How much does placement affect and/or change how I parent now as compared to how I would have parented then? Was I always this type of parent in theory? Or did the loss of my first born change how I practiced parenting?

These questions often haunt me as I make decisions for my family.

If you knew me prior to BigBrother’s birth, you may recall that I loved being a woman working in broadcasting. I loved my job. I was going to return and be a full-time Mommy and full-time career woman. I had all of these lofty goals. Then BigBrother came out of my womb and those goals, though still lofty, changed. Drastically. I was done working and back in the home by the time he was nine months old. Would that have happened even if I had parented the Munchkin? Or was I feeling a need to be so close to my son because I had lost my daughter?

I’m not sure I can ever figure this out entirely. I think things may be too intertwined, intermixed. Obviously, things in my past have made me who I am today. But are parenting decisions solely based on past experiences or are some of them just who we are, regardless of experience?

It’s curious. I do know that I’m overly cautious with my parented son(s). BigBrother can’t be out of my sight in public or I have a panic attack. It took me over a year to find the courage to leave him in our well-manned church nursery. I have nightmares that he is kidnapped or that I leave him places. Is this all connected? Or is some of it simply my anxiety? Motherly worries? What is it?

I want to visit this in more depth after I ponder it some more. Hmm.

For example. This office? (Which will be moved downstairs in about two weeks. Ordering carpet tomorrow!) It’s my space. TheHusbandMan also uses it. But it’s my space. On the floor we have: a Golden book, a CD cover taken out of the case, the open CD case, a toy pig, a fire truck book, some babylegs, a pair of toddler sunglasses, a sock, and a book that has been taken out of the jacket, which I did not do. And that’s just the floor. Don’t make me describe my desk. Or the contents of the futon.

It’s like this in every room. The bathroom? A boat and a duck sit on the floor. A fire truck tooth brush sits next to the tooth brush holder. It has lights. No sirens. Our bedroom? A book about doggies sits next to the bed so he can read it while he moseys around in the mornings. The hallway? A radio. The kitchen? Letters all over the fridge along with some recently colored “portraits.” Let’s not talk about the sippy cups that line the counter. The living room is a veritable toy box. The bottom of the stairs? A ball sits, thrown over the half wall. The basement? Where BigBrother has never even really been? Is filled with his old baby stuff, to be cleaned and reused for LittleBrotherBaby. Outside? A slide, a play house, a turtle sandbox, a bike, and more fire trucks.

I don’t want to talk about the inside of the Jeep, okay?

He’s everywhere. Thankfully, the veritable toy box cleans up well. (And once we get the office moved downstairs and the crib moved in here for LittleBrother to use, most of BigBrother’s toys will go to his bedroom, leaving room for things like bouncy seats and swings and Pack N’ Plays and play mats and… oh, it’s just going to be another kind of toy explosion.)

The point is: my son(s) is(are) everywhere in this house.

And I can count the number of physical representations of my daughter in this home. She hangs on the family picture wall in four different picture frames. She’s in a frame by my bed. She’s on the refrigerator. There’s a box of Munchkin Memories in the basement. Her pink blankie follows BigBrother wherever he goes (along with his blue one; he’s not gender-specific, bless him). An old binky of hers is in the top dresser drawer in BigBrother’s room. The necklace with her birthstone (along with some bracelets and charms that are about/for/from her) sit in my jewelry box atop my dresser. Another frame sits on top of the one end table (which is the picture that BigBrother takes with him when we talk about her). And on my desk here is the yellow rose.
The point? She’s not everywhere. Her physical being is not present in every nook and cranny. And sometimes that’s upsetting to me. I like when she’s visiting and I find her socks in random places and clothes strewn about. I like stepping on Pony pieces (ow) and reminding her that the boys can’t get ahold of any of it so she needs to sit at the table. I like finding things after they leave, smelling the smell that she’s left behind.

It’s just strange, to have two completely different experiences in how my children infiltrate my life. You think that it would be equal. But it’s not. Now, as for my heart? Oh yeah, I love my kids so much I could burst at times. Perhaps Munchkin is lucky because she doesn’t get enough one-on-one time to frustrate me to the level that Mr. BigBrotherNack can do. But even on his worst days, I love him as much as I love his sister. And that’s a ton.

But sometimes I wish her socks were just hanging around next to her brothers. So I could yell for them both to pick them up.

And then do it myself.

