What are We Called?

When I talk about my story with others, I say, "Hi, my name is Elsa, and I'm a birthmother."

Sometimes they don't know what that word means.  And I calmly explain that it means I had a child and placed that child for adoption rather than parent the child myself.  At that point, they get it.

I have a group on Facebook that I call the Birthparent Support Group.  I go to meetings that are called Birthmother Support Group meetings.  I also attend meetings with another group that includes birthparents, adoptive parents, and adoptees, which are called Three Strand meetings.  The vast majority of people who are there are birthmoms and we are called that.  No one has ever really raised an objection to it.

It wasn't until I got more into the birthmother community that I realized that some people have negative feelings towards the word "birthmother."  From what I can tell, this negative connotation happened more often in the past when placing a child for adoption was a hidden and shameful thing.  Some still don't like the name.

As a result, I've seen several alternative names come up: first mother, natural mother, and the ever adorable tummy mommy.

I don't mind the term birthmother or birthmom.  It seems to me to be an accurate description of myself.  But I can see how others might take it negatively or remember the negative connotations around it.  And I started wondering, is there another name that you like to use?  Is there something that fits you?

I want to make this clear: I do not believe there is a right or wrong opinion in this situation.  I believe you should choose the term you feel most comfortable with.  But the question came up in my mind and I wanted to know, which name do you prefer?

I hope you all are having a great weekend and hope to hear from you soon!

My Ongoing War

For me, coming to the decision to place my son for adoption was like a battle.  And dealing with the aftermath and the passage of time has been another kind of battle entirely.  I wanted to put my feelings into words, so I wrote a poem about it.  I actually read this poem aloud in front of my son's adoptive father.  He thought it was fantastic.  He knew it was something I had to say.  So, here is the poem that I wrote:

"My Ongoing War"

I have a son

He’s a few months over 3 years old now

I am not his mom

I am not his mother

I am his birthmother

I’ve gotten better at talking about this

Except for the sticky stinking horrible parts of it

I have an army of friends

Who try to convince me

Of my status

You are a mother

No, I’m not

You are a mother

No, seriously, I’m not

You are a mother

Ok if you say that one more time, really just don’t say it again

I’m not

And I think it’s partly because

No one knows

I think

No one wants to know

Even I don’t really want to know

The mental struggle that I went through

The mental and emotional war that I waged

With and against myself

And it was a bloody and fantastic war

Between the mother in me

And the birthmother in me

The mother in me wanted to keep him

Wanted against all good sense and reason in the world

To keep him

Tried to believe so hard

That there had to be a way

To keep him

The birthmother in me wanted what was best

Wanted to make sure that he was loved, cared for, knew where he came from

And be raised

By someone else

Knew the realities

Looked for possibilities

But found none worth the risk

And slowly began to convince me

He should be raised

By someone else

By the end of May I said to the father of my child,

I am 75% certain that adoption is the best option

And because he was and is still good at finishing my sentences he said,

It’s just the 25% gets loud?

It gets so very loud

I found a wonderful and loving couple

From the first time I saw them on the site

I knew that they would be the ones

They were the ones to have my son

And keep him

I met them at the beginning of June

And after an hour long talk

I was 95% certain that this was the right idea

I had won the war, damn it

I had won the war

The birthmother had won

But oh, at what a price

While I am still certain of what I did

Where he is

How he is doing

That if he had stayed with his birthfather and I

Life would have been far different

And something much more horrible

Than I could ever wish on my worst enemy’s child

There were still skirmishes left to fight

Two that I won

Three of them are still on going

After leaving the hospital

With my son travelling in the opposite direction

I got home

The first skirmish, was panic

What did you just do?

What the hell did you just do?

Do you have any concept?

Do you have any idea?

What were you thinking?

What did you just do?

Where is he?

How is he?

What will this even be like?

Will we ever see him again?

I know promises were made

But what if?

What if?

What if?

Pictures came a couple days later

And with that more pictures

More conversations

Visits

And slowly but surely,

The panic was appeased

And faded

I won

I was now 96% certain I was right

The second skirmish is an ongoing one

It was missing

I was told when he first smiled

I was told when he first rolled over

I was told when he started to crawl

I was told when he started to talk

I was told when he started to walk and very soon after to run

I was told

I never saw these things start

And I started adding up all the things that I missed

And would never get back again

That one I lost

I was still at 96% certain

The third skirmish that attacked my resolve

Was an internal one

Was guilt

I felt terrible for giving my child a complicated life

I felt terrible for the fact that he had three last names by the time he was a week old

I felt terrible that I had to give him to someone else to make sure he would be safe

I felt terrible that my decision affected people in both our families in ways I hadn’t foreseen

I felt terrible and I felt horrible and I felt ashamed

And I felt like I was a damned creature

That I had gone against the name of mother

And done something that people found abhorrent

And some people do find it abhorrent

I’ve met them

I’ve been extremely lucky

In that I have yet to be yelled at in public

But I have met them

I have met many more

And I watch the shift in their eyes

As they try to reconcile their stereotype of a birthmother

With this girl they see standing before them

And as they calmly ask questions

And talk to me about it

They begin to understand

And they begin to accept

And I came to terms with certain things

I did give him a complicated life

I did give him three last names

But it’s better than the life I would have given him

I won, and I am at 97% certain

The fourth and fifth skirmishes

Are ongoing

They’re names and arms

They make up the last two percent of my uncertainty

The three percent that are still the mother in me

They usually only happen when

I see him again

I see how tall he’s gotten

I see how much more he looks like me

And I hear him call me

Elizabeth

I am not mom

I am not his mother

I am Elizabeth

His birthmother

And I wish that I could hold him

But he is a squirming whirlwind these days

And I’m not mom

And the arms that ache to hold him

Can’t contain him

And can’t hold him back

And deep inside my heart the creature that wanted to be a mother

Rakes her sharpened claws through me

And whispers,

I should have been mom

And that 97% of myself

Aching and bleeding and trembling and bruised turns back and says

No, you wanted to be but you couldn’t

You are not mom

You are not a mother

You are a birthmother

Because that is the best that we could be for him

~fin~

Any other poets in the house?  Any one else used writing to finally put down what they feel into words?  Let me know in the comments.  Or just let me know what you thought of this.  Hope you're having a great weekend!

