I ended up crying at the adoption conference. I didn’t mean to. I mean, I even held it together when Dawn got all weepy while talking about the ethical implications of pre-matching and whether or not Pennie felt obligated to place with them. I mean, I wasn’t wearing waterproof mascara. I had to hold it together, right?
And then a woman stepped forward. She had been nodding and receptive the whole time. I didn’t know what to expect. I wasn’t ready for it, that’s for sure.
She was an adult adoptee who, from what I gathered from her short story, had a difficult relationship with her adoptive parents and birth parents, all of whom have now passed away. Then she looked at me and at Pennie and said something along the lines of, “I wanted to tell the two of you… thank you.”
I’m crying as I write it.
She went on to say that if her birth mother had cared nearly as much or done any of the things that Pennie and I have been doing, maybe she would have turned out differently. I lost it. I didn’t blubber, which I’m known for doing, but the tears fell. Mascara be darned.
It hit me. It’s what I can only dream that someday the Munchkin will say to me. After the angsty teen years are over and she has stopped hating D (her adoptive mom) because she’ll be the one setting the boundaries and dealing with any punishment issues. And after she’s stopped hating me because, obviously, this will be all my fault. And, knowing how I felt about authority figures until later in my life, maybe not until she is a mom herself. But whenever it is… I hope that she is able to see that I just wanted the best for her… in every decision I made. I thought placement was best. After that, I thought openness was best. And each time something difficult arises, I continue on because I know that it is best for her.
And hearing someone who lived through the closed era acknowledge that… acknowledge the work… acknowledge the pain… and offer encouragement for the future… well, it was needed.
So much more happened. And, as always, I’m just amazed by some of my fellow bloggers. But, really, it was fabulous. Also, now that I’ve met Pennie, I think I need to drive to Columbus more often. Not that Dawn isn’t cool. Sure, Dawn’s cool. But Pennie is cooler than I could have imagined.
Quick sidebar as to the likely reasons of why: I know so few birth mothers in real life. There is one birth mother in my church but she is from the closed era. And, so, I know no other birth mothers in open adoption in real life. Yes, I have some online friends who bridged the gap to real life friends but they live miles and miles away. An hour and a half with traffic is not miles and miles away. And being in the presence of someone who is so well-spoken about her journey and generally rocks, well, it’s awesome.
Plus, she’s younger than me so she can come to all future functions so I’m not the youngest anymore. You know, since I’m old now.
More eventually. Still exhausted and now dealing with a sick LittleBrother.
This has been a whirlwind weekend and it is not quite over yet. On Friday and for most of today, I was at the Women of Faith conference in Columbus, Ohio. Tomorrow I’m speaking at the National Adoption Conference at the American Adoption Congress in Cleveland, Ohio.
And today I turned 28. See? Whirlwind.
When I initially agreed to attend Women of Faith with a group from my church and speak at the AAC conference, I didn’t realize they were on the same weekend. When I realized my over-booking mistake, I just sucked it up and kept my commitments, aware that this weekend would leave me absolutely exhausted by the time it came to an end.
It wasn’t until last night that I came to understand why things happened this way.
Steven Curtis Chapman was at the Women of Faith conference last night. If you are not familiar with his work, he is the most decorated Christian recording artist. Ever. And on May 21, 2008, a horrible accident involving one of his sons and his youngest daughter resulted in the loss of that sweet little girl. I remember hearing the news and crying in sadness and shock. I’ve spent the past (almost) year praying for the family (just like I continue to pray for the Spohr family at the recent loss of little Maddie).
What I didn’t mention in the previous paragraph is that the Chapman family’s youngest daughter was adopted. Three girls total were adopted by the Chapman family from China. So, obviously, the news of her passing last year left me spinning. Dealing with everything that I was dealing with last year, it was something that I couldn’t even spend time thinking about without crying. Let’s think about last year for just a quick second: post-partum depression on my part, my daughter’s parents separated and in May of last year, I was one month away from a year of not seeing my daughter due to scheduling problems on all parts. My heart broke for the Chapman family. My heart broke for a birth mother, light years away, who (most likely) in the depths of her heart abandoned her daughter to give her a better life. I spent some time being angry with God for the loss of little Maria Chapman. How was death a better life?
Much like I had a few stern conversations with God when my daughter’s parents first separated.