I got up, found my cell phone and called. D answered and asked Munchkin if she wanted to talk to me. She did. She told me that she was wearing pink and that her backpack had Hello Kitty on it. She told me she was excited. I said that I was excited for her and very proud. I said that I loved her. She told me that she loved me, too. I held back the tears until I finished up the conversation with D. Then I wept into my coffee (already made by my Husband) and blackberry jam toast (craving as of right now).

I busied myself with work and discussions with BigBrother. Then I showered. Not alone, of course, because if Mommy’s in the shower, well, BigBrother has to be in there, too! I got ready. I left for the post office and the library. And I drove fast. With the windows down. It was just barely 70 degrees at that point and, oh, it felt heavenly. The radio was up though I don’t recall what was playing. I just let my foot hit the gas and away I went. Sometimes it’s nice to own a Mustang.

Upon returning home, I spent some time playing with BigBrother. And then we ate lunch. And then he went down for his nap. And then I went outside to cry for a little bit. It’s strange. To live your life in your normal, everyday function, all the while deeply aware that your child is hitting this huge milestone. There’s no pomp and circumstance over here today. It’s business as usual. It’s strange to be torn in two directions. My heart can simultaneously be with the Munchkin as she starts school. And still here with my Son as he runs around the living room with the mixer beater saying, “Beater! Beater!” (Toys are beneath this child. He’s going to be a chef.) All the while, it makes me more and more aware that a mother’s heart knows no limits to its capacity to love. My mind, however, gets jumbled and wires get criss-crossed.)

I’m wearing the necklace, as you can see. I wore it yesterday as well. I’ll probably wear it for awhile. Last night, BigBrother sat on my lap as we sang songs before bed time. He pointed to the necklace and asked “Wassat?” I said, “A Heart.” He repeated the word. I said it was a necklace. He repeated heart. I said it was a special symbol between Munchkin and Mommy. He pointed at the wall and said, “NONNA!” We got her picture off of the end table and talked about her for awhile and how she was going to school. Eventually this turned into a discussion about school buses and he was off to play. My heart melted. My son knows his sister. He says the word sister. He loves his sister.

I’m sad today. But, with all the little things between last night and this morning, my heart is just very full. Not as empty as I had expected. Oh, that’s not to say that I am still not filled with a longing to be with her today; I am. But, the little things. They add up, don’t they?

I’ve got some guilt on my plate today. It’s been piling up for awhile and I’ve been avoiding talking about it. But, I figure, I need to be honest. “Out” myself. And maybe things will improve. Not that things are outrageously awful. They’re not. I just have these things. That aren’t good enough.

And, yes, for your information, I am a perfectionist.

I talk a lot about what birth parents can do in their relationships with the adoptive family and their child, especially over at the birth/first parent blog. I give ideas. I pass on pertinent information. I come up with some legitimately good stuff. The review series that I’ve been working on has really made me open my eyes to a few things. No, I’m not an overtly difficult birth parent to deal with compared to some situations that are talked about with regularity on blogs and forums. But I’m not good enough.

The truth is, the Munchkin is old enough now that I really need to start focusing a bit more on her than I have been doing over the past year. Truth be told, her age kind of crept upon me. I don’t know where the past four years have gone. But now she’s knowledgable and talkative and… for pity’s sake, she knows who I am. And I’m not doing what I should be to nurture that relationship.

I think I do an okay job at nurturing the relationship between myself and D. We’re busy but we find time to talk, jot off e-mails and make phone calls. But I’m having trouble sending things to Munchkin. For example, the necklace? I haven’t mailed it yet. Why? What is stopping me?

I’ve also had a mental plan, since MAY, that BigBrother should be “sending” letters to Munchkin once a month. Enclosed would be a picture of something new or fun he did that month, a letter explaining said picture and a picture colored by BigBrother. (Also, a picture/card colored by BigBrother for JD.) Have I done it? No. Each month I think, “OH! This is the picture I’ll send.” And then suddenly, it’s the middle of the next month. I’m kicking myeslf for it. I want Munchkin and BigBrother (and eventually LittleBrother) to have a bond. And I’m failing at helping to foster it. Failing.

And there’s no known emotional reason that I should be avoiding said contact. I’m just finding myself not doing it. I’m sure, if I discussed this with my therapist at my next appointment, there would be an underying reason. Perhaps it’s because I don’t feel worthy in the first place. Or a fear of judgment. Or just something. But none of it excuses my inabilities. I just need to suck it up. Pull myself up by the boot straps. And get to doing what needs to be done.