Just Another Mother's Day

Mother's Day is upon us again.  I don't really like Mother's Day.

I don't like it because of the constant advertisements that are all over the internet, the radio, and the newspapers.  We're really lucky I don't have cable right now because I might have broken my own TV by now.  I know it's got to be all over the place right now.  I don't really like it because I don't want to be reminded that it's coming soon.  I know that it is.  And I will deal with it in my own way when it gets here.  But I don't need nor want to be reminded of it constantly in the days leading up to it.  All it really reminds me of is that my son is not going to be with me on Mother's Day.  I won't get a card from him.  I won't get flowers from him.  He's going to be spending the day with his mom.  And that's something I'm not a part of.  Of all the holidays of the year, Mother's Day, for me, is the worst.  I've tried to treat it like just another day, but that's not really possible in my case.

I get texts from my ex and his mother on Mother's Day.  They don't mean any malice in this.  I know. they do it because they still love me.  And I guess you could say I get my revenge because I tell my ex Happy Father's Day when that day rolls around.  Either I call my mom or she calls me so we can say it to each other.  I do like telling my mother Happy Mother's Day.  The first time she told me Happy Mother's Day, I was still big and pregnant.  My parents gave me a Mother's Day card in which they wrote, "Whatever you decide, we will always love you."  I knew they meant well.  And at the time I received it well.  But at the time I was still trying to decide what to do.  So it was difficult.

Sunday I will be going to church.  I'm going to church because the church I attend on occasion has a very low-key way of handling Mother's Day.  There is a blessing over every woman and girl in the church.  Then every woman and girl gets a carnation and the chance to go to the fellowship hall and have cake.  This will be the third time I've done so.  I like it this way.  No judgements about who I am or what I did, just that I am a mother as is every other woman.  I get a flower.  I get cake.  There are several people in the congregation who know about my son.  Even the pastor knows.  I'll show them the most recent pictures of him and they will wonder at how big he's gotten and how much he looks like me.  They'll be kind and tell me to have another piece of cake.  They know I miss him.  But in their eyes, I'm a mother as well.  And on Mother's Day, that's one thing I need.

I hope you all have a good Mother's Day and that you spend it how it suits you best.  Anyone else have any rituals or special things you do on Mother's Day?  Do let me know!

"Why I'm not where you are..."

The title of this post is from a book entitled Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer.  It was the title of the first chapter from the grandfather's point of view.  He included the date and began writing a letter to his unborn son whom he was never going to get to meet.  He wrote it to explain himself and explain why he wasn't going to be here as his son grew up and why he couldn't.  I won't say why, because this isn't a book report.  But those words stuck in my head.

After I got home from the hospital almost five years ago now, the adoption agency gave me a box of things to help me.  Book of inspirational quotes, some mints, some soap, and little things like that. One of the things was a blank journal.  It's not that fancy.  Just a yellow journal with a purple butterfly on it.  I stared at it a while and wondered what to do with it.  I have many notebooks and have always carried a whole collection of them.  But this one I stared at for a while before deciding what to write in it.

I finally figured out what I wanted to do with it when I was going through a box of books.  I found Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close in my mass of paperbacks that I had thrown into boxes upon leaving Columbus.  I flipped through the pages and found the first page of the first chapter of the grandfather's narrative.

"WHY I'M NOT WHERE YOU ARE"

I think I stared at those words for about ten minutes.  I knew what I wanted to write in that blank journal now.

I opened it to the first page and wrote: "Why I'm Not Where You Are" at the top with the date of the first entry.  The first thing I wrote was the story of how I discovered I was pregnant, moved back in with my parents, found his parents, and gave birth to him.  Since then, I've written a few entries.  Some have been a couple years apart from each other.  But I always write them as if I'm talking to Joseph at some point in the future.

I imagine I'll fill this notebook up with more entries over the years.  Probably put in more details and talk about my life and his life and what I get to see as he grows up.  Tell him things that I want him to know about me and his birthfather and his birth family.  My plan is to give him this notebook on his eighteenth birthday.  Probably won't put it in his stack of presents at any party.  But I'll give it to him wrapped up and tell him to open it when he has a quiet moment to himself.

I hope it helps him to understand what it was like for me.  And I hope he knows that I always loved him.

Anyone else have a stack of letters or a notebook of things you want your kid to read one day?  I'm sure I'm not the only one.  And if you feel comfortable, talk about it in the comments.

Transference

Okay, so, this is not a subject that we talk about a lot.  But I felt like I should talk about it because I'm having to deal with it in a serious way right now.  And if you're wondering why there is a daisy at the top of this post it's because that daisy is my transference object.

Let me explain.  I've been home from the hospital for about week now since having Joseph.  My mother and I check the porch for packages and find this long package from 1-800-Flowers.  We open it up and find this daisy in a green metal pot.  It was wilted a little due to being in a box in the Georgia summer heat.  But it quickly revived with some water.  We opened the letter that came with it and discovered that my cousin Amanda had sent it to me.  She had helped cook dinner the night before I went into the hospital and came to visit my first day here.  But then she had to go back to Louisiana.  She thought it was better to send me something that was living.  So she sent this daisy.

