Thoughts About Birthmothers.

I've been thinking, about things I know that you don't...which is quite a bit, though I'm sure you know quite a bit about things I know nothing about, none the less, I wanted to tell you something that my life has taught me, that every life isn't taught.

My wife and I can't have kids.  She has known for most her life that her body didn't make children. And strangely, I had known for some of my life that we would adopt.  And in this way we were lucky. People who know they can't have kids from the get go are luckier than people who have to slowly find that out.  Though it doesn't really matter, God sends kids to Earth and He does it when He does it and no one really has a choice in that matter. But, I am still grateful that we have always known.

None of this is news, nor is it all that interesting.  But, what I do want you to know is something about birthmothers.  Whatever you may think, or even, how much you may empathize, unless you place your own child in someone else's arms forever, you will never know. Not that I do.  I will never know either. 

But what I do know, and I know it because I have sat two feet away and watched it happen, is a Birthmother is strong. In a deep and powerful way, a birthmother is strong.  I sat at a dinner with friends and the topic of a family up the street who had adopted several children from one birthmother came up. They went on to explain all that the Birthmother was getting out of the whole situation...and these were women who had had children of their own and they seemed to think that this woman could whip out babies with no emotional connection.  Let me just say, anytime you find yourself thinking that your ability to love or find faith or think something through and then soundly come to a conclusion is better than someone else's... it is not.  Every single person on earth has those abilities, so be weary of your thoughts when they lead you to think you've figured it all out for everyone.  Figuring out the same path for everyone was not the plan.

Once, a friend told me, "I could never give up my child." And I suppose that is true for her...but it was also true for the two birthmothers in my life.  But, trying to imagine giving up one of your children is not the way to go about such a thing.  What you need to imagine is, "What would my life have to be like for me to give up my child?" My friend who told me she "could never"was living a pretty sweet and safe life, her family was around and her husband had a good job and she loved her children.  Think of all that must happen in your own life that would lead you to the conclusion, "This child needs something I can't give."  That is a real place.   

A Birthmom is selfless, and not because of what she did for the adopting family...she could care less about me or my wife...well, I mean, she cares, but all she really cares about is that I am nice and safe and steady and committed, but in that moment...or rather, those long never ending months, she is only thinking about one person, her child. It is a rare woman who thinks about a childless couple and what she could give them...though, even they, I suppose, exist.  But most Birthmoms, and certainly the two who are part of our family, thought first, of this unborn child, next of their born children, (both of our Birthmothers parented children before they placed a child with us) and far last, themselves. 

There are several, easier and faster options for a woman who find themselves in the family way.  Not the least of which is to do away with it. Abortion is legal, surprisingly easy, and common.  When I worked in NYC, one of my coworkers requested the day off for a "Procedure". Another coworker told me why and I was shocked.  Here I was, looking to adopt and everyone knew it and yet come to find out multiple associates had done the same thing in the 4 years I had worked there...ah, see how easy it is to feel like I know the solutions to other peoples problems.  Those women made their own choices and also, they were not having my baby.  Years later, two other women did. And it was the harder choice and it was selfless, in the deepest sense of the word.

I know there are a thousand stories out there and I can't speak to every experience, but I want to add my story to all the others.  There is no greater love then that of a parent to a child. I know that because I am a father and have never loved greater then the way I love my children.  I also know it because I was handed those children by women who wanted more then anything to hold onto those babies forever, to watch them grow up and see who they turned out to be, to be there day after day in every part of their lives, and yet, wanting all that but knowing all they knew about that life ahead and knowing what they felt that child needed, they let that knowing outweighed their the wanting. 

And though it had little to do with me...I am forever grateful. 

How to Lose a Woman Forever According to Travis McGee

Recently, I read a post by Raymond Bechard on The Good Men Project that made me think.

The post mentions a series of books by John D. MacDonald that feature a “Salvage Consultant” named Travis McGee who finds important things for people. What's interesting about the books is that McGee often philosophizes about life, humanity, and what it takes to be a man. I haven't read these books so I'm taking Bechard's word for it but he writes that reading them helped him look at life and being a man differently.

