Molokai Mo Bettah!

Well, there is nothing like being away on a two week vacation to put shit in perspective. I spent a week on Maui and a week on Molokai. Of course, it was wonderful, but I also wanted to use my time away to try to work out some of my ambivalence about this pregnancy (both labor/delivery and parenting). I think it was successful.

I don’t know if it was the change of scenery, virgin backscratchers, or watching whales breeching from my lanai that did it, but I feel some of my anxieties have been diminished (for now?). Actually, I know what really helped me with the labor/delivery portion of my fears. I devoured the book, Journey Into Motherhood, which was filled with empowering, inspirational stories about labor and delivery. I have been so sick of hearing negative stories and of seeing frightening images of passive women as seen on the show Maternity Ward. I wanted to find other women who shared my view of what this process should be and I found that. The title is totally cheesy, but it really spoke to me and affirmed my belief that modern, American labor does not have to be the norm it has become.

These empowering stories have also helped to calm my worries about losing my individual self upon motherhood and of being a bad mom. These fears spiked with the adoption news, which continues to cause me to question who I am. The Nature vs. Nurture question is one that will never be fully resolved in my mind (and can’t be as science really knows so little about it at this point). Will my genes affect my parenting? What are my genes, anyway? All I know is that alcoholism and depression are all over my birth mom’s side. Dad is the big question mark. What about my weird upbringing? For now, all I can do is, in the words of Iris Dement, “let the mystery be.” I have to believe, despite my insane rants that you have read here, I actually have a lot of my shit together and will be a pretty good parent (in spite of the mild insanity).

Now a bit more about the vacation. I won’t dwell on Maui because it’s Maui and you know it’s lovely. I have to say, though, did I mention whales breeching? Fucking WHALES breeching all around me on a boat? That should be enough to make all else insignificant.

I want to focus on Molokai. I hesitate saying anything about it as it is such a secret gem. You truly feel like you are in another country. Hell, you ARE in another country. A. and I were really able to listen to the accents and Hawaiian words that get glossed over on the other islands. I had several women happily exclaim to me upon seeing my expanding belly, “Hapei” (Hah-Pie). This means pregnant but it also means “to carry.”

The people were wonderful, but there is a definite protective spirit to the way of life that people don’t want tampered with by mainlanders. This place isn’t and shouldn’t be for everyone. It is definitely not for the camera-laden, American flag shirted, black socks/white shoes-wearing folk. There was, unfortunately, one predator we overheard asking a local merchant if a Wallmart was needed on the island. He was scoping out financial opportunities. How about a community center, asshole?

This place really does make your life mo bettah and is worth more than a day trip.

A New Year of Licking Old Wounds

New Year's Resolution #1: Finish painting baby room before he pops out.
New Year's Resolution #2: Spend less money.
New Year's Resolution #3: Look for my biological father.
New Year's Resolution #4: Look further to Paris Hilton for creative and spiritual inspiration.

Let's go back to #3.

So on June 24th about 4:15pm I received the mother of all mysterious letters. Beware the handwritten return address from someplace you have no connection to. I was immediately suspicious. In it was a letter from someone saying that her mother had died recently. When going through her things she found information that she had given up a child for adoption when she was young. The child's information was then given as was the adoptive mother's. The information was my information. Was I the adopted child?

Needless to say, I was a tad surprised. My immediate reaction was that it was a scam. Then I thought it was an honest mistake. Later I wondered if it was true.

I called my family. After a good deal of denial they final admitted it. In addition, my younger sister was adopted too, but by a different family (she, also, didn't know). This, folks, was the stuff trashy talk show producers dream of.

The next day I called the letter writer (my half-sister). She had no idea that I didn't know. My birth mother was only 17 when she had me. My birth father was, presumably, a kid too. I don't even have his name.

So since then I have been struggling with what defines us. So much of who we are is based on our past. What happens, though, when that past is based on a lie? No longer am I an Italian-American (I never really looked the part, anyway). My nose is not my dad's. My thumbs are not my grandmother's. These are things we all think about unconsciously when we look in the mirror. It turns out I look strongly like my birthmom.

So my New Year's resolution is to continue to grapple with all of this and to re-open the wound if I ever find my father.

Oh, and how does this all affect my imminent parenthood? Good question.

This is the stuff of good fodder...