my kids are the best, but so are their kids

I love my children. I would do anything for them. Read off the Things I Would do for My Children list and I would do it all: give them a kidney, walk through fire, take a bullet. Check, check, and check. I would even give them my last donut. I don’t think this makes me special. It just makes me a parent. As every parent reading this well knows, when you become a parent something inside of you changes. A switch is flipped and the world stops being about you.

I have three sons, and very soon I will have a daughter. My kids are the best. They are strong and funny and compassionate and brave. My kids are the best. But so are your kids. And so are kids from China and Russia and Afghanistan and Ethiopia and El Salvador and Brazil and North Korea and Sudan and Pakistan and Israel and Canada and Mexico. My kids are the best, but so are their kids.

I’d walk through fire for my kids. I’d take a bullet for my kids. It’s such a trite sentiment, but it’s also true. So is it really that hard to believe that some parents would walk hundreds of miles across the desert in 100 degree heat to cross the border even at the risk of being arrested just to give their kids a better and safer life?

I mean, if you would do anything for your kids, is it really that hard to believe that other parents would do the same? If (some days it seems like when) this country were to destabilize and collapse is it truly that difficult to imagine a scenario where you pack up your family and walk hundreds of miles through dangerous conditions to get to a safe place, even if that safe place meant you had to illegally cross the border into another country? Of course you would do it and, if you’re like me, you would take no prisoners along the way because that is what a parent does – we do anything for our kids.

Watching images of children in cages this week was difficult, but listening to the audio of crying children being taken from their parents was unbearable. There were a few times I had to turn the TV off, overcome with emotion and shame I would need a moment to collect myself. I cried too, but in those moments I found myself thinking of my kids, and not the kids in cages. I thought about my kids being taken from their birth parents and what that must have felt like for them at the ages of 2 and 4 and 5, and how it still must feel for them at the ages of 8 and 12 and 14. I imagined the terror and confusion in their little faces and even now, typing this sentence, I choke up.

This is empathy and as many of us discovered this week, not everyone has been blessed with it. No parent, no human being with empathy, could see photos of children in cages and not think, this is wrong. Full stop, no equivocating, this is wrong. And yet, for many it was right — just even — and for some it was wrong, but still they equivocated so it wasn’t really so much wrong as they just weren’t willing to fully commit to their awfulness.

People in this country like to complain about welfare and public assistance, but the reality for most of us is that we are never more than one paycheck away from needing that assistance. As our friends and family justify and support the placing of children in cages, perhaps it’s time for them to wake up and acknowledge that we are one Executive Order away from it being our children in those cages.

My kids are the best, but so are their kids.


Sean Michael O’Donnell is 43 year old married gay man. He lives in Pittsburgh with his husband and three sons. Sean enjoys Law & Order reruns, Christmas movies in October, and Facebook stalking. He likes donuts and beer. Sometimes he goes to the gym.  He is the author of the best-selling book Which One of You is the Mother?

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will someone think of the children (probably not)

The United States government is placing children in cages. It’s shocking, but really it’s just another day in Donald Trump’s America. The right will defend it, the left will condemn it. The Attorney General will cite the Bible as precedent and then some well-meaning moron you went to high school with will post a meme suggesting that in the matter of the United Sates caging children we should all just agree to disagree. Our immigrant First Lady, a recipient of an Einstein Visa because who the fuck knows why, will weigh in condemning her husband’s policies and the media will anoint her Saint Melania of the Caged Children.

And the media, by gosh golly they are useless. I guarantee you if some D-list celebrity offs himself tomorrow it will be wall-to-wall grief coverage and the American people will emotionally masturbate to it until we’re all saying, “Children in cages? What children in cages? I don’t remember any children in cages.” But long after this country’s last great stateswoman Kim Kardashian overdoses on Ho-Hos in the Lincoln Bedroom, those kids will still be in cages.

The United States government is placing children in cages and you’re either defending it or you’re already in the process of forgetting about it.

Look, I’m no better than you. I like a good Kim Kardashian Ho-Ho overdose story as much as the next American, but as the (adoptive) parent of three children who were taken from their (birth) parents I can tell you if there is one thing that will mess with a kid’s head it is being taken away from their parents. Today my children are in a stable home where they are loved and feel safe, and still, the pain of being ripped away from their (birth) parents haunts them.

