It was something ex-mannissean said that gave me the jumping off point for the conversation in my head. And there are a lot of conversations going on in my head. (As my husband says, you only have to worry when all of the voices are saying the same thing.)

Technically, it's back to that "Islander" vs. "Resident" vs. "Summer" issue.

Technically.

I have a daughter whom I love dearly and, sometimes, desperately (those are the times when you just want to scream at them "are you so brain damaged that you can't see when you should just shut up?). I came into her life when she was a quiet, bratty six year old who walked with her shoulders in a constant defensive position, eyes downcast and hardly ever spoke above a whisper. For all her beautiful smiles, she was a very dour person. Her mother, some of our dear readers remember the woman (for I cannot call her a lady), emotionally and psychologically abandoned her well before she ever literally abandoned her. She popped into my daughter's life on occasion, maybe sent a present for Christmas and a birthday, took my daughter to her home maybe two or (very rare) three week-ends every year. She never instigated these visitations, my daughter always had to request them. She never paid dentist bills, or took my daughter to the doctor (past the age of three, that is), or did any of the things that truly makes a woman a "mother".

And that's the thing...this world is home to an unfortunate number of people who call themselves "Mom" and "Dad" because they happened to give birth. As a child of adoption myself, allow me to say "bullsh**. These folks show up every once in a while - sometimes even more than that. They're there for the really special occasions like Christmas, Birthdays, Graduations, etc. And they say, sometimes even with glowing pride "I'm the Father." But they do nothing to actually invest in a relationship that allows them the priviledge of calling themselves parent. They haven't wiped the snotty noses and the poopy bottoms, kissed the boo boos and counted the stitches, cleaned up vomit or slept on the extreme edge of the bed (in positions one hasn't attempted since the senior prom) because apparently the monsters have chosen your child's room to hold their annual convention. That is the Mommy and the Daddy, my friend. If you're smart, that incredible biological bond is nurtured into that magical moment when vomit, blood and poop isn't just your job - it's your dream. But that biological bond doesn't get you any closer to being a parent than buying a Cabbage Patch Doll does. And a lack of a biological bond doesn't make you any less of one, either.

In a way, that's what the "big deal" about calling oneself an "Islander" is all about. The ex-mannissean wrote (on the Block Island Blog) about combing dark beaches many years ago, in blizzard conditions searching for a grisly aftermath. That's the investment. There are folks who live here year round, or work here 8 months of the year, or have been "coming out summers for more than 20 years" who call themselves "Islanders" - but they haven't combed the beaches at God-awful times. They haven't joined the Rescue Squad, or taught children, or volunteered at church, or invested their time on a daily basis. In other words, they haven't kissed boo boos and wiped butts.

There are those who say "What's the big deal? Why does it matter?" It may seem silly. Hell, it may be silly. But it does matter. It matters in the way that I, for many years before the joy of adoption, put in the daily, heart-wrenching work of being a mother and was never given credit for it. It matters that there were people (not whose opinion should have mattered, but still...) who honest to God defended this woman's right to abandon her child over the rights of the child. People who thought that "[my husband] will yell at me if I call to see her". First of all, like he doesn't have a right to be upset? And second of all...and? I would jump off the Golden Gate Bridge into Shark Infested waters rather than be kept from my children. It matters that I cook casseroles for funeral collations, and I call mothers of classmates to let them know that their child was yelling in my window at 1:30 in the morning (and I would expect them to do the same!); I taught children, I learned names, I learned the proper way to park at the Depot without taking up two spaces; I played at two churches and volunteered for those damn extravaganzas and cabaret fundraisers, I directed the Choir...I deserve to be called Mom. Not the lady next to me who may or may not have been born to "Islanders" but only shows up on holidays, special occasions, or perhaps only shows up nightly at the Albion.

In all honesty, I am a 'flatlander'; a term I was completely unfamiliar with until moving to Block Island. I love my green and rolling hills of Missouri. I love everything about it, even the bad. Just like the Moms and Dads of Block Island. We bitch and complain (why can't he just put his dishes in the dishwasher instead of right next to it? Is that so much to ask? why can't they just stop woo-hooing at four in the morning?) out of their earshot, but it's only because we know what their true potential really is. We want them to live up to that potential. We want them to be better people than we are. That is, if we really are a true Mother/Father.

So, yeah, what does it matter if you really are an Islander? In the end, nothing more than credit. Nothing more than knowing you deserve it, not just had the biological pass key. Being born here doesn't make you an Islander. I've been here longer than some natives. Being the caretaker, the boo-boo kisser and the kick in the pants-er does.

Next week, I leave my little home away from home. I am off to raise another child. A bigger, more problematic foster kid. But I won't try and call myself a "Bather" or "Maine-iac" or any other stupid name like that. And not because it's stupid. But because I haven't earned it. Yet.