Some Love for Adoptive Parents

It's been so long since I've written here, but sometimes there are things I just need to get out into the world, just in case someone someday somewhere is supposed to read them. There are definitely issues happening in my adoption world, but maybe I'll save those for another post and go beyond my own story now.

Tonight I was invited to speak at AWAIT (a support group for parents hoping to adopt) and share my experiences as a birthmom in an open adoption. I've gotta say: Adoptive parents are TOUGH. Like the resilient, strong, amazing kind of tough. They wait years and years, spend thousands of dollars, countless hours and an incredibly deep well of emotional energy all in hopes of the possibility of a gift that happens completely by accident to people like me. Wow. Being a birthmom is hard, but waiting to be an adoptive parent.... I do not envy them. But I do think they're awesome. One woman said something that struck me to the core:

"I love my baby SO much and I don't even know where he/she is or when he/she will come"

She said it with tears of hope and love (and I'm sure a little anxiousness) in her eyes with such sincerity. I've been seeing so many really negative posts in social media and adoption regaling horror stories of awful adoptive parents-- so much so I've had to stop following certain birthmom groups-- that it was incredibly refreshing to see these men and women just longing for a little one to love. Every story was different, but that was their common thread.

I think it's very important to hear stories from the other sides of the adoption triangle-- birth families and adoptees-- to help reduce the fear and unknown associated with (especially open) adoption. But I also noticed tonight the filter through which they heard my story.The mediator put it well, when after the meeting she pulled me aside and said,

"You say 'I held my daughter and love my daughter and feel intensely bonded to/protective of my daughter. But at the end of the day, I believe I carried her to be their child' and all they hear is 'I believe I carried her to be their child'".

At the end of the day I don't blame them for this filter. After all, how much harder is this insanely expensive, emotional quest to find your baby when also thinking about the painful realities, especially for the woman who is to give you that baby.

Anyways, moral of the story is that adoption is hard, but there's so much love in it aaaand adoptive parents are rockstars.

The Balancing Act

In my imaginary conversations with E, home alone, in the dark, in my bed, I used to tell her "I think about you every moment of day." For a while that was true, but somehow I just realized it's not anymore.

It's been ten months since I've seen her-- the longest time in her almost-five-year life. I still think about her a lot and my heart aches to get back to her when I do, but there's been a shift. I heard grief once described as a shadow: you can try to run away from it or hide, but it's always going to be there. You just learn to get used to it and live with it.

She's at the age now where she's started asking questions about the adoption. Her mom keeps me posted with the highlights.

Referring to me as "the person who gave birth to me".

Saying I need to come straight over after getting back to the West Coast ("after you unpack" haha! Thanks E).

I felt okay about going to the other side of the country for a year because she didn't really need me and I needed to see what life was like outside that world, but a few weeks ago it hit me that I really really needed to see her, and not being able to just drive over was killer. Now with her asking questions and needing answers from me, I am ready to get back. Like, NOW.

It's a hard balance as a birthparent. On the one hand, you've chosen this life for you and your child so you can each do things you otherwise might not have been able to. For me that list includes graduating high school (check!), then college (check! check!), traveling the world (work in progress), having the freedom to pursue exactly what I want to do with my life.... For her the includes having two loving, stable parents, having an incredible sister, a phenomenal stay at home mom... It's just difficult when following those dreams--the reasons I chose adoption in the first place-- pull me away from that piece of my heart walking around in the world. When sometimes the pain of the lack of her is so thick it's almost tangible, all I want to do is run back to my hometown so I can see her everyday, but my brain tells me, this is what I'm supposed to be doing. This is what I chose.

I'm not sure that part will ever fully heal, but I think I'm okay with that. It's a reminder of who I am: a birthmother, and what I have: an incredible, adorable, scary intelligent daughter.

4+ years later

The thing about being a birthmom is that you never forget it, but everyone else does at some time or another.

My daughter turned four in June and two days later I moved from being ten miles away to nearly 3,000. I'm living my own life-- doing things I would have had a significantly harder time doing if I had chosen to parent those four odd years ago, the things I told my self were reasons to chose adoption. Graduate college. Study abroad. Fall in love. Travel wherever the wind takes me. Now I've done all those things and it doesn't fill the void left in my heart June 27, 2014- the day she left the hospital and me.