My kids were placed in a foster home, not a converted Wal-Mart. My kids were given a bedroom with walls, not a cell with bars. My kids received therapy from licensed professionals, not supervision from poorly-vetted government cogs. My kids had all these benefits and still the trauma of being separated from their parents remains to this day.

Imagine what the trauma will be like for these immigrant children who have been treated no better than caged animals…the ensuing years of depression, alcoholism, homelessness, drug dependency, suicide, inability to form lasting attachments…because those are all the things that children from the foster system, kids like my kids, experience throughout their lives, despite the benefits of having had loving parents and a real home and years of therapy.

Put simply, these immigrant kids are fucked.

I watch people on social media wringing their hands in despair, unable to grasp why their conservative friends and family defend this shameful policy. The left asks, “What if it was your children?” and of course the answer is, “But they aren’t my children. My children are white.”

Because beyond the morality and the legality, there is one truth: there is a law for white people and there are cages for brown people. Now before you stroke out, please hit the pause button on your outrage and consider how we would be handling this situation if this were Canadians crossing our precious border pouring into the wilds of Montana and upstate New York. I can guarantee you we would not be ripping apart families and warehousing kids inside a Wal-Mart prison.

Of course this is Donald Trump’s America, so who knows? Perhaps caging Canadian kids could be useful as we negotiate those pesky milk tariffs. But really, why stop at putting children in cages? This is America and in America we go big or go home! Let’s take it one (or ten) steps further. Those brown children may have information vital to our national security. What do you know about MS-13? How many caravans of illegals are preparing to cross the border? Why are telenovelas so damn popular? I’m confident that any reasonable three-year-old would break after a few hours of intense waterboarding.

People talk about how we’re crossing a line. We crossed a line with Sandy Hook. We crossed a line when we grabbed them by the pussy. We crossed a line in Charlottesville. But we’re no longer crossing lines. We’re caging children. We’ve gone over the line and we are falling into the void.


Sean Michael O’Donnell is 43 year old married gay man. He lives in Pittsburgh with his husband and three sons. Sean enjoys Law & Order reruns, Christmas movies in October, and Facebook stalking. He likes donuts and beer. Sometimes he goes to the gym.  He is the author of the best-selling book Which One of You is the Mother?

the most wonderful time of the year (or not)

I love Christmas. What a stupid thing to say. Everyone loves Christmas. Even people who claim to hate Christmas really love Christmas. Christmas is in our DNA. After eleven soul-crushing months, we come back to life with each chorus of Deck The Halls. We may bitch about Christmas store displays in October, but we are born again at the first sight of a brightly lit Target Christmas tree and, like the Grinch, our hearts will grow three sizes at the first whiff of a peppermint latte.

Christmas is magic. It is the best part of humanity. Christmas has the power to slay dragons and silence Scrooges and, one hopes, banish Trumps to the Upside Down.

Still, as much as I love Christmas, it challenges me. I am consumed (obsessed?) with Christmas perfection. Every moment needs to be A MOMENT and every experience needs to be a special treasured memory that will bring my children to tears long after I am gone. Putting up the decorations the day after Thanksgiving, cutting down our Christmas tree, decorating the tree, making cookies and buckeyes and fudge, seeing the lights, ice skating, wrapping presents – it all needs to be so goddamn special I have no choice but to wear a Santa hat 24/7 and pound a case of Sam Adams White Christmas.

Sometimes I feel in order to make every Christmas moment truly special to my kids I should, in the middle of the activity, slap them across the face and scream, “Remember this when I’m dead!”

And then thirty years from now when they’re icing snowman cookies with their kids they’ll remember that time their Dad slapped them across the face and they’ll feel all warm and fuzzy and remember that I was a Christmas rock star.

As I said, Christmas challenges me. I want every day in the month of December to be A Very Special Holiday Christmas Extravaganza with Candace Cameron Bure and Lacey Chabert, but instead it ends up being A Very Merry Joan Crawford Christmas from Hell.

