Failed Responsibility

I had the opportunity (I suppose) to re-learn a tough lesson this week.  Something I’ve always really known, but something that I seem to constantly need to be reminded of over and over again, especially in relation to the individuals who I am forced to call “family”:

Some people never learn. Some people don’t take responsibility for their actions. Some people just want to blame everyone else, and be the victim.  Most importantly? Some people suck. 

It wasn’t like I needed a reminder as to why I was no longer speaking to them. I have been quite confident in this decision for a number of reasons. Perhaps I needed some reassurance that it was the right decision. This weekend, the nails were hammered into the proverbial coffin, and I was more sure of my decision then I’d ever been before. Not that I had intended on reconciling with the current climate, and lack of responsibility on their part, but if there was even a tiny inclination of forgiveness in the future, it has completely vanished.

Between the texts that I received this past week, that proved that they were materialistic, self-serving gift givers, and the guilt trips where they accused me of holding my children hostage from them (in case anyone is wondering, my kids have not even breathed a word of them since we’ve stopped talking, which says a great deal), I was still content to just ignore them. I have no interest in playing these games with them; they do something nice for you with the belief that you are now in their debt. When the cards don’t necessarily go in their favor, they show you the long line of “selfless” things they have done/bought for you, and expect complete devotion.

Because yanno, buying my love has sort of worked for them in the past.

And since I’ve taken that power away from them, they are resorting to their old school tendencies that include manipulation and an attempt to sway the power back into their favor.

I am not sure if this message was not clearer before, but I’m actually done with the “good birthmother/daughter” role.  Completely done, and finished with it. I will no longer allow myself to be manipulated by people who have never had my best interest at heart. Sorry, guys.

But then there was this little thing, the little thing that ignited the realization that these people I am forced to call my family have not changed in even the slightest since I relinquished The Kiddo:

My brother has possibly gotten a girl pregnant. 

He chose not to wear a condom. He chose to engage in fully, unprotected sex. It doesn’t matter if he says she didn’t want him to wear one; he chose to make that a perfectly acceptable request and continued to have unprotected sex with her.  He is as guilty as guilty can be.

When he first called me, I blasted him about not using protection. I told him that he had to support her, figure out what do about a possible paternity test if she was willingly admitting there had been multiple partners, and that eventually, he’d have to tell his parents.  I expected that it would go over just as gloriously it had when I had told them about my unplanned pregnancy.

Two days later, I found myself reading texts from him telling me, “Mom says it’s not mine, so it’s not mine. The girl is an idiot, and is lying”.

Uh? Come again?

Or really, am I that surprised?

Of course, that woman said he was off the hook for any responsibility. Of course, she’s telling you to avoid, likely because she’s martyring herself once again, because this time, the child involved can actually disappear without anyone knowing the true story.  Much easier this time then having to watch your daughter “parade her pregnancy around town”. Instead, let’s vilify the pregnant girl and make it all her fault.  Of course!

The irony of this situation is not lost on me. I told The Hubby last year that I knew my brother was going to wind up in this situation; my prediction was he’d end up with a nasty STD, or a girl would get pregnant. With little to no sex education, I knew he was essentially just a walking, talking, having unprotected sex timebomb. He has no idea what an STD looks or feels like. He has no concept of how contraceptives work. And no concept of what responsibility comes with the act of having sex.

Though it would seem his parents also don’t get that either.

He has been refused proper sex education, because to them, the fear of him learning about homosexuality or masturbation was greater then making sure he had the proper tools to make sexual decisions as a young adult. They refused to talk to him about sex other then as a basis for scare tactics involving his so called spiritual salvation, and what it would mean for him in terms of his membership within their religion. They have never considered the burning reality of having a child who has no information regarding his own sexuality, and what it can mean for those who may choose to engage with him in a sexual manner.

When will people get that kids have sex even when they don’t know what they are really doing?  Talk to your kids about sex.