I'm not very good at keeping houseplants.  Never have been.  But I figured I'd try.  The summer got particularly hot so I kept the daisy in a window in the kitchen.  One day I looked over and saw that the daisy was wilting slightly.  It wasn't in danger yet, but it wasn't happy.  I nearly crash into the sink getting water for it.  And that's when I realized I had transferred all my loving instincts and such onto... a daisy.

I was living in a house with a dog.  I thought it would be the dog.  But Clarence (the dog) had been around for a few years before then, so he was already firmly entrenched in the role of being my little furry brother.  I thought maybe it would happen if someone brought over their kid.  But it did not happen.  No, I transferred onto a daisy.  At first I thought it was a little crazy and I thought of getting rid of it.  But that thought nearly made me break down in tears.  And then I had another thought: it's a plant, it's about as low maintenance as a living creature can get, no one is ever going to care about where it is but me... so, why is this a bad thing again?

Well, plants, even plants that you bring in during the winter and tend to very carefully, have a life span.  Gerbera daisies have a lifespan of about three to ten years when taken care of well.  And mine is about three months away from five years old.  And this winter was not kind.  I don't have a very bright apartment and I was starting to think it was dying.  I know it's a little weird to say I was crying over a daisy, but I was.  It's been with me a while now.  And I wasn't ready to let it go.  What I realized was I need a new daisy.

I have a few very close friends in Athens, and one of them, Kristin, used to work in a florist's shop.  I told her about my dying daisy.  And asked her to go with me to a plant nursery next month and pick out a new daisy for me.  She knows what my daisy means to me and she knows that I need something to take care of.  So she agreed and we are going next month.  My daisy seems to have recovered since the weather has warmed up and is doing okay.  But I'm still going to get another daisy so that I have a back up for when the other one dies.

At this point, I guess I will have daisies in pots the rest of my life.  Every few years I'm going to have to ask a friend to go with me to a plant nursery and pick out a daisy for me.  I figure we don't get to pick our kids, I didn't get to pick my firs daisy, I should go on having everyone pick daisies for me when I need to get a new one.  It will be a ritual for me every few years.

My daisy does help me.  Despite the fact it was breaking my heart when I thought it was dying, it has helped me to take care of something and raise something in place of raising my son.  I will probably keep on growing daisies and for me they will remind me of Joseph.  But they will also remind me that I can take care of something and raise something.  They will remind me that I am capable of taking care of a living creature, even if it is just a plant.

I hope you are all doing well tonight.  If you have any stories of transference that you'd like to share, please do so in the comments.  Have a great weekend!

The Dating Game

Okay, before I start into this piece, let me be as clear as possible: this is not a man hating piece.  The majority of my close friends are men.  I have known many good men in this life, including the father of my child who is still my best friend.

That said, dating, when being a birthmother, can be terrible.  After having my son, his father and I broke up about a year later.  Not really due to our son and all that happened.  More due to a matter of distance (we live in two cities over a hundred miles apart) and time and being in different places in our lives.  As I said, we are still the best of friends.  And maybe one day we'll be together again.  Just neither of us are certain at this point.

Since then, I have dabbled on a dating site, although my profile is set to "only looking for friends."  That's about as far into the dating realm as I have gone.  And I know it's partly due to fear.  It's hard enough for me to explain to new friends about my son and all the things entailed with him.  Trying to explain this to someone who I might be dating and when in the world to do that in the course of a date or a relationship, ugh, just sets my head spinning.  As I've said before, Ms. Manners did not write a chapter on how to best approach any of this.  But some days I really wish that she had.  I'd have some idea of what to do.  But like most every birthmother I know, I do the only thing I can: whatever makes sense at the time.

In the past month, I have had two birthmother friends have problems with their significant others.  The problems, while unique to us, were easy for my others friends to understand.  One shouldn't have to hide away another part of their life because it makes the significant other feel uncomfortable.  One shouldn't have to explain why they are still in contact with their children.  One should never be put in a position where essentially one must choose between the child they still love and the man they are dating.  And I hope one never has the fact that they are a birthmother thrown out at them in anger by their significant other when in the middle of a fight.  It's unfair and it's uncalled for.  And in the end, it most likely has absolutely nothing to do with what the fight was about in the first place.  It's just taking a part of ourselves and using it as a weapon against us.  This is something I hope no one ever has to experience.  But I know that others have, and will have it happen.  I just hope that if any of this does happen to you in a relationship, you are willing to leave that person.  I know it might break your heart.  But I know it would break more to cut off communication with your child (if there is any) and even worse when who you are is used against you because we cannot change who we are.  We are birthmothers.  And anyone who wants to be in our lives has to accept that fact or, unfortunately, walk away.

In my anger and confusion, I turned to a couple guy friends of mine.  I know that may sound a little odd, but what I really wanted was an outside perspective.  So I talked to them and asked them a couple important questions: Would you date a birthmother?  Would the fact that a woman is a birthmother and still in contact with her child bother you?  Both of them did say that while they would wish that the first time they were a father it would be the first time for their wife as well, sometimes it's simply not possible.  And in this instance, obviously, it wouldn't be possible.  But that would not be something that would bother them and by no means would be a deal breaker when getting into a relationship with someone.  As one of them said, we all come with baggage.  The only thing is whether or not you can deal with the baggage someone comes with.  If you can't, you should move on.  But if you can, then you should stay and see what happens.