And my undiagnosed holiday mental health issues are not at all helped by “the triggers”. I don’t mean to pass the buck, but my kids. It’s a well-documented opinion that holidays are a trigger for adopted children. It brings up a lot of junk and when you’re seven years old it can be hard to process that junk so instead you just become awful and all that repressed anger and sadness is channeled into your undiagnosed Oppositional Defiant Disorder until one day you explode and try to start a Fight Club on your school bus.

But “the triggers” aren’t just about School Bus Fight Club….”the triggers” also send you spiraling back into the past. You may have gone 330 days without even thinking about the life you had before the life you have, but the first sight of a candy cane and it’s suddenly teary-eyed monologues about West Virginia and grandma.

And just like that making Christmas cookies becomes sad. And putting up a tree makes you feel lost and guilty and alone and you’re only eleven and you don’t know what to do with those feelings so you shut down or talk back or you just make damn sure everyone is as unhappy as you.

Christmas challenges us all.

I don’t mean to imply that the holidays are awful. Remember, I love Christmas and my kids love (getting) Christmas (presents). We have scrapbooks full of very special Christmas holiday moments, but we also have our share of Christmas from hell moments and, while I am usually Joan Crawford, the truth is any of my three kids could whip out a wire hanger at a moment’s notice.

We are well matched.

(Poor Todd.)

One day I will let go of the perfection. I will stop trying to force the moments. I will embrace “the triggers”. One day after I’m gone my kids will remember it all—even without the slap—and maybe if I’m lucky they’ll remember my Santa hat and good intentions, and not my crooked wig and half-empty glass of gin.


Sean Michael O’Donnell is 42 year old married gay man. He lives in Pittsburgh with his husband and three sons. Sean enjoys Law & Order reruns, Christmas movies in October, and Facebook stalking. He likes donuts and beer. Sometimes he goes to the gym.  He is the author of the best-selling book Which One of You is the Mother?

choose adoption

November is National Adoption Month. To learn more about adoption, you can visit www.adoptuskids.org


 

Five years ago – after weeks of parenting classes, mountains of paperwork, and multiple background checks – my husband and I became certified adoptive parents. This meant that we could now adopt a child through the foster care system; it did not, however, mean that the state would immediately hand us a child. It would be eight long months before that happened.

It seems like a lifetime ago…

Today, we have three children – all adopted through foster care, ranging in age from 7 to 13. Our children are all boys: our oldest son (adopted in 2017) is African-American, our middle child (adopted in 2013) is Native American, and our youngest boy (adopted in 2015) is plain-old vanilla Caucasian.

They could not be more different. The 13 year old likes baseball and basketball while the 11 year old prefers to dress up in wigs and make YouTube videos. Meanwhile, the too-smart-for-his-own-good seven year old spends all his time playing Minecraft and prepping for life as a criminal mastermind. And yet despite their obvious differences, my children are perfectly matched. They speak the same language, a kind of shorthand understood only by those who have gone through the system.

No one will ever understand them the way they understand each other. They share a story. It is a story of loss…the loss of parents, the loss of birth family, the loss of connection, the loss of toys and clothes and shoes and other seemingly trivial things, the loss of security and safety, the loss of hope.

At any given moment in this country there are approximately 400,000 children in foster care. Of that number, more than 100,000 children are actively waiting to be adopted into a permanent home with an astounding 23,000 of those kids aging out of the foster system every year, orphaned with no resources.

Those numbers are overwhelming and constant, but they are not hopeless. Yes, we need to do better for the 23,000 children who find themselves abandoned by the system every year, but we also need to take a moment and celebrate the story of every kid who made it out and found their forever family. We need to embrace each happy ending if only to remind ourselves that there is hope.

My sons found their hope. This does not mean their losses have gone away. They still miss their birth parents. They still strive to maintain a connection to their old lives. They still have moments where they feel unsafe.

Children of the foster system may never escape their loss, but in adoption there can be a new beginning. Adoption is all about second and third and, sometimes even, fourth chances.

Adoption changes lives. It changed the lives of my children and my husband and me. Adoption made us a family.