But like my heart was softened and comforted through much prayer (on my part and the parts of others) and I came to realize that my daughter’s life was still amazing, Steven Curtis Chapman was able to talk last night of the beautiful memories Maria made in the time she had in their family. He admitted that he doesn’t have it all figured out just yet. And that? Was more of what I needed to hear. I don’t always know or understand why everything has happened the way it has in our lives. Why did I really have to place my daughter? Why, especially when I so desired that two parent home, did divorce enter her life? And what does the future hold for the lot of us? But as Chapman went on to sing about the beautiful song Cinderella, about not missing a dance with his daughter(s) before they were gone (which had a different meaning after the loss of Maria), I was stuck by the weight of it all.
I am thankful that I didn’t spend too long being angry at how things have changed in our adoption journey. Why? I don’t want to miss dancing with my daughter or watching her dance through this life. I know that she is being raised just fine. I know that she is loved beyond measure. And unlike Chapman and little Maria… I can hold her again. I can love her with kisses and hugs and laughter.
And this? This is the hard stuff of open adoption. While Chapman’s international adoptions are not open, horrible, unimaginable losses like this don’t just happen to internationally adopting families. Open adoption adoptees are in accidents. They pass away. Adoptive families are not magically immune to this stuff. They get sick, sometimes horribly so. They separate. They divorce. They deal with layoffs. And loss of medical insurance. And everything else that the rest of the world deals with. And we’re not giving adoptive or birth families in open adoption the right tools to deal with these issues … together.
Don’t misread me. Adoptive families need to deal with their own issues on their own. My daughter’s mom has done a great job at dealing with her emotions regarding everything, parenting those two awesome kids and generally being who and what she needs to be. But there’s no book that instructs other adoptive moms who have to wear her shoes as to how to best divulge the hard information to members of the birth family. When I really stopped to think of how scary it must have been, each time new things happened, to come to me with that information, my heart breaks for her! Similarly, birth parents aren’t even being counseled as to how things like this CAN happen in adoptive families… let alone how to deal with and process those things when and if they do happen.
In the end, I learned a lot about myself last night. I don’t always understand this … stuff. This hard stuff. But I do know that I am blessed to be have a presence in my daughter’s life. Or, rather, I am blessed to have her presence in my life. To know that she is so loved… should be any birth parent’s deepest prayer.
Before you go, have a listen to Steven Curtis Champan’s “Cinderella” … and then go dance with your children.
As our Spring Show nears, my nerves are setting in. And as we all fall into place with knowing our words and listening to our practice CDs, people are catching wind of my big solo. At last night’s practice, one of my favorite gentlemen (married to one of my favorite women in the group) was talking to me about the piece. He said that he was listening to it in the car and was just struck by the lyrics and the power and the meaning of the song.
If he was struck, how do you think I feel?
I wanted to say that out loud, of course, but as I don’t wear my birth mother hat everywhere and someone I don’t particularly enjoy was also involved in the conversation, I just smiled, nodded and said, “Oh, yes, I find it difficult to sing at times as well.”
And I do.
Not at rehearsals as my mind is thinking about things like, “Where is my next stage placement? What do I do next? And what’s the next word? OH NO! WHAT IS THE NEXT WORD!” And then I sing next line just fine as I’ve known the song for ages. I don’t know why the word panic exists but it does. Just part and parcel with performing, I suppose. But at practice, I’m not usually focused on the meaning of what I’m singing. I hope, of course, that I can use some proper emotion in the final performance but, at the same time, I don’t know if I’ll be able to recognize that process or not. Performance mode is different than other modes of being.
But in the car or in my living room or in the shower… it hits me. What I’m singing. What the words mean. What I would do for any of my children. And the relinquishment. And general point of the song and the choices I have made and… so on. I get overwhelmed. I get teary eyed. My throat closes. I’m unable to continue singing at times, it overwhelms me so much. I would give my life for her, for either of the boys. I want so much for them. I wanted so much for her and the only way I saw her achieving any of it was to let someone else take the reins of parenting. Seeing how amazing she is now, I know that I did the right thing then but that knowledge doesn’t always take away the pain or the feeling of missing her so deeply that it hurts to breathe at times.
I’m not sure how I will handle it, her being at the performance on Saturday night. I likely will not be concentrating on her presence by the time the curtains part. I’ll be thinking about choreography and words and costume changes and other things of immediate importance. I am concerned, of course, as I kill myself (behind a screen, so just my sillouhette is shown) at the end of the medley. I don’t think my oldest son will pick up on what just happened. But she’s very observant. Perhaps I should convince D to distract JD, N and the Munchkin during the last ten seconds of the medley. All the same, I’ll be back out on the stage for the next song, smiling and very much alive.
In the next month (as opening night is a month from today), we don’t have enough practices but, at the same time, we have so many. I’m nervous. I’m excited. And I’m thrilled that those I love and care about so dearly will be in attendance. Hopefully I keep the emotions in check.