The thing about being a birthmom is that you never forget it, but everyone else does at some time or another. After first placing, (almost) everyone is sympathetic to how painful being separated from the child you carried and bonded with for nine months is. After a year, a lot of people seem to think you should be over it, but some tender-hearted friends/family still ask how you're doing, especially on holidays, especially especially on Mother's Day. After two, the numbers dwindle, but aren't extinct. After four.... I feel as though everyone has forgotten that excruciating experience I went through. Of course there are fellow birthmom friends who understand and my brother and his wife surprise me time and again with their consideration of me in that regard, but for the most part, it's no longer a subject of conversation.

I know I am blessed. My daughter's family is amazing (I cannot stress this enough) and our two families have only grown closer with the passing years to the point that a stranger might assume we'd always been family. I should be happy. I am happy. But there is no more recognition of what I did. It feels so selfish to say that, but somehow people telling me what a good thing I did made it hurt just a little less in that moment. It gave purpose to the pain. I made my daughters life better. I gave her family the greatest gift. Blah blah blah.

Four years later, everyone else has happily settled into their new roles, but my heart feels as torn and raw as the day I watched that red Subaru drive away, leaving me in a cold concrete hospital parking lot, with nothing but my screaming heart.

To be fair, most days are good. For a whole year I was perfectly happy to see her once a month (aka whenever I wanted) and I thought I was healed. Turns out, I was just ignorant and took those relationships for granted. Now that I don't have that luxury, I'm simply left with pain and the kind of dreams you wake up crying from because they tap at the deepest fears you never knew you had. I'm scared my daughter won't remember me. I'm scared she won't love me. I'm scared I will go my whole life, unable to heal this broken heart.

I do NOT want you to tell me how blessed I am. I am not coming to you because I am blessed. I know that. I never forget that. I am coming to you because I HURT. The kind of hurt so deep in my heart I'm not sure it will ever stop. The kind of hurt I can never explain to you because I don't really understand it myself. All I know is that it feels like my heart is literally, physically breaking.  And I don't know how to stop it.

Those days

And then there are those days when someone asks, "how could you be so mean to give your baby away" and "don't you love her?" "Don't you miss her?" Why yes, in fact I do love and miss her. But she wasn't mine to 'keep' or 'give away'. She was always meant to be part of their family, I just helped get her there.

Family

I sometimes forget to write about the good things because it's the bad times I need to flush out of my system, but fear not! There definitely are good things about adoption.

A few weeks ago Emilia's Aunt passed away somewhat suddenly. It was right around Big Sis' birthday and we'd had planned to all celebrate that together so in an effort to keep things normal for my favorite newly eight-year-old, my parents and I had dinner at Em's house. Despite the tragedy and loss in the air, more abundant was the love. These people truly are my family. When they cry, I cry. When they laugh, I laugh. I am so incredibly blessed that not only did the adoptive family welcome me and my family with open arms, but also my family welcomed the adoptive family. I know and appreciate the rarity of this.

As we were leaving, I gave Big Sis a huge, per usual and said, "I'm so proud of you, my beautiful eight-year-old!" Beaming up at me, she completed the thought with "...Step-daughter". While I know she obviously isn't my step-daughter I thought it was kind of beautiful of her to say. It shows we're not related by blood but we are family through and through. She is so many things to me: a sister, a daughter, a niece, a sister to my daughter... It's so difficult to put adoption things into logical terms, as open adoption has only been around a few decades and no vocabulary has been standardized. Somehow this wonderful little girl always knows exactly what to say to me. She is incredible and has been since the first moment I met her. Words may fail,  but this love that binds us goes beyond anything I could've hoped for when looking at that little "+" on the pregnancy test over three years ago (!!).

Polarity of Birthmotherhood

*Disclaimer: I am not trying to minimize any birthmoms story or pain, and I recognize there are quite a few generalizations made in the following. Please understand this is a cry of my heart, not a judgement of anyone else's.*

During my 3+ years of being involved in the birthmother circuit, I've met a lot of them. Some briefly, and some have remained my friend for years, but all of them have an incredibly unique story to tell. I've seen birthmoms who try to hide from the adoption, who drown their emotions in alcohol, who are completely content and blissful, who have open adoptions, who have closed adoptions, who see their birthchildren once a year, who see their birthchildren once a week, who love to talk about the adoption, who hate to talk about the adoption, who live in the past, who live in the future, who are angry, hurt, broke, scarred, loved, loving, inspirational, courageous, strong, fearless. I've met a lot of birthmoms.

A large portion don't handle placing their children well (which I completely understand; most have come from unfair, painful family situations themselves, and it is incredibly courageous they chose adoption)-- they return to drinking, doing drugs, or just plain denial. Another camp takes the opposite path-- they become incredibly mature, take control of their lives, and move forward. In open-adoption instances, the first group typically has rocky relationship with the adoptive family and the latter have a very strong, familial bond.