Sean Michael O’Donnell is 42 year old married gay man. He lives in Pittsburgh with his husband and three sons. Sean enjoys Law & Order reruns, Christmas movies in October, and Facebook stalking. He likes donuts and beer. Sometimes he goes to the gym.  He is the author of the best-selling book Which One of You is the Mother?

this is us

We received the call shortly after 4 p.m. It was a Wednesday. I had just picked up the boys from school. Chris was in the dining room doing his homework. Elijah was in the attic playing Minecraft. Todd was still at work. The phone rang. It was our adoption agency. They needed an emergency foster placement for a 12 year old boy. There weren’t many details, there never are, but they said there was a good chance the placement could become permanent. Would we be interested?

Over the years we’d received this phone call many times, but we had always said no. Todd and I had long ago weighed the risks and decided that short term foster placements were not something we could handle. It would be too hard on the boys. It would be too hard on us. We needed guarantees. We couldn’t do goodbyes.

But that day was different. I don’t know why. Looking back, it just was…

And so two hours later there was a 12 year old boy standing in our living room. The story of how this twelve year old boy came to be standing in our living room is not my story to tell…he was there now and in that moment as we introduced ourselves and made small talk and later adjourned to the street to play ball, in those moments, is where his story became our story.

He was scared, or maybe just in shock. I know we were, scared and definitely in shock. But we all put on our best faces and we made it work. Chris let him ride his bike. Elijah played catch with him. Todd and I assured him he was safe.

He was home.

Over the next few weeks we spent a lot of time in family court. Family court is the seventh circle of hell and no child should ever be forced to go there. The halls are lined with crying children and screaming adults. There is security and policemen and judges who have seen too much to be sympathetic. The holding room is painted a depressing brown and the walls are gouged and scratched and the carpets are stained with coffee and every chair in the room is broken.

The room was a metaphor for every person who had ever walked through its doors.

It was heartbreaking. I am 42 years old and I barely survived our first day in family court…at one point I disappeared into the restroom to cry. The whole system was sad and it made me feel hopeless and small and out of control.

By the time we were called in front of the judge, this scared twelve year old boy had been with us for less than sixteen hours. He was a stranger and yet without hesitation, with instinct, Todd and I became his fiercest advocates. Everything and everyone in that building had been designed to tear him down, but not on our watch. And not on his watch because he was strong, stronger than I realized, and besides we were in this together. We were a family.

As we walked out of the courtroom I put my hand on his shoulder and I said, “You’re staying with us. This is your home. You’re safe.”

That was eight months ago. That was the day we answered the phone. That was the day we said yes because that day was different.

I don’t know why.

Looking back, it just was…meant to be.

 

(un)planned parenthood

In 2011 life was complicated and I found myself in need of someone to talk to…someone on a professional level. As I was uninsured at this time in my complicated life my professional talking options proved to be limited. I did some research and eventually I found myself on the phone with Planned Parenthood. To my surprise, Planned Parenthood offered counseling services.

There was a Planned Parenthood a block from my office. I made an appointment and for twenty dollars a week I was able to talk with a rather good therapist. I went to see this rather good therapist off and on for the next eight months until life felt less complicated. Looking back it was the best money I ever spent and, at the risk of being melodramatic, it saved my life or at the very least helped to give me the life I have now and for that I am thankful.

The point is I am a big fan of Planned Parenthood.

Now every few years congress threatens to defund this very good organization because, as they would have you believe, behind every Planned Parenthood are alleys littered with the aborted fetuses of immoral, irresponsible loose women who have nothing better to do with their time than go to Planned Parenthood for their annual abortion. Every few years congress reminds us that the baby killers at Planned Parenthood are on the front lines of the pre-born Holocaust.

Or something along the lines of that nonsensical dystopian rubbish.

Of course it doesn’t matter that Planned Parenthood offers dozens of other services, ranging from general health maintenance to HIV testing to birth control to cancer screenings to counseling…nor does it matter that just three percent of their provided services are abortion related…nor does it matter that zero dollars of federal money is used on those three percent of abortion related services…nor does it matter that abortion is legal. None of that matters because they are facts and we no longer traffic in facts in President Trump’s America.

So I’m not going to argue pro-this or pro-that because that would be as pointless as expecting Americans to not be so stupid as to elect a misogynistic, racist, xenophobic, anti-LGBT, anti-Muslim, wall-building, tax-dodging, crotch-grabbing demagogue.