The post focuses on McGee's observations about women, which men's magazines have ripped off for 50 years. I bet some of his stuff is funny to us now in the '10s but Bechard summarizes McGee's most valuable piece of advice:

"Treat a woman so that she knows you believe she is the most important and interesting person you have ever met and will ever meet."

Now, if I had to judge my relationships past and present on that one piece of advice, the truth is that I'd fail. That's why it hit me hard. That's why I'm trying to be better.

To help me (us) Bechard compiled McGee's philosophies into is a list of rules to break if you would like to lose a woman forever. Here are a few from the post. Read the full article here.

1. Don’t protect her. She’s a big girl. There’s no reason to help her feel safe in the way she needs to feel safe. There are no guarantees in life so it’s not rational to expect security in relationships. (And nothing is more rational than love.) Her emotional security is paramount to her. This means she wants to rely on you to always be there for her and can count on you to be her best friend. Allow her to feel alone and abandoned, and you will experience both. 

2. Don’t respect her. Simple. Treat her like crap. If she doesn’t take it, she’ll leave and you’ll be miserable. If she does, she’ll stay and you’ll both be miserable. Treating her like the extraordinary woman she is will only increase her expectations, attitude, and hope, and courage, and affection, and love.

3. Don’t listen to her. Every time she talks either tune her out or try to solve her problems. Do not, under any circumstances come to the realization that her feel­ings are the prob­lem she needs to  communicate to you. She doesn’t want you to DO anything. (After all, if she wanted your help she would ask for it. Seriously, she will.) And if you wanted her to feel closer to you than anyone else in the world you would not listen to her prob­lems, but to her feel­ings. That takes paying sharp attention to her and learning how to really listen beyond her words. You would have to look at her as a person of near limitless emotional capacity. And all of that would only show her how much you truly value her. Who has that kind of time?

5. Take her for granted. Let her know she’s nothing special. Devalue everything she does, especially the things she does for you. If you want to make her miserable, sad, hopeless, or just lose her self-esteem make sure she knows she really doesn’t mean that much to you. You can’t be bothered with the fact that she’ll be looking for some kind of positive affirmation from you every day. And giving it to her is not something you can do once a month or week, on holidays or special occasions. She knows you appreciate her when you work at it all the time, especially those times when you don’t have to.

7. Don’t let her know she is interesting. Don’t show any interest in her life, her passions, her story, her friends, work, hobbies, troubles, etc. Showing her she bores you is the best way to prove to her that she will never be her best with you.

10. Don’t kiss her. If you don’t want her, don’t touch her. And especially don’t kiss her. However, if you want to be a man, shut up and take five completely uninterrupted minutes every day to hold her and kiss her.

13. Don’t compliment her. If you want her to find proof that she is attractive from someone else, don’t show her how attracted you are to her. If you want her to know how much you adore her, tell her how your attraction to her makes you feel. “Seeing your eyes make me feel like I’m really home,” is better than, “You have nice eyes.” But don’t do that. You’d have to examine all the great feelings she gives you. And who needs that much self awareness?

16. Don’t romance her. Your first date was a long time ago. No need to act like that idiot anymore. It’s probably best to just settle into a routine and ignore her need for unique expressions of your love for her. On the other hand, if you bring her out on a “first date” once in a while, or go out of your way for her romantically, you will reset the emotional freshness of her heart and your relationship.

19. Don’t change your habits. Let pride be your guide. Never improve. You’ve gone far too long becoming just as perfect as you are. Why switch up your game now? Remember, compromise and consideration has no place in relationships … unless you want them to work. Anyway, who has strength enough to be flexible?

20. Hate apologizing. If you wanted to make this work, you would love apologizing. Point out your mistakes and apologize for them until she tells you to stop. But, that will only make her trust you and rely on your decency and trustworthiness as a man.

21. Don’t learn what emotional intimacy is. Forget that emotional intimacy is the utterly close connection that will exist only when you are truly committed to and trust one another. It means you are both devoted to the well being and individual growth of the other, that you fully trust her and her you. It means knowing with absolute certainty that you are perfectly safe with each other. So, you would have to take the time to find a woman with whom you can build trust and be yourself. Worst of all it would mean not just accepting her for who she is, but celebrating who she is.