Not so shocking, is the fact that my parents have not learned a damn thing from their experience ten years ago, when I came home with the same news. They dealt (though some would say they did not “deal” at all) with a teen pregnancy, and instead of using it as grounds to continue the conversation with the rest of their children, they decided that not talking, and completely avoiding, was the right answer.

Yes, because pretending sex doesn’t happen means it won’t happen.

One more time, just to get the point across: Talk to your kids about sex. 

What really gets me? They watched me deal with A denying his paternity to The Kiddo (though he doesn’t anymore). They watched it completely break my heart, they knew how difficult it was for me to deal with an onslaught of insults and accusations regarding my sexual history. They called him names, they had a library of explicit insults stored away for his parents who were “not being responsible” and  were “letting their bastard son get away with everything”.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

Am I the only one that sees that we are essentially giving these boys reason to go around and have unprotected sex because the message is, “You aren’t responsible for getting her pregnant. She is”.

These sorts of actions and behaviors are exactly why we have adoption agencies encouraging mothers to leave the father’s out of their “adoption plans”. This is why these practices have only just begun to come to light. As long as we have individuals who continue to perpetrate the age old stereotype that the girl is solely responsible for an unplanned pregnancy, we will still have fathers who are being lied to about their own biological children. This sort of insidious behavior of refusing responsibility is a glaring character flaw of our modern society; some people have refused to move forward from these archaic beliefs and the rest of us are left to try to pick up the mess that is a product of living in that ignorant state of mind.

While I shouldn’t be completely surprised at the lack of evolving my family has done, I am admittedly ashamed of them. You’d think after an experience like losing a grandchild, having limited access, and then voicing regret years later, that faced with a similar situation, that they would attempt to do things different.  Not necessarily to right their past wrongs, but to show that they understood that they had made a severe error in judgment, and do not wish to replay that experience.

Yet, here we are again.

Yes, unfortunately some people don’t change.

More accurately, some people don’t want to change.

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A Horse and A Boy

I heard my phone go off, and I walked back into the office at work, thinking it was probably The Hubby returning a text about soccer for Potato, later that evening.

On the screen, I saw an alert that told me that The Kiddo’s Mom had messaged me; which was great, we were trying to set up a date to meet to exchange the package. But there was also a second reminder, showing me that she had posted my on my wall.

That couldn’t be right.

I quickly put my password in and waited for Facebook to load, thinking that she must have made a mistake- in all of our years as Facebook friends, we have never posted on one another’s wall. Always inbox messages.

I told myself she must have just posted in error. When my page loaded, I was assured that it was not an error at all.

Oh no, it was an intentional posting, and it wasn’t just a note. It was a video. A video of The Kiddo. On a horse. On a beautiful day, with his wonderful giggle intermittently coming out of the speakers.

“Oh”, was all that managed to escape my mouth. My hands on my face, like I do when I am touched by something, I muttered, “Oh, Oh. Oh my gosh”.  There I was at work, watching my son ride a horse, through the eyes of his mother, and listening to him giggle.

My heart stopped for just a moment, and a single tear rode down my cheek. Then a couple more, before the dam could complete be undone, I viciously rubbed my eyes, and blinked back any more tears.  After I watched the video twice, I texted The Hubby excitedly, then my best friends. I ran my fingers over the inbox, to see what The Kiddo’s mom had to say.

She admitted that she had doubted that I would be okay with it being on my wall, that she should have just emailed me.

My heart stopped again.

“No, no!” I said outloud. Quickly as I could, I wrote a short note telling her it had made my day and it was perfectly fine to post on my wall.  She could post videos like that all day long, and I would be content to watch them.  The idea that it would be the first and last time she posted on my wall made me feel anxious.

The rest of the day, her note, and the sound of The Kiddo’s giggle followed me. It boosted me up, and made me feel hopeful, excited, and with a sense of anticipation for the future. By the end of the day, there was a second video, and a couple of huge realizations for myself.