All this said, I know it is disappointing when trying to get into a relationship with someone and it turns sour because they cannot accept who we are.  But my guy friends also agreed with me that if you want to be in a relationship with someone, you need to accept everything you are.  Certainly, some things can change.  But this is not one of them.  And any person worth your time, should be able to make peace with everything you are.

There are good guys out there.  I know several of them.  So be brave, keep looking forward, and know that, whoever you are, you are an amazing person.  Don't let the stupid boys get you down.

Coping 3: Talk to Others

Talking to others, at least for the first few months, can be really intimidating.  It was hard to talk to my family about it because they had lost something too.  It was hard to talk to my friends since hardly any of them knew and none of them were birthmothers.  Talking to anyone in the health care profession was a crap shoot to see what they would or wouldn't say in response to, "Yes, I've given birth, but that child doesn't live with me."  Talking to counselors was helpful, but none were birthmothers and hardly any had dealt with birthmothers before.  The one birthmother support group near me was a good two hour drive away and at the time didn't have many people in it.  I gave birth in July and it wasn't until February that I met any birthmothers that I felt like I could have a conversation with.

To be honest, I was kind of scared of talking to other birthmothers.  I was 27.  My child's father was still my boyfriend at the time and today is still my best friend.  The family I had picked was amazing about communication and sending photos and such.  There was no great drama.  There were no insane circumstances.  It was simply the matter of two people in the wrong place at the wrong time with not enough resources to help them.  I was worried about being the only one.

But when I did finally come to a meeting where there were other birthmothers, I realized one important fact: we are all completely different from each other.  No one's story matches the other's.  Everyone came to this in a different way.  Everyone had different reactions to it.  Everyone had different experiences with family, friends, co-workers, boyfriends, adoptive families.  Every single one of us is different.

The important thing, the thing that connects all of us, is that we are birthmothers.  However we came to it, whatever circumstances we were in, whoever we had to deal with, we all made a choice for our child.  We chose to place them with people that we had met recently.  We chose to be braver than we have ever been and chose a path most don't.  We chose to defy society, our friends, our families, and sometimes our own instincts, and make a choice that many will never understand.

But there are many who do.  And I encourage each and every one of you to talk to each other.  Go to support groups and talk to other birthmothers.  Talk to your friends.  Talk to your family.  Just talk to anyone and shine a light in this corner of the world that doesn't often get revealed.  A lot of birthmothers still live in shame and have stigma placed on them by society and, worst of all, family.  But at the end of the day, this isn't a shameful thing that we did.  This was the bravest thing we have probably ever done and possibly ever will do.  When the time came, we did what we knew was right for our children.  And that's all we could do.

It sounds trite to say we're all in this together, but we really are.  We've all been to the same place.  We all know the same pain.  And we are all here for each other.  That's one of the great things I've found about the birthmother community.  There is an unending well of support here.  And any of you who are new to all this.  Believe me.  We've all been there.  We know what it's like.  And you can talk to us any time you need to.

Thankful For Being Lucky

It's Thanksgiving week.  I've been with family all week like many of you probably have.  This year my mother was still in a cast due to a broken arm she got at the end of September.  So I was enlisted to make Thanksgiving dinner.  Fear not, I've done this two times before due to her having a very bad knee and by now I'm much more confident and I am able to nearly recite the recipes and get my mother out of my cooking if need be.  Third time through, I did well yet again.  And now I have a post to write.

I'm no fool.  I know that I got extremely lucky with my adoption agency, the family I placed with, the willingness of everyone in my family and my boyfriend's family to step out of our way and make the right decision for our child, and that my child was born healthy and well.

I am thankful that at a time when I needed it most, my luck turned for the good in a serious way.  I am thankful that my son's parents continue to involve me in his life and keep me updated on his life.  I am thankful that my son is growing up tall and handsome.  I am thankful that he has a very creative mind and soul.  I am thankful that he has loving, wonderful, and capable parents who can raise him the way that I wish I could have.  I am thankful that they have become my friends and people that I can talk to not just about my son, but about many other subjects as well.  And I am thankful that I got so very very lucky when I needed it the most.

I wish you all the luck that I've found.  I hope you all have had a wonderful Thanksgiving with your families.  Know that while I am thankful for all of these things and am grateful that my son will get the life he deserves, it is a fact that I have to live with every day and it is a fact that pains me every day.  But I always knew I would live with this better than raising my son in a home that would have been unstable at best and hostile and unbearable at worst.  May you all find peace with your decisions as I finally have.

Support Groups

Last night I went to the support group that is run by the adoption agency I placed through.  It's a ways from my home and traffic isn't always pleasant.  But I was determined.  It had been a while since I had been to our support group.  Also, there was a time there when the adoption agency wasn't having meetings.  But I am really glad that they have started these up again.

At the support group there were three counselors and four birthmothers.  One of the birthmothers I have known for three years now.  To say she has supported and helped me through my journey is an understatement.  Her daughter is several years older than my child and thus she understood many of the things I went through in the first few months and years.  She is one of the reasons that I keep coming back to this group.  But I also come back to try to repay that debt and help others just as she helped me.

The best thing about a birthmother support group is that there are other birthmothers are there.  It's hard to find other birthmothers who are willing to talk about their experiences and their lives.  We don't exactly go out wearing signs so we can find each other.  If I've found birthmothers outside of the group, it was quite by accident and most likely because I said something about being a birthmother myself.  We're a very closed bunch.  We play this secret very close to the chest and are always mindful of how others react and what they may say to us.  Because of that, it's hard to find people we can talk to about being a birthmother.