The shift of concentration from the adult relationship to the one I will share with the Munchkin was just kind of surprising. She was just a baby. And now, really, she’s not. I need to recognize that. Respect it. And act on it. Before it’s too late.

So, no, I’m not perfect. I need a good swift kick in the butt sometimes.

Like now.

I’m sure that the majority of adoptive parents who read the title of the article jumped up and said, “Well, of course not!” I’m sure that the truth is that many adoptive parents do not love their biological children any more than their adopted children. Many parents are capable of loving more than one child, no matter how the child entered the family unit. The truth remains, however, that some (adoptive) parents may favor their biological child over an adopted child. It’s not an always or never kind of question; some people might, others might not.

It falls the same for first parents, I’m afraid. As much as I don’t want to say it.

Many of the birth parents that I know, those who blog or communicate with me via forums and e-mail, would have a strong and hearty, “No, I don’t love my parented child more than my placed child.” Though some have argued in the past that you should love your parented child more than your placed child, there are many of us who disagree with that thought process.

Speaking personally, I don’t love BigBrother (or LittleBrother, yet to be born) more than I love the Munchkin. I simply don’t. I do love them, however, in different ways because the situation requires a different way of expressing that love. For those who don’t quite understand that statement, I’ll give an example:

In loving my parented son, BigBrother, I set the boundaries to keep him safe. I do that with love. I don’t let him eat many sweets and I make sure he brushes his teeth before bed. When he hits his cousin while they are playing, I take him out of the room and have a discussion about why we do not hit our friends/relatives and then I get to do the soothing because I was the Mean Mommy and removed him from his play time. I do all of that, even the disciplining, with love. I love him. And I want him to grow up to respect himself and others. I am in charge of that learning process, of those boundaries.

It’s not that way with Munchkin. If she hits BigBrother when they are playing, it is not my job to remove her from the situation or to console her after she has been reprimanded. The boundary issue falls on her everyday Mom. D is in charge of loving her in that manner, of showing her those things. It’s not that I wouldn’t, it’s just not my place to do so. The only way that I can show her love in that kind of similar parenting role is by respecting the boundaries that D and J set for her, by respecting her parent’s wishes for how she is to be raised. Meaning, that during a visit if the Munchkin tries to pull a fast one on the grown-ups and asks me for cake right before dinner, I will either send her to her Mom (or Dad) to ask the question or defer to how I know (or assume) D would handle the issue.

Obviously, handling my placed child and my parented child(ren) happen in very, very different manners. That does not change the love that is in my heart for any of them; not one bit. I would give my life, wholly and completely, for either Munchkin or BigBrother (and LittleBrother). I will fight to the death to protect them from harm. I feel fiercely protective of Munchkin, even though she isn’t under my physical wing of protection, much like I feel protective of my son(s). When the big toy recall happened, my mind wasn’t only wondering whether or not our own toybox was infested with the offending toys but I worried whether or not the Munchkin (and her brother) had them, too!

All that said, I can’t speak for other first mothers. As I said, I’ve seen other mothers speak to the same thing as I’ve written about regarding my own personal experience with this topic. But the truth remains, either because they were told that’s how it had to be or because of their own personal beliefs or because of their own emotional issues, some birth parents do not feel the same way about the two sets of children. If they did, we wouldn’t have posts like this that really hit at the heart of all first parents who do love their children equally. I cannot, for the life of me, ever imagine ostracizing my daughter in the way that the linked adoptee (and countless others) have been; treated as second class children by their own biological parents. I don’t want to imagine what would have to happen to me in order for me to treat the daughter that I love, so dearly, in such a manner.

And so, while I’m sure the world wants to believe that all adoptive parents love their adopted children just as much as their biological children, we can’t use the word “always.” Just the same, we can’t use the word “always” in regards to how birth parents feel about their children either. In a perfect world, as so many others have mentioned, these would never be issues. I can only hope, as time progresses, that more and more birth parents feel as I do about the children that have been placed for adoption.

Not for our sake. Not for the sake of breaking stereotypes and stigmas. No.

For the sake of our children.

BigBrother: Nonna.
Munchkin’sFirstMom: Yes, that’s Munchkin. Your sister.
BigBrother: Ssser. Nonna. NONNA!
Munchkin’sFirstMom: Yes, Munchkin.
BigBrother: NONNA TOOOOONE! TONE! TONE! *peeks under the cushion, where I hide the phone*
Munchkin’sFirstMom: You want to call Munchkin on the phone?
BigBrother: NONNA TONE! NONNA TONE! PLEEEEEE!

