I warned you.
Here’s a poem (? containing no rhyme, meter, poetic language or anything else we use to define poetry) by an a’mom who will obviously enjoy celebrating the differences an adoptee brings to a family. It’s so bad I feel compelled to tell you that bolding will mark the places where the reality of this thing ends and the snark begins. It’s called
I WILL BE THE ONE AND ONLY TRUE MOMMA AND YOU WILL BOW DOWN BEFORE ME………….
I will be the momma. I know it will happen someday. I will be
the one that sees the excellent plan God puts into motion.
As a non-Christian, I’ve got to confess god’s plan is not visible to me. But if it’s really invisible to everyone but one entitled PAP, well, hiding your light under one lady’s bushel is no way to convert the world, Jesus.
I will be the
one that walks into the room with a baby in arms while people stare
“at me, me, ME! YES! Look at MEEEEE! How I will sparkle and curtsey on that wonderful day I rub my friends’ noses in it!”
shock, then smile, knowing I wasn’t pregnant, so ‘why do I have this
We will be the ones that realize that without us…….a plan for a baby
would have never been what it could be.
Without special, special You (and Mister You, who’s slightly less special because hardly mentioned, but still quite special, being good enough for You), no plan for a baby could succeed, let alone be all it could be. Only You (and Mister You) are worthy.
I know this will happen
“And when it does, I will holler ‘IN YOUR FACE! MINE! See this baby? Innit cuuuute? You want it? You want this cute little baby, don’t you? CAN’T HAVE IT! I win! Me! MINE! I TOLD you god loves me best!’ And I will gloat and gloat and gloat and gloat and I will lock the baby in a treasure chest so no one can look at it without my permission, and when I am sad I will go into the closet and I will open the chest and I will look inside and I will whisper ‘Mine.'”
I will be the one that finds the nooks and crannies of this child’s
Holy shit, is that ever creepy.
and know that without us…….those might never have been
It’s, um (snif) sorry, gimme a second–It’s actually kind of hard to type right now, because I just thought about all the other children, the billions of children who spent and are spending their entire lives without the benefit of Your very special probings of their personality crannies. It’s not fair, God. Why did you only make one You (and one Mister You)? Why can’t They raise everyone? Whyyyy [shakes fist at sky]?!?!
I will be the one
I’ve never seen this sort of insistent repetition of “I will be the one” outside of comic books and cartoons, where it’s never said by anyone but the villain. In fact, I’m starting to hear The Monarch in my head as I read this “poem,” this thing, this magical invocation for producing a child.
“Yes, I will be the one. And I will RULE THE WORLD!”
to know that my husband and I are the ones
“I will be the one to” what now? I think I just got whiplash from the recursion. “I will be the one to know that I–er, we–Um, I will be the one to know that we will be the ones to be the ones who are the ones who will be the ones who were promised, the ones who were prophesied, the ones who were foretold, the ones who will raise all your children and do the best job ever done at it too. I’M THE ONE!”
encouraging and enlightening characteristics that arise….
“unless I do not like them, in which case they must be QUASHED!”
that we are the
ones who will bring experiences to the child’s life…that no one else can
in quite the same way.
“in quite the same way.” Correct, you are unique and special just like everyone else. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered a PAP so pissed-off about parents being “interchangeable.” Who does it benefit, after all, but them?
I will be the one
who will know which color looks
best on her.
Ah, so it’s to be a girl. A girl to raise in One’s own image. A girl who doesn’t need to learn fashion sense because Mommy will always be right there to tell her how to dress. And I’m not kidding–she WILL BE THERE:
I will be there for the first step, first tooth, first smile.
“Wherever there is injustice, you will find me.
Wherever there is suffering, I’ll be there.
Wherever liberty is threatened, you will find…
THE ONE Amigo–friend to ME and ME ALONE!”
be ‘my voice’ this baby takes after(girl) ;
“because I will get a tiny tape recorder of My Voice and I will fix her larynx. Fix it good! No child of Mine is going to have her own voice! Also, it WILL be a girl if I have to cut its junk off, so you’d better get it right, God!”
and my husband’s and my eyes
this child will seek comfort in. It will be our home that this child knows
I will be the one
who will hold this baby and know that she’s part of
our family—That though I might not have borne the pain of delivery, I
have borne a different type of pain through waiting and worry…even
beyond the nine month span.