What I am going to ask is if your commitment to the pre-born is so great that it would have you deny millions of Americans access to affordable, safe and legal health services then what about after the child is born? Does your passion for the fetus translate to life outside the womb? What have you done to assist a child born into poverty or drug addiction or domestic violence or to a child who is simply just not wanted?

In the same breath that you denounce Planned Parenthood do you also condemn social services like welfare and programs like WIC and SNAP – services and programs that often keep alive the very children you claim to want to save, children who through no fault of their own were born into poverty or drug addiction or domestic violence?  Do you then vote for politicians and parties whose platforms promise to cut these programs that are the very lifeline of every unwanted child?

You hate abortion. You’re “conservative” or “religious” or it just goes against the core of who you are. Okay. Fine. I get it. As a parent of three adopted children who came from not the best circumstances it’s very easy to imagine a “what if” scenario that includes a world without my kids, but we aren’t talking about me. I have no trouble walking the walk.

But you.

Do you foster? Do you adopt? Have you ever even considered becoming a parent to a child who looks nothing like you? If social media and the internet are any indication then the answer is no. You are content with telling other people what they should and should not be doing. You fight for the pre-born but you have no interest in the forgotten seven year old or the abandoned five year old or the black kid because, after all, you’re white and you already have 2.2 kids who look just like you.

If you really care for that child you will stop being ignorant and a hypocrite. If you really care for that child you will give him a home even when he doesn’t look like you. And if you really care for that child you will vote for and support politicians who will guarantee him access to affordable, safe and legal health services.

I feel for Planned Parenthood whose biggest crime is trying to provide affordable, safe and legal health services in a country full of ignorant hypocrites. When you cut off access to health care people die and those people were once children and those children were once fetuses and those fetuses did not cease to matter simply because you did your part to make sure they got born.

fostering

Foster parents are a mixed bag. Many foster parents are some of the finest people you will ever meet, called to serve like a minister to God. Others are of a more basic variety, called to collect a monthly check from the state. My oldest son was blessed with the gold standard of foster parents. They gave him food and shelter and love and the hope that he would one day have a tomorrow better than today. My youngest son had a foster parent more tin than gold. Despite her many shortcomings, I admired her for doing the work that so many others would not.

I have great respect for foster parents. They do the heavy lifting. Foster parents rescue our children at a time when they are in desperate need of saving. They attach without becoming attached. They give love often without ever receiving it in return. They get the worst but rarely see the best. They hold a place and then they say goodbye.

I could never do that.

Or so I thought.

Eight days ago my husband and I became foster parents. Our agency called us with a child in need of an emergency placement. There were few details available. We discussed it. We considered all the many reasons why we should say “no” and then two hours later we found ourselves standing at the door welcoming a scared twelve year old into our home.

The specifics about this child and the story of our journey together will be a story for another time. We are not permitted to name the child or tell the child’s story or post the child’s photo. For now we have been tasked with doing the heavy lifting, with aiding in the rescue, with giving love.

For now we are holding a place.

And I’m okay with that…or so I tell myself even though it’s not true. What is true is that it took me all of fifteen minutes to attach. I won’t tell you how long it took me to love the kid, lest I embarrass myself, but suffice it to say if there is a goodbye it won’t be easy.

So we wait and we hold a place and we become attached and we fall in love and we see where all this takes us. We hope for the best and we prepare for the worst and we remind ourselves that no matter what we may be feeling this isn’t about us. This is about a kid who needed a home.


*This photo of Hillary Clinton has nothing to do with the story, but since I cannot show photos of the child I thought I’d use this opportunity to remind everyone to vote for Hillary Clinton on November 8 because #imwithher.

(remembering) the day i met my son

He was waiting for us at the door. I imagine he had been there for days, from the moment his foster parents told him we were coming. With his perfectly parted hair and his blue shirt buttoned to the very top button, he had a smile so big it threatened to swallow the whole of the earth. I suspected his bags were already packed, tucked discreetly behind the door, in anticipation of our arrival. He would have come home with us in that moment had we let him. He would have gone anywhere with us in that moment. Us, the parents he had been waiting a lifetime to meet.