The support of friends and family is invaluable and I am not discrediting that.  I have been extremely lucky in my circle of friends and in my family.  But there are times when they just can't understand.  Usually that's about the time I turn to the circle of birthmothers that I know and vent to them.  There are just some things that only other birthmothers will understand.  Why it hurts when you hear a baby cry.  Why Christmas and kids toys make you a little distant.  Why visits are great things, but at the same time are painful things too.  And how it can break your heart to watch your child grow up over the years as you finally come to terms with everything that's happened.

I hope all of you have not only found support amongst your friends and family, but also in the birthmother community itself.  We're all very different.  We come from many different worlds.  But we all have one thing in common.  And we can understand each other within seconds.  If you don't have a support group near where you live, please reach out online.  This site is very good for finding other birthmothers who will understand you.  If you need to reach out to someone who understands, please do.  Every single one of us has been in your shoes, thinking the same thoughts, and crying the very same tears.  We remember and we understand.

The Grief Cycle Part 5: Acceptance

A few weeks ago, my son J and his adoptive parents came to visit my parents at their house.  As happens with these visits, his mom went into the kitchen with my mother to help with lunch, his dad went into the living room with my dad to talk about esoteric topics that they actually have in common, and I was left in the dining room alone with my son.  He was eating crackers out of a little bowl my mother had given him with a pair of child's chopsticks.  I asked him how school was.  He answered the way most four-year-old's would: "Good."  He talked a little about his school.  He asked for a few more crackers.  All in all I'm guessing we had about six minutes alone together.  And it was in those six minutes that I had a thought that I've had for a long time and for the first time felt okay about it, "This kid will never be mine."

Acceptance isn't exactly a nice place to be in as it turns out.  I thought that acceptance would be the moment when the clouds would break and the seas would settle and everything would be just perfect.  Only it's not.  Acceptance is when you finally accept the reality of what you have lost.  It's when you stop denying the realities, stop being angry about the realities, stop trying to change the realities "some how," and stop always being depressed about the realities.  Acceptance, for me, was looking at my son and saying to myself, "This kid will never be mine.  And that's fine."

I didn't see his first smiles.  I didn't see him roll over the first time.  I didn't see him crawl the first time.  I didn't hear him babble the first time.  I didn't see him take his first steps.   I didn't see him run for the first time and fall.  I didn't dry his tears.  I didn't pick out his toys.  I didn't help him play the piano.  I didn't read him a book at night.  I didn't help him pick flowers for his grandmother.  I didn't get him dressed for his first day of school.  And that's fine.

I'm not saying they don't sting.  I'm not saying that at the moment I realized all of these things it didn't hurt a bit.  It did hurt.  A lot.  But I also realized that it was fine.  I don't have to feel bad about missing all of these things.  His parents saw them all and told me about them.  He knows that he's loved and knows that he's taken care of and that's all I ever wanted for him.  It's just the simple and very painful fact that he couldn't have found that with me.  But that's fine too.

Acceptance is not the moment when the clouds break and everything becomes good and right and beautiful in the world.  Acceptance is the moment when you accept reality and all that happened in it.  And acceptance is when you see all of that and realize that you're fine with all of it.  This was the only way to protect my son and give him the life that he deserved.  People got hurt in the process.  People had to put aside their differences and their opinions and agree.  There will be conversations that I will have to have later in life with my son about all that happened.  But in the end, I don't regret what I had to do.  Not for one second.  And for right now, I'm fine with it.

It takes a long time to get to this point.  It took me four whole years to get to this point.  And I don't doubt that there will be times in the future where I'll go through this again.  If you feel like you should have moved on by now or you should be better by now or anything like that, stop telling yourself that.  And if people tell you that you should be better by now, tell them as politely as you can that you are trying to get through this at your own pace.  That is all that matters in the end.  You need to get through this at your pace and in your time.  I hope you're all doing well today and I hope you have a fantastic weekend.  See you again next week!

The Grief Cycle Part 3: Bargaining

This was the most confusing stage for me; especially since it’s one of the harder stages to correctly define.

When I was sitting in a room with several other birthmothers at the 2013 Birthmom Buds Retreat, we were discussing the grief cycle and when we got to this stage one woman even said out loud, “I've never been sure how this stage works” followed by the agreement of half the room.  What in the world was this bargaining stage and how would we know we were in it if we didn't even know what it was?

“I've always seen it as the 'If I just do this then everything will be fine' kind of mentality,” said our discussion leader.  This statement was followed by even more agreement.  I had been locked into that kind of mentality for months after Halloween.

The tricky part is I knew none of it would bring back my son.  None of it was going to make any real difference to him.  But somehow, it made a difference to me.  I was in grad school at the time.  I was working a full-time job.  I was trying to get myself established as a small business person with my knitted, crocheted, and sewn items.  I kept trying to do everything that I could.  I kept trying more and more things to try to get my life to work like I thought it should.   But I wasn't really sure how it should work.  Wasn't really sure what my life actually working was supposed to look like.  But somehow, if I just got ahead and got things to work, then everything would be fine.

This whole part of the grief cycle, at least to me, often feels like just another round of denial.   You keep yourself busy.  You keep doing everything that you can think of to do.  You keep going and going and going thinking the next thing will make everything better.  I guess my problem was it wasn't going to get better.  Better would mean that I had my son with me.  Better would mean that my ex was with me again.  Better would mean that somehow our lives were actually working like this and we were actually giving our son the life he deserved.  That was my brain’s version of “better.”  And it was an unattainable one.