For eight years, I have been silent. I have hid my adoption from everyone. I have spoke of it only in short sentences, and in specific situations. I have never outright told someone “I relinquished my parental rights to my son”. Any time it was brought up, I deflected, as there was nothing to discuss. I was “fine” with what had happened, and I had no reason to discuss the point further. Details were not important, and there was no need to be sharing with anyone. It went from being an experience to being a deep, dark secret, one that only I knew the details of.

I made my adoption a secret, because it was the only way I knew how to keep it sacred. It was the only way to stop myself from overthinking, and wondering, and regretting. Secret, of course, was safest of all.

How, I ask then, do they, The Kiddo’s parents (or any adoptive family for that matter), attempt to have a true open adoption with someone who is essentially in the Adoption Closet?  You can talk to them in secret, but you can’t openly, and outwardly share your life with them, because, well, how do you know if you are crossing a line?  I had openly told them that I had never told certain key figures in my life about this adoption, so how would they know where the line of “okay” and “you just outed me” laid?

I’m presuming, of course, that they want to be more open. If that is the truth, I have in my silence, made it virtually impossible for them to fully embrace me, and all that is my life. We were both thrust in the world of “semi-open adoption” and only had the guidance of the agency. I was told to shut up and sit down by LDSFS , which I translated into, “Do not talk about this ever.”  So I didn’t, and while I am not going to solely blame myself for the lack of true openness and trust through the years, I am going to own my share in the deficit.

I didn’t trust myself or the world with this part of me. The world is already a nasty, quick to judge place. I had spent so much time during the pregnancy with The Kiddo being judged, that hiding this just seemed like the natural, protective thing to do. Even last night, I had an ugly interaction on Twitter with an adopter who insinuated that I was not admirable because I did not believe adoption is better.  She wanted to erase the existence of a biological mother- which is inherently wrong not to mention exceptionally impossible. I argued that a mother is always a mother, no matter what turn a life takes, and she disagreed, labeling mothers who had lost their children to adoption as neglectful.

She was right about me not believing adoption is better-I believe that we should be eager to maintain family preservation at every corner. Her insinuation that I was only concerned with “the mothers” made me want to scream in expletives, and it made me sad for the daughters she had brought into her home through adoption.  But then I began to worry. I began to worry and panic about the possible onslaught of trolls that would hit my blog.  The judgment that would rain in my little corner of the internet, that has stayed relatively happy and pain free since I began writing.

I have hid in the closets of adoption loss for years because I knew beyond the rainbows and unicorns there is an ugly side, a side where women like me, women who speak up against adoption practices are demonized. I knew if I told my story, the full version, I would have to tell the truth about how evil my own mother had been, which would mean to speak of the rejection that came from that experience. It would mean speaking of the loss of a love and how I had wished for A, the biological father to come to my rescue. I would have to admit that I felt a deep regret for the things I was forced to execute, and admit that I was manipulated, and used. Something that made me feel terribly stupid. I feared hurting The Kiddo’s parents. I feared what would happen if I openly admitted what had happened thinking it would cause them to run in the opposite direction. Which meant I would be holding a stack full of pictures up to a certain age, and then dealing with a blinding darkness until The Kiddo wanted to be reunited. The fear of having nothing is paralyzing, and motivating all at once.  My logic was, if I was going to be the Good Birthmother, I would be the Hidden Birthmother instead. It was not necessarily a choice, but a way of self-preservation.

I also didn’t trust my ability to handle more openness. More openness means, more likelihood of rejection. The thought, the very thought of more rejection in the adoption department seems like a death sentence. I do remember The Kiddo’s parents saying that I could have whatever I wanted, after the papers were signed. I scoffed. I rolled my eyes and told them I would give them their privacy and leave them be. I was told that is what they wanted, by the agency. I wondered if they were genuine in their offer for more, but asking for more seemed like a terrible idea. I would be grateful for what I had, because I had been told, there were mothers who had nothing at all. Of course,  I never actually asked them what they wanted, who was I to question?  On the flip side, they never asked me, sans agency what I wanted. So we were talking to each other through a middle man, who I have come to realize was muffling the messages.