What do you think? I'd like to hear from both men and women on this one. What do you do that let's the person you love know that you really want to be with them?

Thoughts on the Future (A Poem)

Thoughts on the Future

No one can see ten years from now

if the days will be good to us or

who is finally rich or poor.

No one can see where you will be

but, I hope you are happy.

Nobody knows five years from now

if the world is gone or at peace

or if there is a cure for anything.

Can’t see who still loves each other

but, I’m sure you are beautiful.

No gypsy can predict next year

who is married or dying

and who will always be alone.

But, if you finally let yourself fall,

I hope it healed you.

No fortune teller can see all.

But, there is one thing I know.

Looking to tomorrow and

believing you're there is all I need

today.

By: Brett Merritt (me)

Love is Not All

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink

Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; 

Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink 

And rise and sink and rise and sink again; 

Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, 

Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; 

Yet many a man is making friends with death 

Even as I speak, for lack of love alone. 

It well may be that in a difficult hour, 

Pinned down by pain and moaning for release, 

Or nagged by want past resolution's power, 

I might be driven to sell your love for peace, 

Or trade the memory of this night for food. 

It well may be. I do not think I would. 

Love is Not All by Edna St. Vincent Milay

When Amy and I were married (10 years ago last week!) we didn't have a traditional wedding reception with a line and nuts in a paper cup and cubes of cheese on toothpicks and 500 people from our ward and our parents work. We got married in the morning and then had a nice lunch in the afternoon with about 100 people. Really just our closest family and friends. We wanted it to be fun and we wanted to have good food and we didn't want it to be exhausting for us or for our guests. And it was, by my recollections, super fun and awesome. 

One of the things I loved was that we had friends do toasts - you know, not with alcohol because we're Mormon, y'all. But they would give some sort of tribute, or sing a song or whatever. Our good friend Topher (yes, THAT Topher!) read that poem above, Love is Not All by Edna St. Vincent Milay. Most people wouldn't think this appropriate wedding fare, what with its talk of blood and thickened lung and fractured bones. But I adore it.

To me, what it is saying is that your grand romantic gestures are all well and good but love, true love, isn't only about that. It's about the day to day. Living your life, raising your kids, emptying the dishwasher so your spouse doesn't have to. And even though on its own love can't fix everything - marriage takes work and dedication and compromise - it is because of love that you do it all.

For our 10th wedding anniversary last week Amy and I left the kids with the in-laws and went to stay overnight downtown. There were no roses or candles or harps on the agenda. We had dinner at Malawi Pizza (they don't even have waiters), went to a movie and went shopping. And for us, that is a dream day. Sure, it may not seem that romantic. But for us to be away from the kids and remember that we are human beings (not just the robots that keep reminding the 8 year old to do his homework again and again) and laugh and talk and hold hands without our 7 year old getting grossed out by our PDA was delightful and romantic in its own way.

I want to make sure that Amy, who is my best friend, remains my best friend for the next 70 years. Because while our lives now are busy and full of school projects and doctors appointments and dance classes, there will come a day in the not too distant future where the kids grow up and move away and it's just the two of us. And when that flood of day to day activities and schedules and pick up times has slowed to a trickle, I know that I will still have my best friend to spend the rest of my life with and that she still will be the person that I want to laugh with and talk to and hold hands with. And we will probably spend our time going to movies, and eating and shopping. And that is my definition of true love.  

One Upping Ken.

Ken thinks he has the corner on cute meets because he and Katie met when I was a freshman, but have I got a tale for you:


It was the spring of 2003 (Ken had 6 kids by then...maybe more, maybe less) and I was doing improv in a little club in a tiny suburb of LA called, Provo Utah.  I was younger and thinner but just as funny, my eyes just as blue and my front tooth just as fake.  I don't remember the first time I saw Lindsay, but she does, but you have to understand that she was SO FAR out of my league that my mind didn't even think to hold on to that moment.  As a mid-attractive man there are women that you see who are at your level and you mind spins off into the eternities and crates a whole fiction of what life would be if you were to fall in love.  My mind did no such thing when I met my wife, certainly my mind spun a filthy web of debauchery, too indecent to blog about here, (that's for my other adult blog, tableandsinglepot) but that was all my mind was ever doing at 24 so why would it hold on to this one perfect moment.  Anyway she says I picked her up and spun her around.  Who knows?!  Why?! This must have been right at the end of my 'Spinning Strangers' phase...it was only, like, two weeks.