Obviously, BigBrother calls the phone a tone. So, I got the phone and we called. Munchkin wasn’t interested in talking just then (uhm, hello, they were eating ice cream!) and so my beautiful son carried around a picture of his beautiful sister for at least a half hour, occasionally kissing it and talking about Nonna.

It’s simultaneously heart-melting and heart-breaking.

1. I booked a flight to visit J, D, Munchkin, JD and the rest of the crew. Many of you know, though I haven’t discussed it in detail on the blog, that I had to cancel a trip earlier this month. After some therapy, some honest discussion with D and some cool homeopathic stuff, I’m feeling much better. It’s a short trip (Mon evening to Thurs morning) to sort of test how I’m doing. But really? I miss D. I miss Munchkin. And I hear JD is getting super cool and I need to huggle him. That said? USAirways has tickets for 29 dollars on weekdays (Monday – Thursday). BigBrother and I (lap child) are flying round trip for 78 buckaroos. That’s right. It does help that I’m flying out of Pittsburgh because I’ll be visiting The Farm for my brother’s high school graduation the three days prior.
2. I went to the library earlier this week to stock up on books for both BigBrother and myself. I got BigBrother a bunch of BRAND NEW (never borrowed) books because they got a huge shipment in. He’s digging. I got myself some “light” and easy reading because I’m behind on my goal for the year and wanted to breeze through a few without heavy issues. I’ll be darned if the first book that I started reading doesn’t have a FLIPPING adoption storyline. Actually, it’s quite interesting thus far and I’m not too miffed but, seriously? I was purposefully seeking books that wouldn’t make me hurl myself off a cliff. Eesh!
3. BigBrother now names Munchkin’s pictures when he sees them (mostly the one on the fridge, one on the table in the living room that he picks up and kisses and one in his bedroom). He calls her “Nonna” which is what JD calls her. Though you have to be able to distinguish between Nonna and Nana. ANYWAY, watching him kiss her picture and say, “Hi Nonna” makes me kinda weepy.
4. (D, stop reading!) I want to do something special for D on the trip. (D, start reading again!) And something special for Munchkin. Note that our time is limited. Please leave a comment for ideas for something cool to do with Munchkin and e-mail me for ideas with D. Oh, and D? Tell J that he will be, most definitely, cracking my back.
5. Speaking of, J is back in the hospital as of last night. Please say a prayer.

OKAY! I don’t know why it’s eighty degrees before eleven in the morning in SE Ohio but… it is. I’m off to sweat with the beautiful boys. (That sounds awful.)

–

As you all know, TheHusbandMan and I are expecting another baby in early December. While I was on cloud nine during my pregnancy with BigBrother (though, not after!), my anxiety has been a little (understatement) this time around. Increased therapy has been helping me sort through some of the issues and emotions. One of the issues this time around, not surprisingly, applies directly to the Munchkin.

When I was pregnant last time around, she was BigBrother’s age. From conversations with D, even though she saw her belly everyday, she didn’t really “get it” until JD was at home everyday. And so, this time around, she is older, already understands that she grew in my belly and will most likely either have questions or comments regarding the matter. My therapist and I had a break through yesterday that this is causing me a lot of anxiety.

She knows that she grew in my belly. But her Mom is D. BigBrother grew in my belly and he lives in my house. What will she ask or say? And, more importantly, in hopes of pre-emptively combatting questions, how do we (as in D and I) present the pregnancy, the belly and the surrounding issues?

Obviously, I asked D first because, first and foremost, it’s her decision (or approval of decisions) that matters most as she is the Mom here. She didn’t have any immediate answers, but is pondering it as well. She did bring up the brilliant point that a picture sits on Munchkin’s night stand: me, pregnant as all get-out with the Munchkin standing next to D. (Then D told me that sometimes Munchkin wakes up with it in her bed and that made me cry and snot all over myself.)

Anyway, I’m starting to ramble: how would you, as a birth mother and Mom team, approach this subject. Again, she understands that BigBrother is her brother, even though he lives in Bu-hio. So, obviously, telling her that she’ll have another gendered-sibling-yet-to-be-discovered that will live in Bu-hio. But, do we wait until I’m showing (…more) so that she can visually put two and two together? Or does D start telling her now? Or do I send a picture of my belly every month when I send her a picture of BigBrother doing his favorite/new thing? Or?

I know some of you have been through this, both on the adoptive and birth parent side. So, help me out with some ideas. D and I are brainstorming together but right now, we’re just kind of sitting here, unsure of what to do first. Help us find our footpath!