And just as unfortunately, the only way to break out of that endless cycle, was to realize that I wasn't going to get my son back; I wasn't going to be with my ex again; I wasn't going to get that life that I kept imagining where the three of us were actually making things work.  That realization caused a bone-crunching depression to settle down inside me for the first time in a very long while.  I've had issues with depression since I was a teenager.  But this time it was tougher to deal with than any time before.

I know this entry is a little shorter.  But in truth, this stage I got through the quickest of them all.  I've always been a realist, forever trying to get myself to accept reality and move on to whatever the next step is.  If I had to guess, I probably lingered in this stage for a few months before winter took over and my depression set in.

Since we’re three steps in, I’m wondering what you all think of this and how this in any way lines up with your experiences.  Would love to hear from you!  Hope you’re all having a good weekend!

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The Grief Cycle Part 2: Anger

The next step in the grief cycle is anger.  It’s understandable.  Probably one of the few things I understand the most about grief.  We didn't ask for this to happen.  We didn't want this to happen.  We didn't like what we had to do in order to get through it.   So why not be angry?  This is how I dealt with my anger.  That’s me on the far right in the blue and pink with a weird half clown mask on and green hair that was really icky and stringy.  And the others are the ones who helped me bleed this anger from me.  You’re probably wondering how that happened.   Well, this is how.

I have a bit of a temper.  I've always had it.  And I know exactly who I got it from, too.  In the fall of 2012, I was losing my grip on my temper.  I wanted to lash out at everyone who I came into contact with.  Family, friends, it didn't really matter.  I was just so angry and I wasn't sure where it was coming from or how to take care of it.  Remember, I had no idea at all that I was just going through the grief cycle.  To me, I was just angry.  I had lots of reasons to be angry.  But I hadn't settled on the one reason why.  And honestly, if I had known why, there wasn't really much that I could have done to solve it.  So I just stayed angry.

It had been about two years and three months since my child had been born when I finally turned and faced my anger head on.  My birthday is October 30^th.  And before you worry over the fact that I didn't get to be a Halloween baby, don’t worry.  My birthday is the same as my late grandfather’s, and for the last five years of his life, I was the apple of his eye.  In 2012, I was turning 30.  I was turning 30 on the 30^th of October.  I thought to myself, “I have to do something different this year.  This is never going to happen again.”  People suggested the usual: sky diving (fear of heights), river rafting (can’t swim), go to Vegas (with my addictive personality???).  All of them I turned down.  No, my sights were set on something better and stranger.

My first best-ex was working at a theater in Atlanta and they were putting on a charity haunted house and needed people to dress up and scare people.  I don’t really like haunted houses, mostly because of the scare factor and my amazing ability to get startled very easily.  However working a haunted house, that was something entirely different.  I knew exactly where all the scares were.  I saw everything in the light of day; long before night fell and the black lights came on.  I knew where everything was and knew what to expect.  On top of that, I got to scare people while wearing funky costumes.  And this is where I drained my anger.

On my birthday night, I was dressed as a mad clown with two fake wooden knives and got three scares.  I popped out of a curtain, peered out from behind a spinning wheel with a fake clown nailed to it brandishing my wooden knives, and then popped out of a small box.  Each time cackling to the innocent patrons that they would never get out alive and threatening to nail them to the spinning wheel.  Somewhere in the first couple of nights, before my birthday show, I realized that doing stuff like this is a gentle form of violence.  People were giving us money to walk into this place and get yelled at and growled at and startled and scream and run for the exits wherever they may be.  And I dived into it with a vengeance.  I yelled, I snarled, I threatened, and I directed every ounce of anger in me at the people who came near my spots.  By the end of Halloween night, I was exhausted and my temper finally appeased.

I managed to get lucky and direct my anger in a very positive way.  Well, at least one can call it positive.  We were raising money for a no-kill pet shelter and a day home for the elderly so they could hire teachers and get craft supplies.  And once I took off the mask and put down the fake knives, my scaring days were over until the next haunted house I could find.  But there’s a variety of ways to express anger that don’t involve evil clowns.

Breaking tiles to make mosaics, ripping paper to make collages, writing very angrily and hopefully not breaking the keyboard as you type, or just finding a safe place in which to scream at everything that is making you hurt.  Whatever you have to do, I hope you find something to get the anger out of you so it doesn't fester.  Being angry all the time is really an exhausting way to be.  Trust me.  I was angry for a solid six months before I finally got it all out.  And I don’t suggest staying angry for that long.

How do you deal with anger?

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Extracting Humor and Joy

"Henry."

"Henry?"

"Yes, Henry.  You have a problem with Henry?"

"Why do you want to call him Henry?"

"Because then I can call him Indiana!"

Realization hits me.  My son's biological father is actually arguing for fan service when trying to decide on our child's name.  The child who ten minutes ago we decided we should place for adoption because that's the best thing that we can do for this kid still living in my belly.  We're famous for doing things backwards.  So, of course, we decide to place our child for adoption and then we start arguing about the name that he should have.

"We're not naming him Henry!"

"Then we're naming him Indiana!"

"No!!  This is not happening!"

This argument went on like this for about ten minutes before his mother came out of her bedroom to determine what we were shouting and laughing about.  After adding her disapproval to the pile of objections I had just spouted, he finally asks,

"Okay, fine.  What do you want to name him?"

"The only name I've ever had for a boy is J. P."  He thinks for a second.

"Why do you have that name?"

"Because every girl has done this at some point and because that was the name I was going to have if I was a boy.  J. P. is my great-grandfather's name."

"I like J.  I just don't like P."