I’ve come to realization that instead of building a relationship with one another, we’ve been building one, haphazardly through an agency who doesn’t advocate for true open adoption. All of the above being said, how could we have honestly maintained any semblance of a relationship, let alone a friendship?

It was just a 30 second video, and to the rest of the world, it will seem like nothing. For me,  it was everything. It was a glimpse into his life, and a glimmer of hope that there is a willingness by all parties to be a little more open.

You bet I’ll take that glimmer of hope in a month that is painted by painful reminders of everything I have lost.

 

 

 

 

 

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I am A Mother: A Blog Roundup

Earlier this week, this tweet appeared after I read a blog where an adoptive parent said that “her birthmothers” believe that they are not the child’s mother. My stomach twisted into knots, and I honestly felt sick.

That comment is the reason I dislike Birthmother’s Day. It allows all those awesome stereotypes to come further into fruition. It allows comments like that, where mothers who relinquish are told that they are not mothers once all is said and done, to become normalized, and accepted.  We are to be pushed to the front of the line, demanded to recognize our place or role, and then let the real mothers, the ones who mother our children, the ones we relinquished, celebrate their day, alone without us.

Yes, I am aware that the history of Birthmother’s Day is that it was created by a woman who relinquished. Maybe she had the intention of it being a support group, to surround herself with women who “get it” for one day, because that I understand. There are times where all I want is to have a person say, “Oh, I so get that” when I feel insane for one of my feelings regarding The Kiddo.  However, in her naivety, she failed to realize that there were/are agencies who would eat it up, organizations that would use it as a further means of post-adoption coercion, making sure that we stay in our places, and don’t ever think that we are more then just a birthmother.  And that eventually, it would turn into less of a supportive day, but more of a day where we are further reminded of where we stand in this process. We are just the birthmother, or the “vessel” which brought a baby into the world, unworthy of celebrating with the rest of the mother’s on Mother’s Day.

Sure, they say we’re celebrating us, but I wonder:

Are any of us every really happy on this day? Happy in away that denotes celebration, and presents? Or is this just a day of remembrance, a day of mourning, and a day of realizing all that we were not able to be? Do any of us really “celebrate” on this day?

Here’s the thing:  We are mothers. We are mothers because we carried those children in our wombs, we conceived them, and possibly held them. When it came time, we signed those papers, under whatever circumstances, and we walked away childless. But do not think for one moment, that we signed away our motherhood when we signed those papers. We are forever, and always mothers, no matter what paperhood was or wasn’t side. No matter where that child is in this world. We are still mothers. 

Last year, I attended a function put on by the local LDSFS that was full of drivel about how our children would never have much need for us because their adoptive families would always be enough. Instead of us telling our stories, they had a man tell us how we should be feeling, what we should be thinking and how we should view this day. He used scriptures quotes, he spoke on behalf of his adopted brother’s experience, and then went on to tell us that we gave our children a better life by not being selfish. By not being selfish and thinking we could raise them alone, with no fathers. I felt the fire of hell rise up in me that day.

That, was not a support group. That was further indoctrination of how mothers who relinquish are worthless, and that at this point, our job has been served, we should know that our children are better off without us, and we should be grateful that some higher power gave us the ability to be smarter than those who chose to single parent, those who would end up destitute with more unwed children, and more problems. We, they told us that night, had used our get out of jail free card. We were to go on, live our lives, not worry about these children we had relinquished, and to bask in the glory of the miracle we had provided for other families.

That is not what support looks like. That is blatant coercion, it’s belittling, and condescending. Maybe not all groups are like this, maybe your experience with this day has been happy, but ever since I have come into contact with this idea, it’s made me feel icky.

The first year I celebrated it, I celebrated it because I simply was tired of being invisible on Mother’s Day. Even with kids, that part, the adoption side of who I am is never acknowledged, never spoken of. I gave birth to him, and if I was a mother who had lost her child to death, it would be acknowledged, mourned and celebrated. On Mother’s Day, none of that happens externally for me. So I celebrated Birthmother’s Day. And as I posted celebratory things on the wall of the one birthmother I knew, I felt sick. I felt weird. I felt like it was not right, not something I should be proudly blasting. Why did I need a day, because even in that day, I felt even more unnecessary, invisible, and unworthy of true motherhood when it came to The Kiddo.