–

By the way, BigBrother is now recognizing any child smaller than him as a “bay-beee!” I’m glad for this development. As soon as we know the gender (mid-July), that kid gets a doll.

However, I think I, personally, need this shirt, don’t you?

Before everyone gets all, “OMG, DON’T YOU LOVE NICHOLAS?!” I do. You know I do. Everyone knows I do. I don’t need a shirt for the world to know that I love my son; it’s expected of me. What’s not expected is for a “big-bad birth mother” to love the child that she “abandoned.” So take a chill pill and say, “Aww, that’s a cute shirt,” and be jealous that your child’s name isn’t as pretty as the Munchkin’s.

That said, if you know of a funny shirt for the kiddos, hit me up via comment. Thanks!

(Big PS – Who DOESN’T think that Munchkin needs THIS shirt? Wowsa.)

It was at the PlayGroup that BigBrother and I started attending at the end of January. A MommyFriend of mine from the Library StoryTime class attended and invited us, so we started to go. We were all sitting around the snack table, discussing labor and delivery. I had just told my story of pre-ecclampsia induction and one mother asked the dreaded question.

So is he your only child?

I felt my blood run cold. I hate the question. It makes me confused. It makes me feel inferior. And it makes me angry. All at once. To be honest, in the past, I’ve skirted the topic and said, “Yes, he’s our first.” Note the word “our.” Technically, he is “our” first, when referring to children that I have conceived with my Husband. However, I’m tired of living under false-presense and basic lies. I’m tired of feeling as though I’m denying the existence of my daughter: I am not ashamed of her and I refuse to be made to feel as if I should be. And so, I answered.

No, I had a daughter that I placed for adoption a few years before he was born but he is the first with my Husband, yes.

Or some variation thereof, which included stuttering, no eye-contact and basically all the symptoms of a major heart attack. (Panic attack much?) The subject was changed after my revelation to something else, which I can’t remember because I had that ringing in my ears that accompanies my panic attacks. However, I was able to make small talk for the rest of the time at PlayGroup and left with a decent feeling.

Decent feeling is over.

It’s been a few weeks since my moment of truth around a table full of eating toddlers. Quite a few Mommies had not been at PlayGroup that day because of the inclement weather. Well, apparently, in my opinion, word has gotten around that I am akin to a leper.

Yesterday, minus MommyFriend who was having her own struggles with her daughter that day and couldn’t just stand by my side, not one Mommy said hello to me. I said hi to two or three. No smile. No “hello,” “hi,” or even a glimpse at my child. I thought maybe I had spoken too quietly. Or maybe those particular three Mommies were having bad days. As the PlayGroup waned on, no one made a move to talk to me. They sat in a small circle, ignoring their children, one of whom (four years old) took to knocking over my fifteen month old son.

I held out for an hour. After we had craft, in which I sat for ten minutes at a table with these women who still refused to make eye contact or answer a question when I answered, I had enough. I let BigBrother play for a few minutes while I decided whether or not to make a scene or just simply leave.

I just left. I put BigBrother’s coat on. I put my coat on. I was so angry I couldn’t even wrap my scarf correctly. On the way out the door, the Mommy who had asked the question about other children on that fateful day was walking back in the room from the restroom. I smiled. She did not.

And people wonder why I constantly feel silenced. I hate being made to feel inferior or shameful because I have placed a child for adoption. I am tired of it.

TheHusbandMan is quite peeved. He said he’s going to take BigBrother to PlayGroup next week. I don’t think that he’s serious: he’s angry that people treat me this way and hates to see me hurt.

I’m most angry because my Son was FINALLY learning to socialize. He wasn’t clinging to me when we got there and was actively deciding to play amongst other children. Due to the size of our city, there are no other options for a social experience (other than Library which we will continue to go to… and hope that by the time he hits the preschool class (2.5) the snobs will have moved up to the next one as well).

Maybe they didn’t like my hair. Or maybe they didn’t like my nose ring. Or maybe they didn’t like that I was, on average, ten years younger than them. Or maybe they didn’t like my car. Or my jeans. Or my shirt. Or my glasses. Or my necklace. Or maybe it was about adoption and my leper like status. Either way, this isn’t high school. Grow up.

You can’t “catch” birthmotherhood. You won’t be forced to place your child just because you associate with a birth mother. You won’t be socially stigmatized just because you were kind to a birth mother or, gasp, made friends with someone who placed her child.

By the way: Christian play group. Sigh.