7

Embracing My Curls

I’ve straightened my hair for most of my life. My natural hair falls somewhere between wavy and curly. I have more circular-curl action than those who just have wavy hair but less ringlet action than, say, the Munchkin.

I’ll be honest, I wasn’t raised to know how to properly care for my hair. My mom’s hair is stick straight. In fact, before my mother even realized that I had natural curl, she permed my hair. It was the 80’s. Everyone permed their hair. However, despite adding curl to my hair, she didn’t teach my how to do my hair. It wasn’t until a friend who was already in middle school made fun of me, in church no less, that I learned I wasn’t doing my hair the right way. “You don’t brush a perm!” I still remember that day in the parking lot, her frizzy blonde permed hair looking like everyone’s 80’s prom night dream. My brushed, brown crimpy hair blew in the breeze. I vowed that no one would make fun of me again for my hair… after it grew out.

I wore my hair straight (after that perm grew out) until one day during my senior year of high school. I was running late for musical practice one Saturday morning. I decided to just leave the house with my hair wet, having no time to put my straightening cream in it or dry it ever-so-carefully. By the time I got to practice, it was curling. Friends of mine were in awe. I began wearing my hair curly or straight on an alternating basis whenever I so chose, proud of my ability to have chameleon like hair. I did this through most of college except for those times when a boy would break up with me and I would chop it to well above my ears. (I suppose that’s a post for another day.)

I can say that I have straightened my hair almost everyday for the past six years. My husband always loved when I would not have the time or effort to straighten it, claiming that it looked lovely curly. I didn’t believe him, that teasing comment from my elementary school days sticking with me. When the humidity hit earlier this month, I couldn’t straighten my hair. Even with the most expensive straightening cream and far too long with a hair dryer in a hot bathroom, it would begin to curl. Even as the lady cutting my hair would spray my hair wet, the curls would be popping up in the middle of the haircut. I gave up. I have, for the past month, worn my hair curly.

But it’s not only because of the humidity.

I learned that someone in my daughter’s life made a comment about her curls in a negative manner. She was apparently told that she would look “beautiful with straight hair like everyone else.” I wanted to spit nails when I learned of this ridiculousness. She has the most gorgeous hair I’ve ever seen, even though I’m slightly biased. It’s just gorgeous hair. Who says that to a child with curly hair? I can’t imagine saying to the boys, “Gee, your eyes would look better if they were another color.” Or, “I bet you’d look much cuter if you had curlier hair like that boy in your class!” Why should we teach our kids that they need to be like everyone else? Once my anger subsided, I didn’t think about it.

Until I was angry with my own hair for curling.

And then it smacked me in the face: wasn’t I sending much the same message by constantly straightening my own hair? I’ll be honest: I’m not sure the Munchkin even knows that I have curly hair. In all of the pictures I have with my daughter, my hair is straight. As I thought of this and the statement that had been made to her about her hair, I started to feel guilty. Have I contributed to the problem? Will she look to me at some point and say, “Well, she didn’t like her curls either so why should I?”

I often think that I am exempt from the issues that plague our growing girls. I have never read the book Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters: How the Quest for Perfection is Harming Young Women by Courtney E. Martin even though so many other moms of daughters have read to prepare themselves for what’s to come with regard to raising their daughters. I thought I didn’t have to read the book because, well, she won’t turn to me or look to me for advice on such topics. Will she? Or will she? I don’t know. I haven’t thought much about my constant struggle with food and weight, my issues with my own hair type and my tendency toward self-hatred and how they will affect my daughter because, well, she’s not under my roof. Surely she won’t pick up on the fact that I hate my thighs, am constantly on a diet and don’t really like my hair in its natural state. Will she? Or will she?

As I pondered these questions over the past month of curly hair living, I felt pretty bad. Have I been setting a poor example of a strong, independent woman for my daughter? Have I been setting a poor example of a strong, independent woman for my parented sons? I felt that was the case. Add on the guilt of Things I Have Done Wrong as a Mother.

As I’ve spent the past month embracing my curls, I’ve been wondering how I can better show my children, all of them, how to be content in your own skin. Or hair. I’m not quite sure what the balance is on these things. How much time is too much time at the gym or exercising? When does it cross the line from being healthy to being obsessed? When does straightening your hair for a different look cross the line into trying to deny who you really are? How much makeup is too much makeup? When does a diet stop being a quest to being healthy and an unhealthy obsession with food? And how do I raise my children or, in Munchkin’s case, show my children from afar to be comfortable with themselves?

I ponder all of these as I slowly reteach myself how to work with curly hair. I am so thankful that my daughter’s mom did the research and has taken such wonderful care of the Munchkin’s hair. I’m sure she will teach her to do her own hair well as she grows and becomes more independent. I hope when she asks me why I straightened my hair for all those years that I can come up with an answer that makes sense. I hope that by working toward becoming happy in my own skin that I can show her that she’s beautiful just the way she is. I hope that I can teach my sons that they are amazing the way that they are and that beauty, their own or a partner’s, is more than skin deep.

By the way, Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters: How the Quest for Perfection is Harming Young Women is on sale for $6.00 on Amazon right now. Bargain price, indeed.

