Rescue and Adoption

In the heart of the fairy mound, there were two identical cradles, each with an identical infant inside.

“One of these babies is the one you bore,” said a fairy. “The other is the changeling we left. You may leave our hall with whichever child you claim as your own. Choose wisely.”

“But they are both my children,” the human mother protested indignantly.

The fairies whispered amongst themselves in surprise and confusion. At last, one asked, “How do you mean?”

“I came to get back the child you stole from me, the one who is mine by blood. I never agreed to give my adopted child back to you.”

Perhaps her words touched the fairies’ hearts; or perhaps her stubbornness impressed them; or perhaps they simply found the argument amusing, novel enough to merit a reward.

She left the fairy mound, an infant in each arm, and brought them home.

huffingtonpost.com
Slovenia legalizes marriage equality, but not same-sex adoption
Still, activists praised the move as "a big step forward."

Marriage equality officially became the law of the land in Slovenia last week, after a years-long battle that included a referendum of the original law.

Because of that referendum, Slovenia’s new law has a catch: married same-sex couples are not allowed to adopt children. 

Gay activists say more remains to be done in Slovenia. Apart from being denied the right to adopt children, they are also excluded from artificial insemination.

“We are still far from our goal… If you truly recognize human rights you recognize them in full. The new law solves some problems but does not solve the basic problem that all people in our country should have the same rights,” gay partners Jure Poglajen and David Zorko said in a statement.

Homosexual couples in Slovenia, a European Union member with a 2 million population, have been able to register their relationship since 2006 and are also allowed to adopt children from a partner’s previous relationship - though not the children of others.

Definitely a good step forward, but the work is far from over. 

‘Queerness,’ to me, isn’t just about being L, G, B, or T. It’s about finding new models for relationships, for gender, for love, for life. I consider it more of a political word than a sexual one. It applies to my self-expression, it applies to my friendships, and it applies to my son’s new family. When my best female friends surprised me with a baby shower in a bar and gave me gifts that I could use after my son was born, that was queer. When they camped out in the hospital during my labor to welcome Leo to the world, that was queer. And when the same woman who went to kissing parties with me later held me while I sobbed after saying goodbye to my son, that, too, was queer.

You see this shit. Disgusting. These are signs I had to hold when I was younger. My adoptive parents used me as a prolife prop. They still do. When I was younger all I remember is screaming and shouting. Being told to be thankful my birth mom chose life and not abortion. Being brought to pregnant women considering abortion to choose life and adoption. Disgusting. Now that I’m older I look back at these pictures and feel sad. These pictures are out there for all to see. Me with a sign saying I was almost aborted. Me with a sign saying to choose adoption. My story being read by others. Even my friends and classmates came across pics of me online. Some snicker and make rude comments. Others tell me I was unwanted and my birthmom almost killed me. I hate seeing this. I am not a poster child for abortion or adoption. My parents had no right to use me like this. They have no right to use me now. This is why I’m depressed. Other people know more about my story than I do. STOP USING ADOPTEES! You are telling me that I must thankful. Yet I see nobody else grateful they weren’t aborted.

Adoptive parents, what’s the point of you using your adopted child in the prolife movement? Do you use your own biological kids? Do you use yourself? You could’ve been aborted too. How come you’re not thankful for life? Do you realize you’re messing your adopted child up? Pregnant women have no obligation to provide you anything. Thank you for choosing life. This is not something we tell all pregnant women, so why is it such a popular thing to tell a birth mother? Do we thank women who keep their babies and parent them? No. So stop using shitty phrases. Stop using our name and picture. If you really loved your child you wouldn’t do this.


To the march for life movement. We adoptees aren’t your prolife props. Pregnant women have choices just like you do. Adoption isn’t a choice for every woman. Carrying a pregnancy isn’t a choice for every woman. If you’re so concerned with life, why not help families in need? Why not help foster kids? Why not help women with kids who don’t have resources? Or are you too selfish to see this?