This year, I feel like I need to take this day back, and own it in a different way. I am not a birthmother, I am a mother, and if society demands that we do have a special day, then, I’ll take it, but not on their terms. So I introduce to you:

Mother’s of Loss: Remembrance Day

Before you completely dismiss this idea, hear me out. There are many mothers, who are not mothers, who do not have their own special day.  There are those of who have lost to adoption; there are those who have lost children to pregnancy loss, those of us who struggle with infertility and other types of loss. Sure, there is a month dedicate to some of these cases, but on Mother’s Day, I know that we all, of us outside of the generic Mommy Club feel rather invisible. If this day was invented to be supportive in it’s essence, then let’s take it back. Let’s share our real stories, the ones without the frills, without the rainbows and sometimes censorship. Let’s discuss the reality of being a mother who has lost, whatever that means for you. Let’s not talk about the gifts and miracles. Let’s discuss the reality of being a mother who has relinquished. Let’s discuss the nitty, gritty, dirty raw parts of it. What does it mean to be a mother who has lost a child to adoption, to miscarriage, to death? When all the attention has worn off, and the curtains have closed on us?

In terms of adoption, while some women may be happy in their decision to relinquish, I don’t buy the idea that they are without grief and don’t need a shoulder to cry on, a friend to confide in. Especially this weekend. The truth is being a woman of relinquishment means there is a great amount of loss, forever. Whether we are scoop era mothers, or modern day adoption mother’s we all have one thing in common: we do not have our children with us.

Instead of “celebrating” let’s talk about the real face of a mother who has lost. Let’s write about it feels like to be a mother who has relinquished, and how it has changed our lives, and let’s talk about how the type of support we have needed, the things they didn’t tell us we would want or need.  Let’s talk about how it feels to be without a child on this day, this weekend, and the things that follow us throughout the year. Let’s talk about the reality of this day, and what it means, forever.

The idea that we should celebrate this day as a “birthmother”, to me, is a massive insinuation that there is something to celebrate, besides other inherent issues with this day. Even in my deepest foggiest moments, it was not a day to celebrate. It was a day where I remembered, where I ached over the loss of my child, and dissected my worse traits, all the things that made me not good enough. This day is meant to be for us, yet, it’s not. It’s been manufactured into a day that only serves to make us feel less of what we are, and to say, without saying it, “You are only a birthmother, not a mother”.

Stand up with me and say,

“I am a mother. I am a mother of loss. But I am a mother nonetheless and I will always be a mother.”

Feel free to join us if you have been impacted by adoption loss. Link your posts in the comments, tweet them with the hashtag, #IamaMother or #SheIsAMother and share them on Facebook. Let’s share, let’s support, and let’s take this day back.

Entries: 

Debbie from Marginally A Mother writes: “Every year I return to this place, hoping for a nod, a smile, an outstretched hand.I belong in your pool, side by side, full of love. Instead, you look beyond, disapproving that you ever needed anyone to learn to swim. When will I learn?”

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Brothers And Dinosaurs

Sitting at our worn kitchen table, Potato was chowing down, happily on his bedtime snack.   The advice of readers echoing in my ears all weekend, the words The Hubby had uttered telling me it was best to do it now, I knew I had to just do it. No matter how much it would hurt.

“Hey, do you want to look at some pictures with Mommy?”

His brown eyes glowing, he nodded his head ferociously, excited.

Carefully, I walked to the shelf in the living room where I had two photo albums full of the pictures from my hospital stay and into the first year. I brought them over and laid them out on the table.

Pointing at a picture of myself, pregnant with The Kiddo, I asked,

“Do you know who that is?”

His eyes scanned the page, and he shook his head, then looked at me,

“Is that you Mama?”  I nodded.

