Pre-Placement » The Chronicles of Munchkin Land

A Poem

Pre-Placement, Pregnant with Munchkin 2 Responses »

Mar 122006

Written August 31, 2003.

She bit her lip. She stared
straight up at the ceiling which
she couldn’t see due to the
pitch black darkness of the
room. She closed her eyes
tighter, tighter, tighter still,
until stars of pink and white
sparkled and shone on the black
canvas. No avail. A tear managed
to seep its way out of the corner
of her left eye, making a lonesome
trail down her cheek. Giving up
the battle, she opened her eyes
to see his head resting on her
ever growing belly; his finger
gently tapping, hoping for response.
She felt a movement from inside
as the baby kicked his face with
a might as fierce as ever. She was
unsure if the giggling that followed
came from his mouth or if she merely
imagined her unborn child laughing
at the game the two had formed.

She felt hideous. She felt she needed
locked away in the deepest, darkest
dungeon for a series of seventeen
lifetime sentences. Anyone with eyes
could see the love he had for
this child; why else would he so
enjoy being kicked square on in the
face? A bond had been formed. And
she was about to break it. So cruel
she felt. She tried to distance herself.
Baseball. Stock market. Pistachios.
She thought of everything. And nothing.
But she knew, deep inside, that moment
would be forever engraved in her mind.

–

I will forever feel the guilt over the anguish that I caused J. He went along with whatever I decided but he grew to love the Munchkin long before she was born. He supported my parenting plan, ready to step up and be a father figure in her life. He supported my adoption plan, ready to hold me as I wept for the loss of my firstborn. He brought me Frosties when I craved them. He took me to appointments and once to the hospital with preterm labor issues.

I will forever remember his written words after she was born and he missed seeing her in the hospital. (It was an Army drill weekend. He didn’t arrive until after they had taken her to the nursery for the night. They also didn’t tell me that I could have her in my room.) I remember his face that evening; sad, unsure of what to say or do but glad that everyone was physically fine. He knew I had been in pain for months. His written words showed his grief; I knew they had bonded but I didn’t know to what extreme until I read those words after coming home from the hospital.

I felt guilty. Sad. Angry with myself.

Some ask why I didn’t parent when J was willing to be there for us both. It’s simple really. I was trying to make my parenting decisions separate from J because I didn’t know, for certain, whether or not he would be there. Let me rephrase: I didn’t think J was the up-and-leaving type. However, even before Munchkin’s biological father decided he wanted nothing to do with us, my track record regarding men and their staying power was not very good. In fact, it sucked. So, especially coming off of the blow from being told to “deal with it on my own,” I was trying to suck it up, be a grown up and take care of my own “problems” without relying on others.

Hindsight is 20/20. Things could have been vastly different. One night, over dinner (at a resaurant that literally killed three people in Western PA), he said, “I wish I could adopt her for you.” I cried into my enchiladas.

My therapist will be working with me on the guilt I feel for causing him pain. The agencies don’t tell you about the emotional destruction you cause those close to you. I wish I had known. I’m sorry, My Love. I’m just glad you love Munchkin even though she isn’t with us. Thank you for loving us both.

I Wore Sandals that Night

Pre-Placement, Pregnant with Munchkin 3 Responses »

Feb 082006

Dinner. A six person booth. J, my Dad and J on the far side. My Mom, D and myself on the other. In that order, so that I was on the end in case Munchkin kicked me in the bladder and I had to make a hasty retreat to the bathroom. I ordered a chicken salad that, even in my pregnant state, was far too big for me to even attempt to consume. I didn’t have much of an appetite; my nerves tied my insides in thick, coarse knots. I was wearing my white, wrap front maternity blouse that tied in the back and a pair of knit khaki pants that weren’t maternity, just a size bigger than normal.

I remember all of this. I remember this intricate little details. Why? Well, it was the first night and first person-to-person, in-my-face conversation I had with J and D. Honestly, I do not remember what was said in the same specific manner. No clue. I’m a visual person and, as you can see, a lot of those stated memories are visual ones: what I was wearing, what I ate, where we sat. Though, I do remember snip-its. I remember that I said I liked Dave Matthews Band. D said she didn’t really know a lot about the band. I remember thinking that was sad; Munchkin be-bopped so frequently to DMB in my womb and she wouldn’t experience it in the “real” world.

One thing that will forever embed itself in my memory is the well-meaning waitress playing twenty-questions after our meal. I remember her asking me when I was due and other questions about the baby. My hair was on end. I choked on my words, my emotions. She had no way of knowing that the baby would not come home from the hospital with me and that two of the people at the table, instead, would take her home. I remember feeling the pain, not for the first time, as I answered the questions as though I would be her parent but, knowing full well, that I would not own that responsibility or title. It was not the last time I would have a similar conversation, not able to admit that I was not parenting my own child. I felt such shame, even before placement.

I remember saying goodbye and climbing into the Mustang. J hugged me and pulled me as close as possible without jamming my pregnant belly into the center console as I cried. I cried real tears. I cried hard. I cried for the loss I hadn’t even yet experienced. I cried because I wanted people to ask me about the child growing within my womb without it making me feel guilty; guilty for knowing that I would be “giving her away.” I cried because even though things felt “perfect,” my heart was still breaking into a thousand pieces on a daily basis. I cried because I secretly wanted J and D to be horrid, awful people which would give me the ability to say, “No, I think I’ll parent.” They were everything I wanted for Munchkin, everything I wished in my heart of hearts that I could be at that point in time. The fact that I wasn’t what I needed to be hurt me in so many ways, for myself and the loss I would experience and for my child and the loss she would experience.

–

My previous post jarred these memories. I’m attempting to write more coherent pieces on my old journal entries. I will eventually come back to this post and edit it further. Look for more writing about old memories to come. It’s very cathartic to dump all of this here. Thank you for letting me write.

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