Today the school bus showed up at 8:11am at the bottom of the Martini Family's driveway. After schlepping 2 tired, whiny, chronically late (that may have had something to do with me) Martini Kids ALLLLLLLL the way up the street (uphill both ways in the snow) for the last two years I can only say thank you Baby Jesus and the bus transportation gods. Once said bus pulled away but probably not far enough that I didn't embarrass Martini Kids 1 & 2, I did the Martini Mom Happy Dance all the way up the drive and into the house. Martini Mom got her groove back...go MM, go MM, go-go-go MM!
I love all the Martini Kids but I want them out of my house...for several hours each day...so that someone else can share in the joy of motherhood and I can pee without someone asking for something before I can unzip and put the seat down (insert cursing here).
I know, I know...many Mom's dread the end of summer and all the glorious family fun ending and (dare I say it) cry...a lot...when their precious children climb aboard the bus every August. I.am.not.that.Mom. I also think 1/2 of you are just pinching yourselves really hard somewhere really sensitive because if you don't cry you are THAT Mom. The one dancing in the driveway...I can own it.
So however you choose to commemorate the kids heading back to fill their beautiful brains with knowledge...crying in your Cheerios or getting jiggy in the driveway...you really should do something to celebrate you...the amazing Mom (and Dad, but you know it's mostly us...wink) who kept them alive (and they LOVE to try and kill each other daily...even the precious ones) and somewhat entertained for another summer. Hopefully the kids super smart (WAY smarter than this Martini Mom) teachers were able to recharge and enjoy their time away from the classroom so they can put up with all the shenanigans that will surely be headed their way. And by shenanigans I mean my kids.
Now I don't mean to be greedy, but tonight I may say a prayer tonight to Baby Jesus and the transportation gods that they may change the bus stop DROP off to the Scoreboard...a fine establishment a few blocks from the Martini abode where there is vodka a plenty and I can avoid the dreaded question of "what's for dinner?" and wish it would just freakin' make itself...but I digress.
Cheers to school!!!
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
My "Whole" Story or Why I Won't Ever be on Oprah
Hold on to your cocktails my dear 6 readers…Martini Mom is going to stray from the usual banter and self deprecating humor in favor of something a bit more serious. Rest assured, this will not happen often and I will resume blogging about nonsense in no time.
This week Oprah (whom I heart dearly) introduced us to her newly found half sister. They share a Mother who gave Patricia (the new sister) up for adoption in the 60’s when Oprah was 9. Now that Patricia's found her family, she says she feels connected, a sense of wholeness. Where am I going with this? I have seen many shows about families reunited after adoption and hear adoptees talk about needing to find what they have been missing and while this does create a much more sensational TV show there is always another side to everything.
I am adopted. It is not a secret; I cannot remember a moment of my life when I did not know this. When I was 4 days old I was adopted by my Mom and Dad and became a part of my family, complete with two older brothers (whom I heart dearly; way more than Oprah even). I have never felt abandoned or rejected and have only gratitude for the person who gave birth to me and had enough love for me to recognize that I would have many opportunities and blessings in my life, without her. I admire her fortitude to carry through on her decision knowing that she had other options. I did not think much of her sacrifice until the day I gave birth to my first child and realized that while she surely doubted her ability to care for me, she should never doubt her own strength because her decision required more than I could ever imagine.
I have never felt compelled to find the woman who gave birth to me, or see if there are any half siblings walking the same earth as me. I do not consider her my Mother; my Mom has been with me every day, good and bad for the last 39 years. Like every adoptee, my birth certificate has my Mom and Dad on it. I was adopted in the 70’s and like most adoptions during that time, it was a closed adoption. My parents purposely went through the process learning as little about who I came from because they didn’t see the need to know those details and I think given the situation that was a wise choice. People were not always tactful, asking my beautiful fair skinned, blond Mom how she got such a dark baby. I found people just as rude when I toted my own fair skinned, blond, biologically born daughter around; and so it came full circle.
I do not know my nationality. I am Middle European and who the heck knows what that is? This has never bothered me, although the elementary teacher who didn’t believe me when I was asked to do a report on my nationality certainly got an earful from my Mom. As an adult, someone once told me that I would never amount to anything because I didn’t know where I come from. But I do know where I come from. When I was adopted, I was adopted into a family, with roots and all and they became mine. It makes no difference to me if you want to think I am Italian, Greek or Middle Eastern. Sure, maybe I am.