So no, I don't remember the first time we met. I do remember our first dinner...well she was actually having dinner with Brett but she sat across from me and I was transfixed.  But again, she was out with Brett and Brett only dated (and eventually married) wildly stunning women (He only married one wildly stunning woman)...he was much broodier than me...and taller. But then summer came and with it magic.  It was all very fast and tremulous and passionate and fraught and wild and there was a phone call to my district manager to transfer to the Pasadena store and then we were signing a lease and then we were forcing her mother to plan the wedding back in Utah and forcing my mom to pay for the HUGE luncheon (we wanted to save the reception money for our honeymoon, so we utilized the 'Grooms Parents pay for the Luncheon' and invited 200 people and then flew off to Puerto Vallarta.

But then...

After that...

Everything went quiet, or rather, calm...

After the most romantic and passionate summer of any summer ever lived by anyone.  We settled, or rather, landed on the first year of our marriage.  And the soft gold dust of LA landed, or rather, settled on our skin.  And we traded our midnight independent movies for 5 o'clock homemade dinners on our balcony, just the two of us, face to face and the whole year, still, stays gold and edge-blurred and perfect.  We had found each other against all odds, my mid-attractiveness and lower middle intelligence and her staggering beauty and insatiable mind not withstanding, we found each other.  It was not in either of our plans but then, one day, it was only ever going to be just like this:

or this...

and this...

or this... 

now this...

And I will love her forever.

If You Like Me, Check This Box

My wife and I when we were dating in 1994.

I was an advertising major in college. I wanted to write commercials for radio and television. My goal was to one day work at a large ad firm in Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, or San Luis Obispo. (I don’t think there are any large agencies in San Luis Obispo, but 1. I adore little beach towns, and 2. Don’t you kind of giggle when you say “San Luis Obispo?” Me too.)

In my dreams, I would have a little office with a window view of the ocean, an oversized poster of The Joshua Tree hanging on my wall, a mini-freezer filled with ice cream. Also one of those little basketball hoops rigged atop a little wastebasket for the ultimate cliché of the tortured writer who rips scarcely touched paper with half-written ideas on it out of the typewriter, wads it up into a ball, and throws it at the wastebasket. Also, everyone else in the office would give me a hard time for still using a typewriter in this day and age.

In an effort to stay true to my art form of writing and completely avoid developing any business savvy, I took only one business class in college. It was held in a stadium-style classroom with hundreds of savvy business students and me and my roommate/future commercial writing-partner – Lincoln Hoppe.

We always sat in the front row. I don’t know why we sat there; maybe because we felt out of place with all the snooty business students. What with their briefcases, collared shirts, and large brains. It seemed like the average age in the classroom was 42, and I was at all times slightly uncomfortable, like somebody might stand, call my bluff, and demand my dismissal from this and any business classes. “Pardon me, Mr. Professor, your Honor, but I object to this hoodlum occupying a coveted seat in the front row of this, your stadium classroom. Furthermore, I submit that he has neither the inclination nor the maturation or substantiation for comprehending the volumes of wise and insightful tutorials you have prepared for us, your insatiable business students. Plus I heard him make a fart joke when he walked into class today.”

But I remained dutiful in attending my big business class. After all, I’d paid for it, I needed the credits to graduate…and my future wife, Katie Fillmore, happened to have a class in that same building, about half an hour after my class had started. And she started this little tradition that I adored.