It had been six weeks since the decision. Some faceless committee on the other side of the country deciding our future and creating our family. From the start all we had been given was a basic narrative and a photo. It’s the photo that gets you. It’s the photo that dares you to imagine a lifetime of birthdays and Christmases and bedtime hugs. It’s the photo that teases you with a tomorrow that may never happen.

That photo. It invades your dreams. It speaks to you. It sometimes calls you Dad.

I had that photo, his photo, on my computer, but I tried not to look at it, afraid that I would go even further down the rabbit hole. Without the photo he was just a collection of words; a story with a beginning, middle and a distant end. Without the photo, I could close the book, put it back on the shelf. Without the photo he was not real.

Except he was real and I had already imagined all of the birthdays and the Christmases and the lifetime of hugs. I heard his voice call me Dad. I pictured a future with him, my son — this boy I’d never met. And that was dangerous. Because the faceless committee on the other side of the country deciding our future might have hated us. They could have chosen another family, a better match.

Of course, that wasn’t the case. They chose us.

We traveled backward through four time zones, arriving in Oregon shortly after we had left Pittsburgh. It was a few miles from the hotel to his foster home and as we drove I remember looking over at my husband and thinking, This is the last time it will be just the two of us. In a few minutes, for the rest of our lives, it would now be the three of us (at least).

I closed the car door and rounded the corner to the house. Everything changed.

In the movies and in books when writers employ that laziest of clichés love at first sight, I always roll my eyes and silently chastise the author for condescending to his audience with weak plot devices. “Show, don’t tell!” I want to scream as I throw the book across the room. “This isn’t real life!” I say as I shake my fists in protest at the movie screen.

People do not fall in love at first sight. Except for parents. Parents fall in love at first sight. From the moment they see their child they are in love. And it does not matter if they are seeing a newborn or a seven year old, that love is immediate and unconditional and eternal.

The moment I saw my son standing at that door — with his perfectly parted hair and his blue shirt buttoned to the very top button and his smile so big it threatened to swallow the whole of the earth — I was in love. We may have lived in two different worlds for the first seven years of his life, but he was my son as sure as if I had made him. Looking at him I realized that every moment in my life before this moment had been nothing more than an audition.

Curtain up.

He opened the door, offering his hand to me in greeting. It had been a rehearsed bit meant to show respect, but also a subtle wink from his foster parents to let me know that they had done their job, that he had manners. He shook with his left hand. I shook with my right hand. It was very awkward, less of a hand shake and more of a hand embrace. Just another reason to love him.

He had decided that I would be called Dad and Todd would be Papa. “I’m Christopher,” he said. 

My son, Christopher. And me, his Dad. Was I really someone’s Dad?

We made our way to the living room and sat on the couch, my husband on the left and me on the right with our son between us as if he had always been there. A camera appeared, immortalizing our first moments as a family. The picture captures two smiling grown men, wide-eyed and deliriously happy, and a young boy, home at last. The photo sits in my son’s room. Sometimes I find myself staring at that photo and suddenly I am inside the picture, living a memory as if today were yesterday and yesterday were now.

1stphoto

I hear my son reading to us. I can’t remember the name of the book, just the sound of his voice. The voice I first imagined before there was a voice, when all I had was a photo and a collection of words. Christopher, Chris, sits across from me, his face buried in his book as he reads with tentative confidence. I close my eyes and his voice takes me out of the room, out of the house, past the hotel, past tomorrow, fast forwarding me through a life that has yet to happen. We are on the plane, back in Pittsburgh, at our home. He is eight, nine, eighteen, twenty-seven years old. There are birthdays and Christmases and a lifetime of hugs. No longer a child, now a man. From the beginning of our story to the end of mine. He reads and I see it all.

In July of 2013, my husband and I traveled to Oregon to meet our son for the first time. It was the beginning of a life-changing adventure. Five days later when we boarded a plane back to Pittsburgh with our soon-to-be-adopted then-seven year old son in tow, we were a family. Sometimes everything just falls into place. Sometimes love at first sight transcends cliché. Sometimes only a stale platitude will do: it was meant to be.