Bigotry in Writing

It might surprise you to find out that an astonishing amount of the time, bigotry in writing is not intentional. Personal bias or common biases contribute to things like that.

A really good example for me that’s really recent is the issue of Nightwing that came out a bit ago. Nightwing is a quasi-adopted adult, and while Batman is not quite his father, there’s a relationship there. However, at least three other family members have been canonically adopted, though only one is for fairly certain at this point, due to comics continuity. 

Damian Wayne, the current Robin, is Batman’s biological son. He’s placed a great deal of importance on this canonically, referring to himself as ‘the blood son’ or the only real son or so on, in spite of having adopted siblings. And, in general, he’s been shown to be wrong in this assumption, as it’s his own bigotry and need to be more important than his siblings that causes it.

However, in the recent issue of Nightwing? Nightwing specifically says Batman’s lifestyle is hardest on, and I quote, ‘You. His real son.’

To me, this is a good example of not showing bigotry, but rather infusing the author’s bigotry into the work.

Because there is absolutely nothing wrong with having bigoted characters. Bigoted people exist. What is wrong, however, is to have the work itself be bigoted, and the turn that these comics have taken in literally everyone agreeing that Damian is the most important because real son is very bad and indicates the bigoted opinion that biological children trump adopted children because blood.

This is a problem because this bigotry is shown as correct. As a fact. When it is not, and instead is a harmful assumption that hurts adopted kids a lot. This particular mindset has been used to demean and harm children for a long time, and more recent cases in my neck of the woods involve children literally being adopted to be servants to people and being explicitly told they are less than because they don’t share the family’s blood.

Most cases of this bigotry are less extreme. But writing that reinforces it, or any other bigotry, is doing a disservice with your work and your creativity. It doesn’t mean your work is bad, or that the entire thing is trash now. What is does mean is that, as a creator of media, you need to consider what biases you’re bringing to the table, and be aware of them. Make sure they don’t poison your work.

OH MY FUCKING GOD THIS CONVERSATION JUST OCCURRED BETWEEN MY MOM AND HER THERAPIST

My mom: *talking about me*
Therapist: well you know how genes work, edye has 50% of your genes
Mom: you know Edye’s adopted right
Therapist: oh, sorry I forgot. You were just talking about her like you were a mother.

….?.??!!!!!!!.?.?.?????!!!!!!! The FUCK????????

How
Is an adoptive mother
Not a mother
She literally just said that you are not a mother if your child doesn’t share your genes

I’m fuming

Okay so not to tell you what to do with your life, but I just wanna throw an idea out there for any environmentalists: not having children is literally probably the best thing you can do for the planet. A single human consumes so much in their lifetime, and population growth is going to keep making it worse.

Want to help the environment, but still want kids? Awesome. Adopt. So many children out there already need parents, so it makes much more sense to give them a home than make more kids. Be the best parent ever for someone who needs it most.

You make me
think about taking everything in the cabinet
because I’ll never be enough for you,
and everything I do is wrong.
You cried
when you found out about my desire to take my life
when I was in the back of the ambulance,
but you’ve never thought maybe you should start loving me.

You make me
feel guilty for staying in bed,
feel guilty for my affect
because it shows that I’m a damaged soul
and that taints your role
as the perfect caretaker,
as a saint.
Because you adopted me
and carried my weight.
But you were never my mother to begin with,
you know you’ll never be
and I think that comes into play,
when you don’t treat me the right way.

You make me
hate myself for who I am,
years of abuse following over my head like a dark cloud.
And my father says you’re a good person
but he doesn’t know what you do
when he’s not around.
He didn’t see you breaking me down.
From a child,
I never found my esteem
or a mother figure with a face that is clean.
Now I don’t know how to give love
or receive,
but this monster you turned me into,
you always blame it on me.