"Okay, fine!  We can compromise on this.  What's his middle name then?"  He looks to his little brother who is slumped in a recliner after laughing at us for the past twenty minutes.

"Why don't we name him after my brother?  His middle name is N."

"J. N.  Okay.  Yeah.  I like it."

"Alright, there.  We have a name."  He sits down on the couch next to me and for the tenth time that day rubs my swollen belly trying to feel our kid moving around.

"What about a girl's name?"  *sigh*

I'll save you the suspense and tell you that the hilarious part is that we decided on a girl's name in about a minute flat.  But we had a boy on our hands.  So the girl's name was never needed.

About two weeks later, I was sitting in a room at the adoption agency with my boyfriend, my boyfriend's mother, my mother, my birth counselor, J's future parents, their adoption counselor, and I believe at least one other birth counselor.  All of us packed into one tiny room with a tiny fountain that didn't work.

"We have a name picked out for him," I say with some trepidation.  "It's up to you if you want to keep it.  But we do have a name."

"What is it?" they asked.

"J. N.  It's a combination of family names; one from mine and one from his."  They surprised me immediately when they liked the name and kept it.  At the time, his future dad said,

"If we had gotten pregnant and had gone through the whole process, we probably would have thought of something.  But I like that name.  It's good.  It's a good name."

A few weeks prior I had said to my mother after a particularly long and insane wait at the car rental place,

"Mother, you have to extract joy from life where you can!"

So, after making the most painful decision of our lives, we laughed as we argued over a name.  When meeting the people who we would give our child to, we found that they were happy to keep the name we had so hilariously argued over two weeks ago.  It is still his name.  It still reminds me of a hilarious twenty minute argument and it still makes me smile.  In situations like this, you must find joy and humor where you can.  It may look crazy to those on the outside.  But when shared with those closest to you, it will bind you together and comfort you when you just feel like busting apart and sending everyone away from you.

So, yes, his name is still J. N.  And it still makes me smile.

My Adoption Story

In 2001, as a girl in her early teens I always said to myself “I will not get pregnant at the age of 16." I wanted nothing to do with following the footsteps of my older sister, my mother, and grandmother. Each of them had gotten pregnant at the age of 16 and had their babies at 17. It was something I was terrified of. Well, guess what? I got pregnant when I was 16 years old. I found myself in a situation that for years I swore I would not get into. Once I found out I was pregnant, I automatically knew that I would not succeed at being a teen mom. Now that I think back about it, I was in a calm state of mind when I chose adoption and knew it was the right decision for both baby and I. 

At the beginning of my pregnancy, scared and clueless of how to even be a mother at 16, I was scared to tell anyone that I was pregnant. My parents are divorced, my mother is an alcoholic and my dad is a drug addict. So you can see how the lack of support would steer me in the direction towards adoption. At this time I was still in high school and did not want to be a dropout like others in my family. I had planned to graduate high school no matter what I had to do to get there.

Once I got the courage to tell my mom that she was going to be a grandmother, she told me that she already knew. Of course like any mom, she did not want to hear that her young daughter was pregnant, not married, and now she would be a grandmother at such a young age. Shortly after telling my family, my mom decided that after 14 years of working in a potato plant, it was time for a change and to move to Texas. We packed up a U-Haul and moved to Texas and life started over. 

Before I left Idaho for Texas, I had been searching for an adoptive family for my unborn child. I was very lucky that I had found the most perfect adoptive parents for Maria. We had communicated often and once we got to know each other it was agreed that once I was settled in Texas that they would fly me out to San Diego, California to meet. Once I arrived in San Diego and met Kim and Chris, I knew instantly that this was the family for my baby girl. I was met by not only the adoptive parents but practically the whole family with open arms and warm hugs. They were so happy that I was going to be able to provide Kim and Chris their first child.  It was a joyous time. 

Once I got close to my due date Kim and Chris flew out to San Antonio Texas and were there for the birth. The whole experience was amazing and to have them there to help welcome their baby girl into the world was great.  Thirteen years later, I am still very happy with the choice I made for Maria and placing her in an open adoption.  

Due to the fact that I am married to a Army Soldier, it is hard to get to go see Maria in California. But for the last two years they had been vacationing in New Jersey and I was within driving distance and got to see them. My open adoption is awesome. Sure there are bumps in the road but it’s about dealing with and finding a solution to dealing with those bumps in the road. 

I hope that I am able to meet some of you and help you cope with the trials and tribulations of adoption. I did not have anyone to ask questions or lean on in time of sadness. I would like to be that for others.

The Healing Words - Part 1

After enduring many trials and obstacles as a young woman, I became quite knowledgeable in many facets of heartache.   I quickly found my outlet and surprising talent for writing during these dark times.  I wrote down whatever words came to me, whether I was just being a hormonal teenager needing validation or when a crush did not return my feelings.  Words became everything to me; they were my happiness, my pain, my let-downs, and my dreams.  I transferred emotions from my heart into these words.  It lessened the pain and increased my joy.  I cried a lot during these writing sessions while trying to figure out the purpose of my pain. 

I came across a saying that, “All art is rooted in heartache.”   If this is true, then my life must be a work of art. (I hope that it doesn’t get appreciated after death.)  I thought I had experienced a lot of pain in my life, but I was proved wrong, once again.   

At the age of 29 I was in a bad situation and seven months pregnant when I decided to become a birth mother.  (You know that decision, the one that you consciously made because it was right for you and your situation.)  However, during this particular struggle I could not find any words that could even come close to describe my pain or help me understand any of it.   My mind was so stressed out that I just couldn’t see a smooth horizon in any direction.  It was all I could do to finish this pregnancy, work a full-time job, raise a 2 year-old, and live with my parents because of my estranged husband.