He gingerly touched the page, and then went back to his bowl of cereal, slurping for good measure, as he grinned at me.

“Do you notice that I have a belly? That I am pregnant in these pictures? There is a baby in that belly, you know.”

Finishing off a slurp, he asked, “How long did that baby live there for?”

I laughed, “About nine months.”

Potato nodded, then blurted, “More pictures please.”

So I turned the page, and as I turned, I took a breath,

“So I was pregnant with this baby boy, and I had him. I only got to see him for about three days before I had to give him away.”

His brown eyes looked deeply into mine, as if he was waiting for me to continue.

“Why?” he probed, his cereal forgotten.

“Well, because Grandma and Grandpa said I couldn’t keep him. So I had to give him to a different family.” A tear slipped out of my eye. I tried to push the rest back, but they fell in line. Even saying it in a simplistic manner was tough.

Thoughtfully, he turned the page, then looked at The Kiddo as a small baby.

“That’s not Girlie?” he asked.

“No, hunny, that’s not your sister. This is way before either you or her were around. I was really young, and I didn’t even know Daddy yet. This is Kiddo, and he’s your half brother.”

Another pause, as he shifted in his chair, fiddling with his spoon. I wondered if it was time to round the conversation out, so I asked,

“You can talk to me about this anytime you want. If you have any questions, or want to know something, you just ask, okay? We don’t have to talk anymore tonight.”

“No,” he blurted out as he jumped off his chair and stood beside me, “More pictures.”

I handed him the next album, and told him that he could see pictures of The Kiddo’s family, and if he wanted I could show him what he looked like now, as The Kiddo was much older.

“Mama? Does he like his other family?” he asked as he looked at a picture of me holding The Kiddo on our relinquishment day. I had this super fake smile plastered on my face. I began to feel overwhelmed.

“I think so. I think he does,” I answered softly.

“Where is he now?”

“Well, he is with them, with his family. They live here, but I only get pictures and letters once a year. So when I get those, you can see them. “

“Oh.”

“You can ask me anything you want, and talk to me about this. Do you have any questions about him?”

Looking at me, and to The Hubby, Potato smiled and said, “Nope, but will you play dinosaurs with me?”

My voice cracking, tears threatening to fall even harder, I nodded barely managing to say, “Of course I will.”

I closed the albums, The Hubby took my hand, and we sat on the floor of the living room. As I watched Potato organize his prized dinosaur collection so we could play with it, I felt the lump in my throat over power me and I feebly uttered,

“Potato, can I have a hug? Please?” Tears streamed down my face.

He leapt into my arms, then pulled back, “Mama, why are you crying?”

“Well, because I miss him. I wish he was here to play with you, and be with us.”

He wrapped his arms around me tighter, stroked my hair, the same way I did when he was worried, or sad, and he said,

“Oh Mama, don’t worry. We’ll visit him sometime soon. Don’t worry.”

And then we played dinosaurs.

 

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Open Adoption Roundtable #38… In May

Dear Kiddo,

Is May hard for you? I often wonder if it’s a perfect storm for you the same way it is for me. Of course, you are younger, maybe blissfully unaware of the meaning behind this month, and how May changed your life, our lives, astronomically. Or maybe, you know, deeper in there, like I did for so many years, as I grappled through each beautiful May month, begging for a sort of mercy that I’ve learned doesn’t exist when it comes to this sort of loss.

I dread May. It’s a lethal combination of Mother’s Day, your birthday, then followed up with the day, which drags into June, where I relinquished my parental rights to you. The approach of this month turns me into an emotional, repressive, sad, paralyzed, pathetic excuse of a woman. I hate to admit that to you, but it’s the honest truth. I build walls to protect myself, sometimes even dams. Oh, I’ve gotten good at this process, unfortunately. They are mighty impressive, but no matter how big or how strong, as May whisks in the door, they crumble to my feet, like they were made of sand.