Impatient

SPN Prompt Challenge | hunterangelkisses
January 2017 (Emotions)
Prompt: Patience
Pairing: Destiel
Word Count: 4,596
Tags: fluff, angst for like a second, brief and mild smut, alternate universe, strangers to friends to lovers, first kiss, 5+1 things, time skips, wedding, adoption

[AO3]

I.

“C’mon, Charlie, I’ll race ya!”

Dean took off from his front porch as soon as his mom had placed a quick kiss to the top of his head, running through their yard toward the street corner as fast as he could. He was almost there when he turned to see if Charlie Bradbury, his next-door neighbor and best friend since they were toddlers, was catching up. She was one of the fastest runners in their grade and even with his head start, she wouldn’t have much trouble beating him. Charlie was still several feet behind him though, and Dean had just turned forward again when he hit something – hard.

Dean fell to the ground with a thump, wincing at the sharp pain in his backside. He heard his mom call to him, asking if he was okay, but he was distracted by what he’d run into – or rather, who. Because there, splayed out on the ground in front of him, was a dark-haired boy he’d never seen before, wiping grass off his hands and reaching over to pick up the book he’d apparently dropped.

“Who are you?” Dean asked curiously.

The boy turned his gaze to Dean, who was distracted for a second by his eyes – which were brilliantly, brightly blue. “I’m Castiel,” the boy said, climbing to his feet. He held out a hand to pull Dean up just as Charlie, Dean’s mom, and another woman Dean had never seen before reached them.

“Are you two all right?” Mary asked the boys, swiping a bit of dirt from Dean’s arm.

“We’re fine,” Dean said, picking up his backpack from where it had fallen behind him. “Sorry I ran into you,” he said to Castiel, who gave him an easy smile back.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I wasn’t looking anyway.”

“This is why you shouldn’t read while you walk, Castiel,” the other woman admonished, but her tone was more amused than anything.

“And you, Dean,” Mary said, “need to remember that not everything is a race.”

Keep reading

my familiar.

i know this probably will sound completely unbelievable, i have a hard time believing it myself sometimes. but it’s the truth.

a few years ago, i lived with my best friend, now the godmother of my children. she’s the most incredible soul. but that’s another subject. 

anyway, i lived with her. at some point, i decided i wanted a pet. my roommate already owned one large dog, so we decided it would be best- and i decided i was happiest- to get a cat. specifically, a female cat. i talked about it with her extensively, while i collected things i wanted to have before i brought the cat home. i had told her i wanted to wait for a solid black cat with green eyes, but by chance, i came across an old friend who offered me a kitten who needed to be adopted out quickly. of course i would take her. i was so thrilled, i had her all set up with everything you could imagine a cat to have. she was my princess. she was the runt of her litter, a black and white, meek little thing. so precious. 

i’d had her for about a week, maybe less. one night at work- my roommate and i also worked together and carpooled at the time- toward the end of our shift, i got this really bad feeling in my stomach about my kitten. i was really anxious that something was wrong, that something terrible was happening to the kitten (i told my roommate as much). i told myself a thousand times, there’s no logical way that, and even if my kitten was somehow in harm’s way, that i could “sense” it without any evidence whatsoever. (i told my roommate this as well.) but i couldn’t shake it.

on the way home, i envisioned how silly i would feel when i got home and rushed upstairs to my bedroom and find my healthy, little kitten, comfortably waiting for me. i held this image in my mind over and over.

but when we got home, my kitten was in the corner of my closet, weak, limp, and wheezing.

forward two hours, and the veterinarian is telling me the kitten’s lungs didn’t develop properly. that her lungs were too small to support her growing size, and there was nothing to be done to save her- my options were to let her die the slow, agonizing death of suffocation, or to allow the veterinarian to humanely put her down. 

after i signed the consent forms and paid all the fees for the merciful option, 

i went outside and lost my mind. i was hysterical. this little thing relied on me for life, and when i had a physical instinct regarding her, i denied and ignored it. only for it to have been so, so right. i was devastated, to say the least. i can’t tell you why. of course losing a pet hurts everyone, it’s awful. but i reacted very drastically. it really felt like my heart had been shredded inside my chest. so much guilt.

