We got our Census form today. I sat down to fill it out immediately because it’s all big and scary on the front with its warning of Doom and Official Gloom if you don’t return it. I am horrible at returning things. I just am. I can email you. But I can’t go to the Post Office. I figure if I sat down, filled it out and immediately put it in the envelope, maybe my loving husband will see it and do it for me. Right?
I filled out the first person information about my husband as it’s his name on the mortgage. Then I filled out my information and checked the box next to husband or wife of the first individual without reading down the rest of the list. Then I filled out the info about our oldest son.
I was about to check next to Biological Son or Daughter when I flipped my lid.
I’m sorry. What? Separate check boxes for biological and adopted children? Really?
As a birth mother, I am offended not only for myself and my daughter’s mom but for my daughter. I’m offended for us all, everyone living within the world of adoption. I understand that the world, adoption included, has changed a lot since the last Census was conducted. But for pity’s sake, you’d think that the language and attitudes toward adoption back then would have made this differentiation even more deplorable.
Why are adoptive parents forced to differentiate between their children? Foster children who are not permanently adopted would be something I could understand due to the fact that they may not live there in the near future due to court dates and other factors. But legally, forever adopted children? We redo their birth certificates. We make it look as if the birth family never legally existed, despite any attempts at openness which isn’t even legally binding in all states. We tell these (adoptive) families that this is their forever child, to love this child “as if” he/she was their “own.” And then we make them check a separate box?
Really?
It upsets me, as a birth mother, because I have come to accept my role. I am not the everyday mom. I have no legal right. She may be my biological daughter but she doesn’t live here and she doesn’t go on my Census form. Had I parented, I’d be checking the biological box. I was told that she had a forever family, that she wouldn’t be loved or treated differently than any other children in their family. And now she has a separate box?
Really?
This makes me angry for all of the adoptees. Ever. And yet to come. Not only do we deny them their birth certificates but now they’re not the “same” as biological children. Really? Do we need to keep adding insult to injury? Do we need to keep reminding adoptees that we view them as different, as not quite the same, as less than? Do we need an official form that states, oh yes, adoptees are different?
I am just so saddened by this; more than is probably necessary. I know both in my heart and with the brain that processes everything told to me and seen by me that my daughter is loved, fully and wholly, no different than her brother. I know this and I have no doubts. It just angers me that the government which allows unethical adoption agencies to continue to exist and refuses adoptees their Original Birth Certificates continues to demean adoptees in Official ways.
I don’t even know to whom to properly complain. Not that they’d listen to a lowly birth mother, anyway, right? I signed papers so I don’t get to have an opinion as to how my daughter and her family are treated and/or portrayed, right?
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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.