5

No Longer Defined by One Title

I think part of my healing process has taken place in the fact that I am no longer defined by one title.

For a very long time I was defined by the title of Birth Mother. Or First Mother. Or however you want to spell it, space it or say it. I was defined by it and I couldn’t get out of the box that definition provided. More over, I needed to be defined by that title for a time. However, I couldn’t see when I no longer needed that definition to rule my life.

When I was considering placement, I didn’t know to be ashamed of my decision. It wasn’t until the immediate aftermath in the hospital and the way our Pastor treated both me and my family that I realized that birth mothers are not applauded like the pro-life camp would have you believe. I was shunned. I was cursed at, told that I was a horrible human being for “giving my baby away.” As such, I found a need to reinvent the title and role of birth mother. I needed to be seen as a remarkable human being who endured a tough choice and came out on top. I needed people to see that I wasn’t a crackwhore, that I wasn’t a slut. I needed people to validate my decision and I needed to validate the title of birth mother all at the same time.

As the walls began to crumble around my denial, the realities of my decision settling like dust into every corner of my life, I found that I couldn’t get away from the title. I began to feel this intensely after my firstborn son was home and hungry for my parenting knowledge. Here I was, mothering this tiny (though, he wasn’t ever tiny, was he?) little baby boy and I was still being ruled by the title of birth mother. But I was a mother! And I wanted to be recognized as one! And most people did. I, instead, was unable to accept my new role as mother as a separate title. I was unable to separate parts of my life. While they are twined together in some fashion, they are also remarkably different roles. My grief was affecting my parenting and, looking back, I am able to admit that fact. I don’t like it, like that it is part of my history, but it did.

Once in therapy, I was able to begin separating from the title of birth mother. As I learned the many facets of who I was, I didn’t need to be The Best Birth Mother In The History of All Birth Mothers. I spent less time online arguing with people who felt threatened by my presence in the adoption world. I spent less time being angry with an unethical agency that will never change. I spent less time comparing myself to other mothers, finding validation my son’s smile, in his love. I spent more time listening to my husband and less time listening to those who needed to cut me down to validate their own life story. I needed professional help to get to that point, to let go of things, to move forward and enjoy my life as a whole, not just as a part.

I am not just a birth mother. In fact, I am not just a mother. Not just a wife. A daughter. A friend. A writer. A singer. I am so many things in so many ways. I am proud of how all of those things come together to make me… me. No one has lived this life that I’m living. They may have made similar decisions. We may have strikingly similar stories even. But this is me. This is my life, my decisions, my unique journey.

I am not just a birth mother though I always will be. I am not just a mother though I always will be. I have learned to merge roles, to set them aside when I need to be someone else for a moment. I have learned to accept how my roles have formed me but still know that they don’t define me.

I may be a birth mother but I’m so much more. So much more.

01

Daughter

She received her birthday present from me the other day. Her Mom let me know that she loved one of the gifts that I included. (Of note: five year old girls love beads.) I was pleased that I picked something that met her approval. I was pleased that she was enjoying something that I sent for her.

I didn’t send a card. The boys did. I helped my oldest son write his name and a message. The letters he writes on his own aren’t quite letters yet. And I helped my youngest son hold the purple marker and scrawl out his name as well. He loves to make marks on paper. Or our chalkboard in the playroom. Until he decides that he wants to eat the chalk. All the same, the boys sent a simple construction paper card.

But I did not.

I buy Munchkin’s cards whenever I find one that says something that I want to say. Years and years ago, you know, five of them, I asked her Mom if it was appropriate for me to buy birthday cards with the word “daughter” on them. She gave me the go ahead and I have been doing that for five years now. I mean, I had the card this year. I had it pulled out when I wrapped up the present. But I didn’t sign it. And I didn’t place it in the package. And I left it sitting on our table for two days after the package was sent before I retired it to the box where I keep all of our cards.

Early on, I suppose, it was important to me to be able to refer to her as daughter. It was important to me for her to know that I was a mother to her in some form or fashion. It is not as if that inner need has magically disappeared exactly. My inability to send the card this year is also not based on the whole alleged confusion factor that those against open adoption want to blame for the faults of the world.

It’s very strange.

Parenting these boys has changed me in so many ways. I see things a bit differently. As an example, I do not need to buy either of them cards with the word “son” plastered all over in order for them to understand who I am to them and what I do for them at any given time. Maybe I’m hoping that the Munchkin views me in the same way. She does know who I am and I hope that, in time, she realizes what I do for her. It is not that I do not feel that she is my daughter or that I do not feel as if I am a mother to her in some form or fashion. Perhaps it is more of a point where I am falling into place with my role in her life. I am finding a comfort level in how she views me, how she responds to me and how she speaks with me. Maybe that fear that she won’t ever recognize me as a mother is dissipating five long years later.

I don’t know the specific reasons. But I didn’t send the card. I willfully made the decision. And, yes, part of me feels guilty even though the rational part of me understands the complex reasonings behind that decision.

All the same, she will always be my one and only daughter. And I’m finding peace in that fact.