Sean Michael O’Donnell is 41 year old married gay man. He lives in Pittsburgh with his husband and two sons. Sean enjoys Law & Order reruns, Christmas movies in October, and Facebook stalking. He likes donuts and beer. Sometimes he goes to the gym.  He is the author of the blog seansbiggayblog where he attempt to chronicle his experiences as a parent.  The contents of his blog (and life) are 75% truth, 18% satire, 6% hyperbole and 1% drama. He is also the author of Which One of You is the Mother?

 

his story

My ten year old son Chris asked if he could write something for my blog. He wanted to share his story. The following post is written by him–these are his unedited words. 


 

My name is Chris and I have two dads. I was born in Oregon. I lived there with my grandma and grandpa and sisters. I love them and miss them. My sister Brittany and I would play cars and I played Mariokart on the DS my grandma gave me.

After my grandfather died, I went to live with a foster family. I stayed there for two years. My foster parents were named Brandi and Neal and they were very nice. I was grateful for them. They had a big backyard. There were other kids in the foster home and we played in the yard. All the kids were adopted, but then new kids would come to live there and we would play the Wii. I kept bugging my caseworker to find me a family.

When my caseworker told me I was going to be adopted I was very happy. I was so excited to meet my new family. I couldn’t stop smiling. The first time I met my Dads I thought they were awesome. They love me so much. I make them happy. We play all the time and now I have a brother too.

Some people think it’s strange having two Dads, but I don’t because I never had a mom and also because my Dads love me very much. I am so grateful for them and for being adopted.

Adoption gave me a family.

puppies for sale!

Last week this article was making the rounds on the internet: READ HERE

The article was about four siblings (ages 1, 3, 5, and 10) who were currently in foster care, but were now in need of a forever home. It read like a typical adoption profile complete with phrases like “the sweetest kids ever!” and “very smart!”

It gave a brief biography about each child, detailing the good and winking around the not-so good. The article was topped off by a photo of the four children, dressed in their color-coordinated Sunday best and smiling happily for all the world to consider.

(Cue sad music and Sarah McLachlan voiceover.)

Now because I have two adopted sons and because I have written a book about my experiences adopting, several friends thoughtfully posted the article on my social media.

I read it. I considered the photo. And then I got mad.

I was offended.

I hated the article. It minimized our adoption journey. It diminished our children’s story.

I have no doubt that the motivations in publishing this glorified adoption profile were pure. I am confident that The Northwest Florida Daily News meant only to draw attention to adoption and for that I applaud them.

There are more than 400,000 children in foster care with nearly one quarter of that number in need of a forever home, so adoption needs a voice.

But with its frame-ready photo and easy-breezy narrative this article served only to trivialize the adoption process. Certainly the comments on social media as well as those in the original NWF Daily News posting did just that with (supposedly) well-meaning people writing:

“I want them all! Please contact us.”

“Aww! They are so cute! I want them!”

“Are they free?”

“I’ll take them! I want babies.”

“Bring them on. I’ll take all four!”

First, adoption is not that easy. You cannot just say, “I’ll take them!” People interested in adoption first must be certified as a viable resource foster parent. In Pennsylvania this certification is a rigorous months-long process that requires more than 40 hours of parenting classes, FBI background checks, mountains of paperwork, references, a home study…the list goes on.

Then after being certified, prospective parents enter the matching phase. This back-and-forth between your caseworker and the caseworker of a waiting child can take anywhere from two weeks to two years…or more.

Becoming a parent is hard work.

These kids have already had one set of parents disappoint them. The last thing they need is to have another set of jokers flake on them. Simply put, if you’re the kind of person given to making statements like, “Bring them on. I’ll take all four!” then adoption is not for you.

Second, these are children. They are not puppies. I repeat, they are not puppies. This is not a craigslist ad. These children are not for sale. Their level of cuteness is irrelevant. These are real people with real problems. Most of these kids have been through shit that we can’t even imagine. They have been neglected and abused and abandoned, often multiple times, the victims of a system meant to protect them but one that seems hell-bent on breaking them.

So if you want these children, then do something. Stop making comments and start taking action. These children are more than a trending diversion in your newsfeed. They require more than your momentary consideration. They deserve more than your well-meaning empty declarations.

You see a cute photo.

I see a lifelong commitment.