go.

TEN YEARS!

Ten years I've been keeping a blog, too. Poor you!

Letter to Birth Mother Part 2

This is a work in progress. As it sits right now, I hate it, but I'm working on it.

I'm having a hell of a time figuring out the format of my past. How does one tell a history? There's always the standard "begin at the beginning" but when I think of that, I always jump forward. History has a way of folding over on itself. Do I just tell it chronologically or itemize it? This is where word processing becomes a blessing.

Some headings for my own reference (they won't be in the final letter):

the call and the calendar

-to be added soon-

The first meeting

When my adoptive parents saw me for the first time, I was laying in a bed and crying. When my adoptive father picked me up, I stopped. He was immediately sold.

There's kind of a three-month gap that we don't know anything about where I was or who I was with after St. Agnes. My adoptive mother wasn't allowe

d to talk to my foster mother. So my adoptive parents assumed a thing or two... Either that or someone at St. Agnes told them a thing or two. I'm not sure which. The first thing they either assumed or were told was that my foster mother carried me around in a little pouch all the time. Hence the reason I stopped crying when my adoptive father picked me up.

I hope you don't mind if I just call them "mom" and "dad." It's a little easier to write... and a little more realistic... from my perspective, anyway..

This is one of the earliest pictures of me. This is me and my mom's dad. Grampa. If I remember this story right, he wasn't all that interested in my parents adopting me. That is, until he met me. He taught me not to interrupt. He was good at being assertive. And before he died, he told me what a wonderful person he thought I was. I miss the hell out of him.

Stacy

Another thing my mom learned by accident is that I was named Stacy, although none of us were sure who named me that (if it was you or the foster family). We found out when mom took me to the doctor's office. The nurses recognized me and called me Stacy. This threw my mom for a loop. And the nurses, too, when they found out my name had changed.

The birthmark

My grandmother, Grammy (her real name is Lucille, never Lucy), thought my parents should get my birthmark removed. That way no one from my past could come and claim me and take me back. It's still there. When I was a kid, it really bothered me. Before dance recitals, I used to make my mom put makeup over it. But now I don't even notice it. Gram was a bit nervous about stuff like that, but I can't fault her. She was wonderful, too. Kind, graceful, and sassy... at least she was after the stroke. My grandfather couldn't hear well, and after she had her stroke, all the little snide remarks she reserved for him in her mind began making small appearances under her breath. I don't think he ever knew. (NOTE TO SELF: ADD A PIC HERE)

Funny Feet

I guess my feet were turned in. I don't really remember... My mom would stretch them out and then I swear I remember these funny shoes they made me wear, even in bed. The doctor said it

would be good if I went to dance lessons, so they started me in ballet and tap when I was 3. I kept going with it until I was 11. It was good. I really wish I hadn't quit, but I can't fault myself for doing so; things were changing, if you know what I mean, and some of the things my teacher was asking me to do kinda creeped me out.

I don't know if I was good at it or not.

And I have no idea what I'm trying to do with my hands there. Or my feet for that matter, that's hardly first position.

Out of all the sports and activities I tried, well, let's just say that little league baseball and 8th grade basketball were fails, to say the very least. High school soccer.. that went pretty well. In college, I thought I was awesome playing pickup games.. I was keeping up with the guys, even some on WMU's team, and embarrassing the hell out of any girl who attempted to play with us. I don't play soccer much anymore, but I love to mountain bike, and I'm not all that bad at that... But I'm getting ahead of myself.