This year, Kiddo, I told myself it would be different. Of course, I will fall apart, and there will be times that I will fall to my knees begging the universe for mercy. How can I not do these things when May reminds me of you, so vividly? This year though, I’m talking about us. About you. I’m sharing our story, or rather, my side of it because I know that your story is yours alone, yours to tell. This year, I’m asking for support outside of the normal places I would go. I am not hiding in my depression, and my grieving, like I normally would. I will not shamefully take my place in the corner over this pain that has haunted me for years. I have thrown out the societal crown of “birthmother” and refuse to be belittled into that role. I am a mother, and I will celebrate with all the other mother’s out there.

One day, you’ll know I’m a supporter of woman’s rights. This month, I’m putting my own beliefs into action; I am taking the utter despair this month brings me, and I am trying, desperately trying to turn it into something empowering. I am not going to secretively hide my tears in the four walls of my bedroom. I will not wipe them away with haste when someone is onto me. I will not repress, or ignore the feelings that are deeply associated with May. By not talking for so many years, by hiding the hurt that lurks behind the mask I’ve worn, I’ve done myself, and if I may be so bold to say, you, such a grand disservice. These feelings deserve to be heard, and known. I’m refusing to suffer through this month alone, anymore.

The vibrations of this month have already been bouncing off of me internally and externally. My days find me walking through my days numbed, daydreaming and anxiously tiptoeing around, hoping not to set off another proverbial bomb. My nights are colored with the cries that filled that room during our hospital stay, I can feel your tiny body on my chest, and can feel your heartbeat on mine, like it was just yesterday that we were first introduced. Sleeping is impossible, because my body thinks that I need to stay up forever so I don’t miss another moment with you. My body remembers that we lost you this month too. During the long days and nights of this month, all the memories I hold so very dear sometimes work against overwhelming me with reminders of those few days we had together.

In May, I think about you, constantly. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. My heart, at the end of each day, weighs a little more, aching with the loss only a mother knows. I wish to be able to reach out and touch you, to hold you, and to tell you how much I love you. Did you know that someone told me that as the years passed I would love you less, and only care for you as a distant relative? They lied to me, because it’s not true. With each year, each missing year, I find myself loving you more, and with more strength then the previous year.

In May, traps are set. The kind that you walk into and are forced to deal with a feeling, or a memory that you wouldn’t normally give the time of day. Do you ever feel a little more raw in May? I get angry really easily, a trait I hope didn’t make it’s way to you. I feel like someone has removed a layer of skin, rendering me completely helpless to all the sensations that will pass by me. Everything feels more intense, everything stings, even if it’s meant to be a gentle touch. A kind text from a friend reaching out to me, telling me that I am not alone, and to come to her in my darker moments, causes me to break into a million pieces. My husband recognizing his role in this adoption triggers me to feel guilt, and anger. I smell the flowers by my house and I’m reminded of the tree by the agency where I was told how your life would unfold, and I’m hit with a sense of incredible longing to change what is unchangeable. Even my own children act as a simple reminder, innocently enacting everything that I have, and am missing with you. These triggers are every where.

In May, tears fall with more freedom, each one dedicated simultaneously to you and then to me. For all that we have lost. For the anniversary this month is for us both. For the lack of recognition that comes with this month, and the emotions, memories it stirs up for me, and maybe you.

I spend much of this month, in a habitual state of mourning for the loss of our relationship. The loss of my rights to be able to take you home and be your mother.

As Mother’s Day rounds the corner, I will think of the first moments where I entered into Motherhood. I will remember the first time I held you, the first time I kissed you, and I will remember how you made me the mother I am today, in those few short days. Always, my motherhood began with you.

Kiddo, it’ll be years before you read this. Maybe years before you understand what I am saying, but know this; no matter where you are in the world, no matter what you are doing in May, I am with you, stronger than in any other month of the year. Thinking of you, wishing for you, and loving you in the only way I am able. I hope with every bone in my body, with every beat of my heart that this month is not as rough on you, as it is on me.

I love you Kiddo, I truly do.

Open Adoption Roundtable #38

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