About 25 minutes into every class, I would receive a love note from Katie. As if we were in junior high. They were always thoughtful; but my favorite part was that she would write the note, fold it up, and on the outside of the paper write: “Pass this note to the handsome, dark-haired man on the front row named ‘Ken.’” She would then sneak in the door of this monstrous classroom, tap the suit in the last row, at the top of the stadium-style seating structure, and hand him the note. The guy would read the instructions to pass it down, and he would hand it to the guy in front of him. Down and down. Down and down. Down something like 36 rows of seats the note would go, until somebody would tap me on the shoulder and hand me the note.

Now, we had been dating several months at this point, and I think Katie truly loved me. I think she knew I appreciated getting these little notes. But somewhere in Katie’s psyche, I think she also got the biggest kick out of this little phenomenon. That amidst all the no-nonsense attitudes of these business students, who would just as quickly clock you with their Franklin Planners as shoot you a dirty look for disturbing them during a business lecture, she could single-handedly reduce them to schoolyard behavior in three seconds flat. Inherit in everyone who ever went through adolescence is the knee-jerk, sociological reaction to not ask questions, just do what the note says and pass it along to the receiving end. Like you have no choice in the matter. The instructions are clear; I must pass this note on or endure the consequences!

I loved Katie for that. I loved that she found hilarity in random acts of frivolity. I loved that she thought of me every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, at 2:25 p.m. I loved that she would write “the handsome dark-haired man in the front row” and assumed everyone would know who that was. And I love that Katie still thinks no matter what other vocation I pursue to support our family, I should never give up on that little writing office with the typewriter that overlooks the ocean.

Happy Valentine’s Week to my very favorite person!

The Fire and Works of Love

As this is the weekend before the 4th we wanted you to think back on those summers in your life when stuff meant stuff and the world was wide and open.

There was this girl.  She was the prettiest girl in school and I was her second best friend. We hung out a lot and we laughed and ate Jell-O and colored in coloring books...we were 15 and I loved her.  It was the summer before high school and I knew that September would come and we would fraction off into the churning sea of 10th grade.  I think she knew I loved her, even though I never told her...well, I may have told her every day but I was such a kidder that it never took hold, which is how I got the title "Second Best Friend".  So I had this night planed out, it wasn't quite a date but somehow it ended up that it was just me and her (First Best Friend had another engagement) and we were going to see the fire works for our city's birthday.  I remember getting dressed.  How hard it is to pull of effortlessly put together for a summer night with someone you love but they could never know. Shorts and a button down.  The button down says, "This is more important than a T-Shirt."  the shorts say, "My legs get hot.".  We had planed a rendezvous spot in the park, this was in a time before cell phones and somehow you were just suppose to be where you said you would when you said you would.  Right before I was going to leave my house the phone rang.  She couldn't come. Or rather she couldn't come with me.  Her family had decided they wanted to celebrate our city's birthday together.  Everyone has this exact moment in their lives, trying to be cool in the face of utter disappointment.  Well, she must have heard it in my shuddering voice because she made me a promise,

"You have to go tonight, and somewhere in the crowd I will be there too.  Then we can watch the fireworks together but a part.  And every time you see a blue firework, that will be me thinking of you. And every time you see a red firework that will be you thinking of me."

It was well played.  Even at 15 I was a die hard romantic and was quivering at the small branch of hope that she was offering.  Of course I would go, by myself, and find a seat in the grass and look up to the sky and wait for her thoughts and think of her waiting for mine.

The first firework was giant.  It filled the navy sky over both our heads. As it hung there in the air, a smile of deep and powerful adolescent love smeared across my face.

It was red.

And it was blue. 

Split down the middle.

Dads, Are You an Expert or a Pro?

I always thought the words "expert" and "professional" meant essentially the same thing. This week, I was corrected. We were having a family discussion and my daughter Bella had some questions when the subject of performing arts came up. We discuss this topic from time to time since my wife Amelia works in film, I often work as an actor, and both the kids have shown some interest in it.

The discussion went something like this:

Bella what it meant to be a professional. Amelia said that being a professional means doing something you get paid to do. I confirmed. Aidan said that it means you do something for your job. Bella said something like "Oh, so you're a professional stylist?" to Amelia which she confirmed and then Bella said," So, Dad's a professional actor?" and we said that basically yes I am a professional actor because I frequently get paid to act in commercials, films, and plays. Aidan then replied, "Being an expert is not the same as being a professional." I could see his point because there are many actors, for example, who don't get paid to act but who are very good at what they do. So, I said,"Yes, I have been acting and studying acting a long time and even though acting isn't my day job, I am considered an expert at it." Aidan looked at me. Then he sort of laughed. Then he said,"I mean, you're pretty good, no offense."

