the first step is admitting…


In 2013, I was formally diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome. 

Just months before my diagnosis, I applied for several jobs – all at once.

For about a day and a half, I had three jobs. THREE jobs. (I was hired at three different places, but didn’t work all three jobs in that day and half.) I was pretty excited!

Before I was able to work as much as I was hoping I would get to, I had to quit two of the jobs. 

I felt like I had the whole world on my shoulders, having been hired at so many different places.

I was newly pregnant with my son Isaac. ( I’m going to stop calling my babies by their blog nicknames. I just don’t think it matters anymore. :-p )

The job that I chose to try to keep was at a Subway. If offered the same job today, I would quickly run away.

Subway requires a massive amount of multi-tasking and an ability to process information at quick speeds. Neither of which am I capable of doing.

Any way, yada yada… in 2014, while pregnant with my daughter, Juliet, I had a data entry job at an insurance agency. Contracted position.

If I could give 2014-Stephanie some advice, I’d tell her… “don’t talk to your co-workers.” … “sit at lunch, alone.” … “just do your d-mn work.”… and … “emotionally prepare for Chloe’s adoption anniversary in October.”

So, it’s 2016… and I can very readily admit which jobs (and housing situations) I can handle and which ones I should run away from – faster than …whatever’s really-really fast.

I’d describe my current situation as OK. It’s not a long-term solution for homelessness and unemployment, but I’m OK. 

I think it’s been a little over a month since I’ve seen Daphne. I think my friends would agree that I’ve done the best I can do to be apart of her life. And that’s all I can really say, right now.

“Do you get to see your babies?”


This is another question that I’m asked a lot.

“Do you get to see your children?”


“Do you ever get to see your babies?”

My answer:

“It’s not a matter of ‘get to.'”


I want to see my babies! Oh, so very much do I want to see them!

I want hold my Lady Bug and kiss her cheeks. I want to play with Legos with her! I want to join her in her favorite activities!

I want to watch my Precious Picklette walk across a room. I want to listen to her assert herself and tell everyone exactly what’s going down! (I wonder who she gets that from…? haha)

I want hold my Sweet Sesame, feed him, and try to make him laugh.

…so, I do want to see my babies, but do I get to? Legally speaking, I can see and be with Precious Picklette. She has not been adopted. She is with her biological father and her stepmother. We all love Precious Picklette. I want her to attach to them as best as possible, before I enter the picture – besides that I do not feel “emotionally” ready to be any type of mother figure to her, right now. Does that sound selfish? I promise you, it isn’t. I will explain all of it to her, someday.

Now, Lady Bug and Sweet Sesame have been legally adopted. Do I get to see them? That’s a confusing question, for me.

I want to see Lady Bug, I do… but I also don’t. I want my Lady Bug to attach to her adoptive parents – which she already has, actually. But I’m scared that she may recognize me and think, “What the crap? Where did you go, these (almost) 2 years?? Where have you been? You’re the one who changed most of my diapers! You’re the one who helped me learn to walk! You’re the one…” etc, etc. …or maybe she would just think, “Hmm, I feel like I know you from somewhere….”

Now, Sweet Sesame… I don’t think seeing him would cause any Earth-shattering hysteria, but I do want him to attach to his parents. I’m  one of his biological parents, but they are his (their) real parents, in my book. I love him and can’t wait to watch him grow up in pictures and videos (both of them), but our time to meet will come.

So, do I get to see my kids? No. Not right now. But it’s not truly a matter of “get to,” because I’ve chosen not to – even if offered the chance.

FYI, don’t offer me a chance. I’d have a meltdown.

Picklette / For Now


What’s going on with Precious Picklette, lately? I don’t desire to ask, even if I desire to know.

She’s 16 months old and is walking a little bit, the last time I knew.

I have enough going on right now that I’ve decided to avoid the drama attached to knowing anything about Picklette, for now.

With age, people are more and more set in their ways. So, I see no real hope in there being major change in this situation, for now.