As I get older and face the toll aging has on my health, I am reminded that I am a genetic crap shoot with no medical history. I am not overly concerned but I am diligent. Now that I have my own children this matters to me a bit more but not enough to sour me. When I was pregnant, I joked with my husband that who knows what we’ll get. And sure enough, my blond haired blue eyed beautiful daughter was a bit of a surprise, in such a very good way! I have never looked like anyone in my family and admittedly hollered “I’m not supposed to!” at many who commented on how I didn’t look anything like my older brothers. When I had children of my own, wouldn’t you know, all three look just like their Daddy and the dark little girl I envisioned while she grew in my belly turned out just the opposite of the picture in my mind. God has a way of giving us a good laugh when we think we know his plans. So I am super blessed and still one of a kind.
I have always felt wanted, chosen and deeply loved. My whole life I have felt special because I was adopted. Being adopted is not something that is on the forefront of my mind and I often forget and say things like “when you had me” or “I get that from you” to my parents. Although I have been known to point out to my Mom that unlike my brothers, I never put her through labor…and then she reminds me that I made up for that during my teen years. And then I think how comments like that sound just like any other family, which is exactly what we are and why I have been fortunate to feel connected and “whole” my entire life.
This week Oprah (whom I heart dearly) introduced us to her newly found half sister. They share a Mother who gave Patricia (the new sister) up for adoption in the 60’s when Oprah was 9. Now that Patricia's found her family, she says she feels connected, a sense of wholeness. Where am I going with this? I have seen many shows about families reunited after adoption and hear adoptees talk about needing to find what they have been missing and while this does create a much more sensational TV show there is always another side to everything.
I am adopted. It is not a secret; I cannot remember a moment of my life when I did not know this. When I was 4 days old I was adopted by my Mom and Dad and became a part of my family, complete with two older brothers (whom I heart dearly; way more than Oprah even). I have never felt abandoned or rejected and have only gratitude for the person who gave birth to me and had enough love for me to recognize that I would have many opportunities and blessings in my life, without her. I admire her fortitude to carry through on her decision knowing that she had other options. I did not think much of her sacrifice until the day I gave birth to my first child and realized that while she surely doubted her ability to care for me, she should never doubt her own strength because her decision required more than I could ever imagine.
I have never felt compelled to find the woman who gave birth to me, or see if there are any half siblings walking the same earth as me. I do not consider her my Mother; my Mom has been with me every day, good and bad for the last 39 years. Like every adoptee, my birth certificate has my Mom and Dad on it. I was adopted in the 70’s and like most adoptions during that time, it was a closed adoption. My parents purposely went through the process learning as little about who I came from because they didn’t see the need to know those details and I think given the situation that was a wise choice. People were not always tactful, asking my beautiful fair skinned, blond Mom how she got such a dark baby. I found people just as rude when I toted my own fair skinned, blond, biologically born daughter around; and so it came full circle.
I do not know my nationality. I am Middle European and who the heck knows what that is? This has never bothered me, although the elementary teacher who didn’t believe me when I was asked to do a report on my nationality certainly got an earful from my Mom. As an adult, someone once told me that I would never amount to anything because I didn’t know where I come from. But I do know where I come from. When I was adopted, I was adopted into a family, with roots and all and they became mine. It makes no difference to me if you want to think I am Italian, Greek or Middle Eastern. Sure, maybe I am.
As I get older and face the toll aging has on my health, I am reminded that I am a genetic crap shoot with no medical history. I am not overly concerned but I am diligent. Now that I have my own children this matters to me a bit more but not enough to sour me. When I was pregnant, I joked with my husband that who knows what we’ll get. And sure enough, my blond haired blue eyed beautiful daughter was a bit of a surprise, in such a very good way! I have never looked like anyone in my family and admittedly hollered “I’m not supposed to!” at many who commented on how I didn’t look anything like my older brothers. When I had children of my own, wouldn’t you know, all three look just like their Daddy and the dark little girl I envisioned while she grew in my belly turned out just the opposite of the picture in my mind. God has a way of giving us a good laugh when we think we know his plans. So I am super blessed and still one of a kind.
I have always felt wanted, chosen and deeply loved. My whole life I have felt special because I was adopted. Being adopted is not something that is on the forefront of my mind and I often forget and say things like “when you had me” or “I get that from you” to my parents. Although I have been known to point out to my Mom that unlike my brothers, I never put her through labor…and then she reminds me that I made up for that during my teen years. And then I think how comments like that sound just like any other family, which is exactly what we are and why I have been fortunate to feel connected and “whole” my entire life.
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