According to my 12 year-old, I'm a pro actor but not an expert. He was right about one thing. (Maybe everything?) There is a difference between being a professional and an expert:

Professional - A person engaged or qualified in a profession.

Expert - A person who has a comprehensive and authoritative knowledge of or skill in a particular area.

I don't see a huge difference but it's there. The interesting thing to me is that, while Aidan seems to think so, I don't see a very wide gap between the two. I don't really see one as being "better" than the other, just different.

So, as I was thinking about Father's Day, I asked myself if I was a pro or an expert dad. I can see a pro dad showing up for their family, learning how to be better, providing for them, and engaging on every level he needs to. Pretty great right? I think you can decide to be a pro dad the day you get married or have a child. 

The expert dad would maybe be someone who has had the time to discover the nuances of being a father. Like what it takes to get the kids to go cheerfully to bed, or when a child needs him or their mother. Maybe the expert is someone who knows every difference between their kids and knows how to make each one feel like a special individual. He knows how to run the family in equal partnership with his spouse. He is humble about all the time he has spent as a dad and rather than proving he knows a lot, he just shows it by how much love he gives to his family. Often we don't notice that the expert dad was even an expert until we become fathers or mothers ourselves. "I mean, I'm pretty good but ..."

Young Love

Remember Valentine’s Day in elementary school? We would gladly hand out Valentine’s cards to everyone in class. Boy, girl, weird smelling kid with a lip fungus – everyone was endowed with a written sentiment. On Valentine’s Day, charity abounded and we were all compassionate.  

There was one year when cupid paid me a visit, and I was indeed hit with his arrow. It was fourth grade and her name was Tess Dresher. I can still recall the day she walked up to me during recess and asked me to “go with her.” “Sure,” I answered. And those were the last words every exchanged between Tess and myself. We occasionally sat by each other, and I gave her a very special Peanuts Valentine’s Day card, but we never did speak, or even make eye contact. So I guess technically we are still “going together.” Boy is she going to be mad when she finds out I got married and had seven children. She’ll want to break up for sure. I’m not looking forward to that conversation.

Say That You Love Me

Have you read Senor Gary Chapman’s book The Five Love Languages? A fascinating read! And by “fascinating” I mean “easy enough for even me to understand.”

According to Captain Gary Chapman, love is spoken in five different languages. You want I should spell them out for you? Done. They are 1) Physical Touch, 2) Acts of Service, 3) Gifts, 4) Quality Time and 5) Words of Affirmation. One of these is YOUR “love language,” that is, the way YOU feel loved. (No, Eating is not one of them. But mark my words, Sir Chapman has a sequel in the works, and it includes a title somewhere along the line of The Sixth Love Language: The Most Delicious of All.)

As I read Sergeant Chapman’s theory, it made me feel like a genius. Because I was pretty sure I was multi-lingual. I spoke several of these love languages, if not all of them. Give me a hug (physical touch), and you bet I’ll feel loved. But give me a hug while telling me how smart I am (words of affirmation), pulling money out of my ear (gifts), and brushing lint off my shirt (acts of service), then I really feel loved. And if you make it a long hug, then that’s quality time, and we just covered all our bases, and I’m feeling more loved than Santa Claus.

After a more thorough reading and much deliberation, I have concluded that my love language is actually Words of Affirmation.

According to Saint Chapman, the reason it was so difficult for me to narrow in on my love language is due to his theory that if you hear your love language spoken regularly, and your Bucket O’ Love (scientific term) is full, then it’s difficult to detect which language is yours. Or, if you feel absolutely no love, and your Bucket is plumb empty, then it is equally difficult to determine what your love language is. But if you know my wife, Katie, then you know that my struggle to determine my love language is because I have marinated in love for so many years, my Bucket runneth over.