Evaluations / Children’s Nicknames


Ow, ow, ow! …to these Braxton Hicks contractions I’ve been having. I’ve actually been experiencing fewer of them, since increasing my water intake… but still, ow! – when they do happen.

Any way, let me tell you what I’m so excited to blog about! In 9 days, I will have my “neuropsychological evaluation!”

I also have a vocational evaluation in a little over 2 weeks. They’ll be testing my abilities, interests, and personality – discovering what type of job best suits me.

If I felt like making noise, I’d probably do my happy scream right now …but I’m kind of sleepy today.

Yesterday, I hit the 33-week mark of my pregnancy.

Somehow, that reminded me that I want to go through all of my blog’s posts and edit my children’s names. I’ve been reading other blogs and realized that moms seem to make up nicknames for their kids – just for their blogs. Good idea, peoples!

My 3 year old daughter’s nickname will be… Lady-Bug

My 1 year old daughter’s nickname will be… Precious-Picklette

My son’s nickname will be… Sweet-Sesame

( ( ( ( Nicknames are subject to change, in the event(s) of specific personality traits being revealed. ) ) ) ) – but I’ll keep the nickname changing to a minimum. I promise.

Disclaimer: (some) people, like me, who have Asperger’s syndrome rarely use pet names, so – honestly – coming up with my kids’ permanent (blog) nicknames will be a matter of observation… of what my kids’ loved ones say about them.

BWAP; Week 1: Who I Am


I found this “52 Weeks of Blogging with a Purpose” list on another mom blog: )  (Thank you! 🙂 )

Week 1: Who I Am

I find myself fidgeting as I try to begin this post. So, the basic question is: “Who Am I?”

Bona Fide Birth Mother. I was born and raised in south Texas, USA.

My Dad raised me. My grandparents (my Dad’s parents) helped.

My Mom didn’t raise me. She had visitation rights and for a while, my sister (who’s 18 months older than me) and I visited my Mom every Wednesday.

Me and my sister got along – sometimes. It was kind of “hit or miss.” The reason seemed to be that I am (and always have been) very outspoken of anything I deem a fact. My opinions, too, of course. I don’t think my blunt honesty ever had big fans (people who enjoyed it), in my younger years. Now, as adults, me and my sister are capable of getting along a little more, but not for long periods of time.

As a child, besides my honesty… I also had a temper. I’ve learned to control my temper, for the most part. I remember not, at all, being a nice sister, at times. When my sister tried to report my bad behavior to a parent, they didn’t always believe her. I’ve asked my sister about this, since becoming an adult. She says that she doesn’t remember any of it.

At the age of 18, I attended Texas Bible Institute. It was a 9 month course. I stayed for 3 months. My black and white / rigid thinking came into play when it was insinuated that for me to prove my salvation, I would need to speak in tongues. Maybe this isn’t apart of the TBI doctrine, but someone on campus (at that time) seemed to believe that. I couldn’t stay, due to this unbiblical teaching. Never mind that I was rooming with 4 other girls in a 500 square foot room. All of it being added up, there’s no way I could have ever survived an entire 9 months there.

A lot happened between the age of 18 and 24, but that’s a whole ‘nother blog post!

At the age of 24, I gave birth to my daughter, Lady-Bug. It took me close to 6 months before I felt a mother-daughter bond with her. That was probably half due to post-partum emotional issues and half due to Asperger’s Syndrome. That’s all I can figure out.

At the age of 27, I gave birth to my daughter, Precious-Picklette. Not much time passed (about 2 months) before I had a mental breakdown / emotional meltdown. Lady-Bug was adopted by the Z’s and Precious-Picklettes father took over raising Precious-Picklette.

Also at the age of 27, I became pregnant with my son (Sweet-Sesame) – whom I’m 32 weeks pregnant with, at the moment.

There’s a very quick snapshot of my “life’s story.” 

I like lasagna. Some days, I love it… but today, it sounds too heavy.

I like ranch dressing on (almost) anything.

My favorite color is lavender.