i went home and downed two bottles of - honestly, rather strong- wine,  while crying in my bedroom and punishing myself. i ended up going to some small party with some people i knew at the time, and continued drinking. i woke up at a friend’s house- safe and unharmed, but with a wicked hangover.

about that time, my roommate calls me and asks where i am. i explain the situation. she tells me i need to be home, and offers to pick me up. i tell her where i am.

i get home, and she takes me to my room. at this point, i realized she must have done something to cheer me up.

we stand in my room for a few moments, waiting for something, and then have a conversation that went something like this:

me: i’m a little confused.
her: honestly, me too. i brought you something, but now i don’t see her…
me: her? 
her: … i got you a kitten. i know it won’t be the same, and i know it’s really soon. but what happened wasn’t your fault, i had a bad feeling about the whole thing- ever since that person first approached you about it. they had to know she was too little, and they adopted her out anyway. 
me: so… you got me a kitten? and put her in here, and now she’s gone?

we looked all throughout that room, every even remotely possible hiding place or escape route. nothing. there was no way out of the room, especially considering it was second floor with no opening windows. we scoured the room. we started to think we were losing our minds. we sat down the floor, and just as she started to apologize and try to come up with an answer to this lost kitten… i saw two, big, round, green eyes open up in the farthest back corner on the bottom shelf of my black bookcase. 

we gently lured her out. she was this little, solid black kitten. with green eyes.

my roommate had spent the entire night locating, specifically, this cat. she was in a neighboring city’s pound, she was called “#4″ out of a group of numbered kittens which were picked up on Ostara. Despite being part of the group, she was the only cat given an isolated cage. (i also should mention that the number 4 or 44 is, and has always been, my roommate’s lucky number.) she adopted her, and brought her home to me, in an attempt to give me an outlet for all of the emotions i was having.

normally, i couldn’t just replace a lost pet overnight. i am painfully sensitive to death. but i couldn’t deny all of the coincidences in this cat, as though she was meant for me. 

admittedly, it took me a long time to bond with this kitten. she was incredibly shy and skittish for the first few months i had her. where my lost kitten was always happy to sit in my lap, sleep in my arms- this cat scarcely let me pet her. among other things.

i did love her, but i felt so much more guarded about her. i didn’t let myself adore her like i had before. 

but forward a few years later, and this cat (now named ‘Q’ in honor of my roommate and i’s friendship) has seen me through some absolutely terrible times. she’s been with me through awful experiences, ones too coarse to share. she’s developed a personality that is so real, so close, so human-like, that only i have ever witnessed. 

she does things in front of only me that i can’t believe a cat could do. i’ve seen her pick up pieces of milk-soaked cereal in her paw and eat them one at a time, i’ve seen her catch a fly in one paw on multiple occasions, and then release it. she comes when i call her by name, every single time, no matter who is around, no matter what time it is, no matter what she is doing. if she’s asleep, she will wake up to me calling her- and she comes to me. she is now more affectionate with me than i can sometimes handle. she will nuzzle and cuddle endlessly if i let her, she will chirp so quietly that only i can hear. she will spend enormous amounts of time gazing into my eyes. she lets me rub and kiss her stomach. the bond i have with this cat is… just ridiculous. the stories and memories with her, are absolutely ridiculous. it’s ridiculous how many little quirks and characteristics about her i have memorized. i have not one, but two tattoos for this cat- one including her name and the number 4- and plan on eventually having her portrait tattooed.

i’ve always playfully said that she is an old soul, who has been a human many times before already. when i talk to her, i know something is happening in that little head of hers. 

and maybe i’m an absolutely crazy cat lady, or maybe she’s my ‘familiar,’ or maybe some combination of both. but this is (the short) version of the story of Q.