Through the encouragement of my caseworker through the adoption agency, I wrote a letter to remind myself of why I had made the decision to place my son for adoption.   Writing to me as myself was hard, but I wrote it as I would write to someone I truly loved.  And since I was continuously feeling pain I wasn't consciously coming from an unconditional love.  I had to dig deep and really find a peace within my soul, the part where my core was unmovable and unshakable.  I prayed that once I found this place, I would be able to find my way back.  

My footsteps to that place were the words being written and the more I wrote, the more I understood.  Soon, I found my solace, my haven.  But what I really found was more strength and more faith in myself, the very things I didn’t think I had any more of.  After some minor tweaking and four pages later, my letter was complete.   I took this letter to the hospital with me so that when I was holding my newborn and looking into his eyes, I could read it and remember every single reason why I had chosen adoption for us. 

Most case workers also encourage a letter from the birth parent to the child, and for me this was no different.  However, this letter wasn’t written until after Karson was born.   Both of these letters were just the beginning to my grief and healing processes.   I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read them.  But I can tell you that if I didn’t find that peace through these words I could have lost the war to the pain.

Even after a year I still had not put my whole story in writing.  Perfection was expected, but procrastination won every day, until an awesome fellow-birth mom asked me to share my story on her adoption blog, My Angels from God.    It took about a week before I was complete with the first draft and it felt gratifying, like I had just finished a marathon.  The story was out of my soul and the weight of my loss seemed lighter.   The pain and grief had not vanished, but it was easier to step forward into a new chapter of my life. 

Stay tuned for part two next Friday!

"Do You Have Children?"

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Recently a question between birth mothers came up:

What's your "go to" answer for questions like "Do you have children" and "How many children do you have"?

Before I married, this question was very difficult for me. I would have loved to be the person who could confidently acknowledge my pregnancy with R and explain about the adoption. Sadly, I wasn't that person. Occasionally, depending on the level of trust I had with the person asking, I might tell the story, but more often than not, I would reply that I simply didn't have children.

I feared that I would make the other person uncomfortable. Sometimes I wondered if they would question why I would tell them that, maybe thinking I expected some sort of response or attention from them. 

As the years went by I, in one sense, became more open - open on Facebook, getting involved in various adoption communities, telling close but new acquaintances - yet at the same time, I became more hesitant. My husband preaches, we have one son together and a daughter on the way (any day now!). People assume that's the whole story; they have no reason to believe anything else about me. 

Is that easy for me? Definitely not. The first year we came to this church, away from our family and friends, was the first year I went without an update for R's birthday. Not having the understanding of those near us was very difficult and I would have benefited from opening up to our new friends.  

So, we're still navigating the waters I suppose. My husband thankfully fully supports openness about R, and now that the adoption has become more open, who knows how our lives will play out. We intend on our own children knowing they have a half-brother and we still plan to stay active in the adoption community, so I have reason to believe I may work up to being more candid when asked "How many children do you have?"

On the other end, a friend of mine shared her own experiences. You may relate more to her feelings on the matter:

"I usually share it casually with anyone who asks. I'm comfortable talking about it and it just doesn't feel right when I say "no." It is a huge part of me and my life and it feels like a lie when I don't acknowledge it. It makes some people uncomfortable when they find out sometimes, probably bc they just don't know what to say, but others show genuine interest and it always gives me an opportunity to share a little bit and shed some positive light on something that most people just don't understand and I really want more people to more comfortable talking about it. Of course it is really personal and some days are harder than others, so sometimes I give a simple no. & I have had plenty of people say the "wrong" thing and have felt judged more than I would if I didn't share, but it feels good to be open about it."

So, what's your answer?

Warning: Adoptees Ahead!

My birthmom friends are such an inspiration to me that since connecting with some of you in Charlotte in May, I realized how much I want that connection in my real life, in my own town. Although this is my first attempt at that connection, rest assured it won't be my last!

A few weeks ago, I found a local group through the American Adoption Congress and exchanged emails with the group coordinator for an "Adoption Support Group". I was excited at how fast she responded to my request to visit her group and how warm she came across.

That should have been my first clue something was wrong.

My first meeting was on a cool 90 degree evening at a bank building. Yep, you read that right. When I arrived there were already two ladies chatting in the parking lot, one older (much older) and one younger (much younger). They were friendly and immediately introduced themselves and included me in the conversation.

As we stood talking, an older gentleman also joined us, apparently one of the regulars.

After driving down the street to McDonald's and air conditioning, we started the actual meeting. Since meetings like this are usually confidential in nature, it felt odd to be in the middle of a public place, but I went with it.

The leader opened the group by saying, "If one more person tells me how fortunate I was to be taken into a loving adopted home, I think I'm going to throw up." She's 70. And an adoptee.

The man pipes up and says, "Yeah. Like it was luck that made my birthmom throw me away with no chance of ever finding her or connecting with her." He's 60. And an adoptee.

That was the beginning of 2 very long hours of listening to the three adoptees talk about their horrible lives of multiple marriages, drug use, and feelings of worthlessness. While very eye-opening for this birthmom, and yes, they did know about my birthmom status before the meeting started, it was hard. And sad. And it made me wonder about them and their lives. They all acted like if they could just meet their birthmom, everything would be ok. Like meeting her would change the years of poor decision making.

But in their decades of life, they have had choices. Decisions. Options. And they chose those things that were harmful and destructive. Would connecting with their birthmoms really change all of that?

Obviously I'm still processing this meeting. I would love your feedback, perspective, thoughts.

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