I’m 5’7″.

I have Asperger’s Syndrome.

…okay, ’til next time.

Me, at 22 years old.

Me, at 22 years old.

Daphne / friend / freon


Yesterday was my day off from work. It was a requested morning off, but my boss gave me the whole day. Daphne’s father and I signed a few papers having to do with custody (joint conservatory) and access/visitations. 

We signed the papers because we knew we needed to agree on the support amount, but later we got back in contact with each other and found that we both disagreed with the court’s custody and visitation schedules that they assigned for us. The woman that ran through the paperwork with us told us that the schedule was the average doling out of custody and visitation for joint custody parents. 

When we got together, again, yesterday, we came up with and emailed to each other our agreement. 

Yesterday was, in fact, the first time I’d seen Daphne’s father be genuinely appreciative of my desires for Daphne. I think he’s finally realized that I’m serious. He complimented me, saying “I’ve seen a change in you in just the last year and a half. You’re sticking to your decisions more and more. Thank you. I appreciate you.” …he’s always somewhat formal in his speaking, which honestly annoys me – but he knows that.

Until Daphne’s father and I explained our agreement to Daphne’s stepmother (and primary female caregiver), she was upset by the court papers. Several times, Daphne’s father and I had to explain to her that those papers made no difference in what we had decided for Daphne’s future.

I made sure that Daphne’s father knows that when Daphne’s 7 or 8 years old, I want her to be in therapy for a little while (unless more therapy seems needed). I was 2 years old when my parents divorced and I know that being raised in an unconventional way can, at least, sometimes warrant the child(ren) needing to speak with a therapist, to either confirm that they understand the situation their parents are in AND that both parents want what’s best for their child … or to allow there to be someone the child can talk to confidentially about what bothers or upsets them about the situation.

…. after dealing with Daphne’s father, I made my way to a friend of mine’s favorite coffee shop. We talked about the support / visitation / custody order, we talked about my job, and we talked about the economy and college attendance. Basically, this friend of mine is there for me when I need practical advice. He has a Bachelor’s in Economics and I trust his opinion on most things. Most things…

I convinced my friend that we should go to his house, eat dinner, and watch a movie… and that I’d very much appreciate if he’d put some freon in my car – that had zero freon left in it, due to a slow leak. 

We ate BBQ’d chicken (which needed some major ranch dressing help), we watched The Following on (channel) Fox, and he put freon in my car. 

My friend and I used to be a couple (from May 7th, 2008 to June 21st, 2008). Ha! Irony! I hadn’t thought about it ’til just now! We hung out on the 5 year anniversary of us breaking up! haha!

But he and I have been on and off friends, ever since. The idea of ever not knowing him is pure insanity to me. Maybe someday we’ll part ways, but he seems like a staple in my life.

I slept on his couch until 7am. Then, his cat (Chewy) woke me up. I got up, wrote him a note: “Sorry I left so early, but I can’t ever seem to sleep very late anymore. Besides that Chewy is really annoying, this morning. Thank you for dinner, freon and friendship. I love you. ‘I know.’ – Steph”,

and then I drove home… even needing to turn my a/c’s temperature up – because it was actually too cold. 

Don’t You Dare Go ‘There’!


Today, at work, a co-worker asked me, “Is it a boy or a girl?”

I answered, “I don’t know yet, but I’m hoping to find out this Tuesday.”

Another co-worker asked me, “Which would you rather have?”

I answered, “I don’t care which.”

The first co-worker, that started the conversation, said “She doesn’t care because she’s not keeping it [the baby].”

I was stunned and extremely offended!

I said, “It is NOT that I don’t care! I love my babies! But I don’t care which gender this baby is because I will love him or her, whether this baby’s a boy or a girl! I’m extremely sensitive about my babies!”

…don’t go there!

My story, summarized. First post.


I’ll try to be quick about this: telling a summarized version of my story.