And then there's me. Somehow I don't feel like I fit in to either camp. And if I can't fit in with birthmoms, who can I fit in with? They (theoretically) understand the depth of one of the most important decisions of my life in a way no one else can even begin to imagine. But I have little beyond adoption in common with the revert-partiers, as I can't allow myself to be around that sort of situations anymore. And even the perfectly-adjusted group seems just a little too perfect for me. Being a birth mom is not the greatest thing I've ever experienced, sorry. It still hurts. I'm not over it. I'm not fine. I love the adoptive family and we are extended family and I love seeing my baby girl, but I am still broken. After almost three years it still hurts almost as much as that day I sat in a hospital parking lot and sobbed until my face was numb.

Obviously I'm not in the same place I was then. I finished an associates and am working on finishing two bachelors now. I stay away from partying. I go to church. I smile and laugh when I am blessed enough to see my daughter and her family. But it's not easy watching another woman mother your child. It's not easy seeing the picture perfect family you helped create. It's not easy going through life feeling like a piece of you is missing. I am trying to be strong and brave and okay, but most of the time I just feel like I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing.

The Ride on the Way to "Okay": Burgeoning Questions

Each day/month/year of adoption brings new issues, new joys, and new sorrows. After over two and a half years, here's where we're at:

The past week-ish I've been having mini-breakdowns because I hadn't seen Emilia in a while, so when I finally did it was like I could breathe again; I could feel my whole body physically relax. This used to happen after about two seconds of leaving her, but now it's closer to a month or so, depending. I figure, that's pretty good given that mothers (by any definition of the word, but especially the "carried her for nine months and birthed her" definition) being away from their children is one of the most unnatural feelings in the world-- We're just not programmed for it. Add the fact that Emilia is two and with that age comes a territorial nature over any "special thing" be it toy, book, or visitor and you get more than a little bit of sibling rivalry over lap-time with Tante Hillary [need to remember to write a whole post about that... :)].

An hour or two into the visit, Em's mom pulls me aside and asks if I can pay a little more attention to Emilia's big sister (now age 7 1/2; birthmom uninvolved). I totally understand this and love the girl as if she were my little sister and want to hang out with her etc, but it's so hard when every molecule in my body is still tuned to Em and kind of needed that more than anything else at that moment. I try really hard not to show favoritism toward Emilia, but the fact is- She's my birthdaughter. I love her sister more than I can even put words to, but there's something about biological mother and child that you cannot manufacture in any other relationship, and you really can't ignore. It's how God made us to love as parents and why we can put up with our own children far more easily than others in many instances or simply stare at them, something I never understood until having a child (though keep in mind, I speak from very limited experience as a "parent"). Thankfully, for now there's a built in time for me to spend with just the big sister while Emilia naps, and we have a grand old time and I do enjoy it.

Em's mom and I were able to have a chat later in the day about how the big sis is doing with issues of adoption. They're very open with both girls (to a level they can comprehend at each age) regarding their adoptions and birthparents, which I love. I think it's so healthy not to keep it in the dark. We also discussed how Emilia is at the age where she's going to start asking questions about whether she grew in Mommy's tummy and whatnot. Even I can see her little wheels turning about such topics.

Skip forward a bit.... The girls and I are rough-housing, Em's mom is on the couch nearby working on the computer.


Emilia tackles me and says "My mommy"
Completely taken aback I say "Oh yeah? What's your mommy doing? Sitting on the computer?"
Big Sis: "No Hill, she's talking about you"
Me: "Well I'm not her mommy, I'm her birthmom"
Big Sis: "You used to be her mommy"
Me: "Nope, I've always been her birthmom and your mom's always been her mommy"

And so it begins....

Skip forward to that evening, after I'd left. 

I get a text from Em's mom about something Big Sis said that night: "Why doesn't my birthmom want to see me, when Hillary really really wants to see Millie?". Later in the conversation Emilia pipes in "Hillary is my birthmom". Seems like a sneak-preview of what's to come. It breaks my heart, but I can also understand why Big Sis' birthmom isn't emotionally able to see her. It's hard. It wonderful, but very hard. I also know she's in a very different life-situation than I am. All around it's a tricky situation full of love and joy, but also pain and loss. I'm just so grateful these girls have the mom that they do. If anyone can handle it, she can (whether she believes this or not). It doesn't mean there won't be pain. It doesn't mean we'll stop hoping Big Sis' birthmom will come around. But in the end, I truly believe it does mean  we're all going to be okay. The ride on the way to okay, well... That's another story.