A friend introduced me to the band Mumford & Sons earlier this week. Last night I downloaded the album knowing that I’d be out and about in the Mustang with the windows rolled down as I ran errands today. I burned the CD as I got ready this morning and then set about my errand running. After singing along with one song three times in a row (amazing harmonies!), the song Timshel came on.
First it talked about death which, as you might know, is a hard concept for me right now as we have lost two family members this winter. I didn’t skip the song though. Again, amazing harmonies tickled my ears and I kept listening as the wind rushed through the open window.
Then the second verse smacked me in the face. I’m lucky I didn’t wreck the vehicle.
And you are the mother
The mother of your baby child
The one to whom you gave life
And you have your choices
And these are what make man great
His ladder to the stars
I kid you not. I can’t make these things up.
I had to restart the song, breathe my way through the death part and give it another listen. I cried a bit. As I do. I’m a crier. The chorus that follows is equally moving, especially considering what was just sung.
But you are not alone in this
And you are not alone in this
As brothers we will stand and we’ll hold your hand
Hold your hand
Oh, so many meanings tied up in that chorus following that verse. Not alone in what? In any choice? If I had chosen to parent, would my hand still have been held? As a birth mother now, still making my way through this journey, will someone still hold my hand? I felt hopeful and despondent all in one thought process.
I know, of course, that I am not alone. I also know that I am her mother, her first mother, who gave her life. But sometimes, still, it gets lonely. Even with support at every turn here on the Internet and in my real life. But the dark days are dark. The lonely days are lonely. The hard days are hard. I assume they are for all of us, no matter our choices, our journeys. Being reminded that I’m not totally alone, despite choices and the like, is nice. But to be caught off guard like that by a song was… wonderful and heartbreaking at the same time.
The song ends with this gem.
And I will tell the night
Whisper, “Lose your sight”
But I can’t move the mountains for you
An important point, I think.
I do believe that’s why I have such a difficult time with certain blogs, especially those of newer birth mothers. I want to make it easy for them, to help them transition into a life journey that they never could have imagined for themselves. I want to walk with them through that egg-shell-like first year. I want to hold their hand when their defenses come crashing down. I want to help them rebuild their lives as they make their way through the rubble. But I can’t, really. I can only offer a kind word, a shoulder and my own story. Our stories will never be exactly alike. They will live their own journey. They will climb and move their own mountains. I’ve climbed so many of my own, tunneled my way through the darkest of days. I can only pray that they make it through or over to the other side where the calming streams of peace await. It’s hard to watch.
And yet I know, as I do most days, that they are also surrounded by those who do care. That’s why I’m here. I’m here for me, for my healing. But I do care, even when I don’t have the words. We’re never alone.
By the way? Totally awesome band. They’re coming to Columbus in May. Going. End of story.
Recently I was accused of letting adoption rule my life here on this blog. Someone else sent a nasty message on the family blog about how I hide behind my children. Apparently you can’t please everyone by what you choose to share… and what you choose to withhold… on your blog(s).
Adoption has shaped a large part of who I am. Adoption is not all that I am. In fact, even if you read my other blog, the other blogs I contribute to, twitter, Facebook and anything else that I participate online, you will still only have the very basic of ideas as to who I am as a person, a wife, a mother, a birth mother, a friend, a daughter, a sister, and so on.
I read like an open book sometimes. I frequently let it all hang out there, opening up my experience for others to read, learn from, share their own and generally participate in the give and take of life lessons. I’ve spoken, honestly, as to how the experience of blogging has been integral in my healing process. More over, I have made some life long friends, inside and outside the adoption blogosphere/industry/realm. My life has been changed by their sharing, their caring, their challenges and their friendship.
But that doesn’t mean that even the closest among them know every last thing about me.
There are things that I don’t find it necessary to talk about on the Internet or even with my real life friends over weekly coffee. I’m not going to launch into lengthy diatribes about faith; I have mine, you have yours, end of story for me. I’m not going to discuss our finances other than to say the tax refund was good and we’re buying a new couch and recliner. When we’re struggling, I won’t complain out loud. When we’re rolling in the dough (see also point 4 here), I won’t rave out loud. I’m not going to discuss sex or anything associated with it. (Hi, Mother-in-law!) I’m also not going to go into lengthy discussions about family relationships on the blogs because they read. (Also, I’ve learned that if you write about your family when you’re angry, it hurts more than it helps.) Those things, faith and money and sex and family, are huge parts of my life. Not discussing them means that my readers don’t know those parts of my life.
But just because I don’t discuss them doesn’t mean that they don’t exist, don’t shape who I am. I think it’s important that we keep that in mind when we read others’ blogs. Even someone who seems to wear their heart on their blog isn’t likely telling you absolutely everything. I know that I’ve jumped to a conclusion and even, gasp, judged before only to later learn the whole story… and ended up feeling like a heel. I’ve apologized to those individuals. I’ll apologize again in the future because I will forget to take my own advice and I’ll think, “What the heck is this person going on about?” But I try to keep it in mind at all times.
All of this is my long-winded way of saying that I’m more than a birth mother. I am more than adoption. I am even more than an everyday mom. And a wife. And even more than a blogger. So much more.
Posted: March 4, 2010 at 12:48 am | Tags: Facebook
I logged into Facebook, read a few posts in my Live Feed and read the following status update from no less than three people:
This week is First Child appreciation Week: Post a photo of your oldest child as your profile picture. Let’s show how much we appreciate the first born kids in our families for all they go through and all they do! Copy this and comment with name and age
Sounds easy enough.
Unless you’re me. Or the many other birth parents who relinquished their firstborn I know on Facebook. (I made a clarification there because not all birth parents relinquish their firstborn.)
It’s so weird to live this open life that I do, to leave it all hanging out there and still get all anxious about Facebook memes. I’m not going to change my profile picture to a shot of the gorgeous Munchkin. Why? It’s not my right. It’s not my space. It’s not my story. That’s D’s place, should she so choose to get on with her meme-self. Even if she said, “Hey, it’s cool, I don’t mind,” I don’t think I’d do it. It’s complicated even though the vast majority of, well, the world, knows that I’m a birth mother. It’s just confusing for some.
And I’m not putting my oldest son’s picture up there either. He may be the firstborn son. He may be the oldest child in this house. He may have a lot of typical firstborn qualities (hi, stubborn). He is not my firstborn. I struggle to find the balance of letting him be the oldest with reminding him that he has an older sister. It’s hard. Most days he doesn’t want to be the oldest as of late anyway. He wants to be the youngest. That’s a discussion for another time.
I hate the little reminders of this issue. They’re just little things. They mean nothing in the grand scheme of my life, our family or, really, anything. But I get to feeling sad anytime someone has a firstborn meme of this nature (as there was another one in the past that was a survey about your firstborn). I know I could participate. I know she’s still part of my life, that I’m still part of hers. But there’s so many lines in the sand there.
In short: I won’t be participating in First Child Appreciation Week on Facebook. Not that I ever participate in these memes… ahem.