Lady-Bug was born in May of 2010. The first real thought I remember having after I saw her for the first time was, “I’m really a mother.” It wasn’t an excitement, filled with joy and anticipation. It was a revelation that the pregnancy I had just finished brought a child (an undeniably beautiful child) into the world.

I raised Lady-Bug by myself for 2 years and 5 months. 

When Lady-Bug was about 18 months old, I became pregnant again. Unlike my first pregnancy, my second pregnancy was very-slightly planned. This man made a conscious decision to impregnate me. My body and I obliged, semi-reluctantly.

My babies have different fathers.

There’s a lot that I’m not including in this blog post, but I will eventually tell all. 

Precious Picklette, my youngest daughter, was born in August of 2012. For 11 weeks, I took care of / raised both girls.

I’d say post-partum depression played a part in the emotional breakdown that I experienced in October of 2012.

Lady-Bug, almost 2 and a half, was (I’m sure) no different than she had been since beginning her (developmentally healthy) tantrums and investigation of boundaries. The addition of Precious-Picklette, her special feeding needs, breast-pumping issues, et cetera (this etc will be included in this blog, eventually) drove me to a near-complete breakdown.

Less than two hours after realizing that I was no longer able to handle the responsibility of raising two kids by myself, I called an acquaintance (who is more than an acquaintance now) and told her how I was feeling and what all had taken place in recent days / hours.

When Lady-Bug was 6 weeks old (and again, when she was 6 months old), I considered placing her for adoption. Honestly, I don’t like wording it that way, but it’ll have to do for now.

On the phone, I told my (now) friend that I needed her to “listen to me now!” … “Don’t listen to me later: tomorrow or next week. Listen to me now!” The rational-adult me was speaking. In the past, when I had voiced my wonder of whether Lady-Bug should be adopted into a nuclear family, most friends reassured me that I was a good mother and would be able to overcome whatever came my (and Lady-Bug’s) way. I needed one person to listen to me and help me follow through with my wishes for Lady-Bug.

Thankfully, the person I was speaking with (J.A.S.) is a former social worker. Not only did she listen to and believe me (about genuinely wanting Lady-Bug to be adopted), she also knew a lot more than I did about the adoption process. Not only these things, but J.A.S. also knew a couple who were hoping and praying for an opportunity to adopt a child.

Within two days, Lady-Bug was on her way to live with her adoptive parents: Mr. and Mrs. Zumba (nickname)


Lady-Bug, me, & Precious-Picklette. Not the best day of my life.

Lady-Bug’s adoption became final on February 7, 2013.

So, with Precious-Picklette in her Moby wrap, I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to do. With the depression I felt due to the (pending) adoption of Lady-Bug, et cetera (will tell later), I helped Precious-Picklette biological father in the process of proving his paternity with a cheek-swab test. I wanted Precious-Picklette to live with her father (who’s in his late forties) and capable girlfriend (who’s in her fifties and has three adult children). Both of them willing to raise Precious-Picklette, Precious-Picklette’s father wanted to be absolutely sure that Precious-Picklette was his daughter – even though she’s the (female) spitting image of him. He, understandably, did not want to cultivate an emotional attachment with an infant that he wasn’t 100% sure to be the biological father of.

“In the end,” when Precious-Picklette was 11 weeks old, she began her life of living with her father and (assumed / future) stepmother.

About 4 months later, I found out about my third (and present) pregnancy. Immediately, I wanted this baby (whose nickname is Sweet-Sesame) to be adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Zumba (Lady-Bug’s adoptive parents).

Here I am, almost 17 weeks pregnant with Sweet-Sesame.

Yes, I’ve been reproductively irresponsible, but what has happened has already happened.

In November, Sweet-Sesame is due to be born. Sweet-Sesame’s assumed (almost-definite) biological father has agreed to sign the waiver of intent – to allow Sweet-Sesame’s adoption. I haven’t been updated (by Mr. and Mrs. Zumba’s lawyer) on whether he has signed yet, but I assume he has or he will soon. (Update: Sweet-Sesame’s father signed the waiver of intent.)