“My kind of pain is more painful. Not because it’s lasted longer than nine months, dear no. Because it’s Mine. Mine is a Very Special Pain. It demands your consideration.”
We will be the ones that know the ‘secret’
……. that children are NOT to
be taken lightly…..
“(but are to be wrenched away from their mothers with appropriate force! Shh, ONLY WE KNOW THIS)”
that they are conceived by many
No, Honey, just by two apiece. Your sex ed class must have been a hoot, though.
…..but loved in a
special way by “chosen” mommas and daddys.
Adoptive parents are not inherently superior to natural parents. Not even when the adoptive parents are both You, which is (again, this is so tragic for the children of the world) not possible. And “chosen” by whom? Last I heard, it was the adopted child we were supposed to console with this “chosen” bullshit. Is there nothing You won’t take for Yourself?
I will be the one who will hold this baby on dedication day.
“MEEEE! No, Mister Me, you can’t touch her now. This is MY moment!”
It will be
our name this child knows.
“And she’ll STAY in that closet until she LEARNS to PRONOUNCE it PROPERLY! GOODBYE, SIR!”
This baby will have my relatives as her
own……and only by a liquid flowing through her veins, will there ever be
You know how you can have your own blood stored before surgery in case you need it? I figure if You and Mister You dropped a pint every couple of months, you’d very quickly be able to come up with a baby girl’s worth. When you get her, just have a doctor crack her chest and fill her heart with the correct blood. While he’s in there, he can install Your voice, give the kid appropriate plastic surgery so she looks like You (only not *quite* as pretty), and perform any other adjustments needed to make her indistinguishable from Your Own. The awesome part is that all this medical trauma won’t be a bit more inconvenient or painful for her than having to *pretend* to be a replica of You all her life would have been. Because, let’s face it, she’ll never measure up. Lady, there’s no one like You!
It goes on like that. I’m going to skip a little. Let’s go past the parts about OUR baby spoon and OUR lock of hair and OUR blessings and how WE found this child (she was hiding in someone else’s family, can you believe it?). Let’s get back to the important shit, which is how THEY ARE THE ONES:
My husband and I will be the ones in the ‘waiting room’
the SO CALLED… “waiting room.” DUHN DUHN DUH that’s sinister supervillain shit right there!
when this child
has an operation.
“which I shall arrange, necessary or not, because part of the parenting experience I want is watching My child eat ice cream after her tonsils come out!”
We will be the ones up during the night because of
coughs and sore throats. It will be us who will be the ones to console
her when relatives pass away and we are left to discuss ‘death and eternal
Also, that’s kinda morbid. Do most mothers-to-be anticipate the joy of discussing the death of a relative with Baby?
And when this child becomes a teen…….it will be me who will stay up
late and wait until he returns from his first ‘car date’. And yes, it will be
us to explain the actions of his birthparents
“which we will invent, because I need to have saved this baby from a fire, starvation, or rampaging bears”
and his adoption.
That’s twice now. Say, Martha, what sex is this kid you and George had anyway? Did it come with detachable parts, like that Visible Woman toy I had that could be pregnant or not pregnant?
And when she
IT DID! IT DID! Why, anything’s possible when your mommy is This Lady!
And how convenient that the specified girl becomes a boy when and only when it’s old enough to engage in sexytimes. That way it won’t get knocked up like its slut of a mo–um, sorry, You are The Mother, so its slut of an incubator!
is grown and on her own…….
at which time it is at liberty to be female again because Your reputation can no longer be damaged by its filthy behavior
it will be me who is known
as ‘momma and he who is known as ‘daddy’.
I can see her now, sitting at her typewriter at the Overlook Hotel, composing her novel. And I see a stack of her completed pages next to the typewriter:
I’M THE MOMMY I’M THE MOMMY I’M THE MOMMY. I’M THE MOMMY! I’M? THE MOMMY; I’M THE MOMMY, I’M THE MOMMY (I’M THE MOMMY). “I’M THE MOMMY,” I’M, THE MOMMY….
(only with screwed-up, single quotation marks.)
And in the end…..it will
only be that liquid flowing through her veins that will not be influenced
“Control the baby, CONTROL THE UNIVERSE!”
Seriously, you’re a sick woman, and you are going to raise a very broken child someday.
(No, I’m not posting a link to this one. Even I have some Niceness in me.)