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.

Edited to add: Have a listen. Have a tissue near.

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.

This week is First Child appreciation Week: Post a photo of your oldest child as your profile picture. Let’s show how much we appreciate the first born kids in our families for all they go through and all they do! Copy this and comment with name and age

Sounds easy enough.

Unless you’re me. Or the many other birth parents who relinquished their firstborn I know on Facebook. (I made a clarification there because not all birth parents relinquish their firstborn.)

It’s so weird to live this open life that I do, to leave it all hanging out there and still get all anxious about Facebook memes. I’m not going to change my profile picture to a shot of the gorgeous Munchkin. Why? It’s not my right. It’s not my space. It’s not my story. That’s D’s place, should she so choose to get on with her meme-self. Even if she said, “Hey, it’s cool, I don’t mind,” I don’t think I’d do it. It’s complicated even though the vast majority of, well, the world, knows that I’m a birth mother. It’s just confusing for some.

And I’m not putting my oldest son’s picture up there either. He may be the firstborn son. He may be the oldest child in this house. He may have a lot of typical firstborn qualities (hi, stubborn). He is not my firstborn. I struggle to find the balance of letting him be the oldest with reminding him that he has an older sister. It’s hard. Most days he doesn’t want to be the oldest as of late anyway. He wants to be the youngest. That’s a discussion for another time.

I hate the little reminders of this issue. They’re just little things. They mean nothing in the grand scheme of my life, our family or, really, anything. But I get to feeling sad anytime someone has a firstborn meme of this nature (as there was another one in the past that was a survey about your firstborn). I know I could participate. I know she’s still part of my life, that I’m still part of hers. But there’s so many lines in the sand there.

In short: I won’t be participating in First Child Appreciation Week on Facebook. Not that I ever participate in these memes… ahem.

All the same, I know that he knows about the Munchkin. He was here. He hopped around. He read posts. As our contact didn’t get any more in depth than, “Why are you contacting me,” I don’t know what his thoughts were, what he thinks of me, what he thinks of adoption. I mean, truthfully, I wouldn’t care what he thought of me, good, indifferent or otherwise. But I’m a curious cat most of the time.

I realize that by existing on the web as I do that I will be found. He Googled my name, which I’m surprised he knew considering he Googled my married name. I know that Googling my name takes you to my professional website which includes links to all of my other writing, this site included. (Plus AdoptionBlogs which, you know, says it right in the name.) People who are just casually looking me up because they wonder what I’ve become, what I’ve done with my life, have the truth of my life thrust in their face in the time it takes to do a search string and click a link or two. I think I’m okay with that… mostly.

This person, I didn’t care about. What about my High School bully? Or, rather, bullies? Now, to be honest, I don’t really care about their opinions either. However, knowing that one still happens to be a Gossip Monger that thrives on making other people feel bad, if she happened upon this site, would she spread rumors that are, really, not all that rumor-ish since, you know, I lay it all out there anyway? I don’t know. I might not care if the thought of it didn’t remind me of being a junior in high school who used to avoid the hallway she was walking down simply to avoid the finger-pointing, laughter and general feeling that I was worthless in the eyes of someone else. Then again, I deal with Internet bullies with grace so perhaps I’ve come into my own. Who knows.

The digital age is a difficult one for me as a birth parent. I assume other birth parents might feel similarly. Some lock their blogs, password protect them and have eventually removed them all together. It’s hard to be open and honest all the time. It’s hard to want to tell a story that a large number of people simply don’t want to hear, receive or understand. It’s hard to put yourself on the line time and time again, to get shot down, time and time again. I think the nasty weather has left me holed up inside for far too long. I need some fresh air and a mental refresh.

In the end, I know I don’t care about people knowing my story. I’ve written it. I stand by it. But sometimes I’m left feeling uneasy.

It’s been one month since Grandpa died. Today I’m calling the florist and rescheduling the rest of our week as my husband’s Uncle died yesterday morning. Most of the time I’m on a sort of auto-pilot, unaware of my surroundings or, at the very least, protecting myself from the totality of it all. I allowed myself one breakdown yesterday, late in the morning, after the initial shock had worn off. I threw the shock guard back up; feeling fully is too raw right now. I don’t really want to feel right now. I need the auto-pilot function. The denial stage of grief exists for a reason.

All of this makes me think about my grieving process regarding Munchkin’s placement. I was in the denial, auto-pilot function for quite some time. Speaking for myself and not all birth mothers, I simply needed to be there for awhile. There were times when I did take that shock guard down, allowed myself to cry or rant or generally fall apart but, really, I stayed in a bubble that year. If I hadn’t attended her first birthday party, I might have stayed there for a longer period of time. I’m glad I did. The process of feeling, sorting through everything and finding my own path let me live a much fuller life than I lived that first year.

I was discussing adoption grief and death grief with another person attached to adoption the other day. She asked me, “Are they similar?” My answer is that I simply don’t know and I really can’t compare. I hadn’t yet experienced true death grief prior to placing and it’s been six and a half years since I first felt the tidal wave of grief associated with relinquishment. I know that the loss I felt after I placed the Munchkin was all-consuming. There were days when I didn’t eat, drink or really move. I had awful thoughts of harming myself when I allowed myself to peek outside the heavy cloak of denial. But years have passed regarding that grief in my life. The physical feeling of the panic that accompanies grief has faded. I don’t feel it twist my stomach. It doesn’t keep me up at night any longer. It is a part of my life. The newer grief of these recent losses does twist my stomach. I can’t sleep. I have no appetite. The physical aspects of grief are here, eating at me even though I’m trying to ignore their presence.

The problem with me, in my situation, comparing adoption and death grief is that, blessedly, I get to see the Munchkin. I will never see my Grandpa again. They are apples and oranges. I’m trying to find two vastly different things that weigh so much on the human heart and mind to compare them to and, really, I can’t. They are their own unique fruits of comparison. I can only say that, for me, the similarities and differences are too hard to compare and contrast with so much time having gone by. I can say that each has affected me on a core level. I have been changed by both experiences.

Someday I hope that my stomach stops twisting and turning and that I can sleep properly. For now, I am reliving the stages of grief, seemingly over and over. I accept that this is what needs to happen right now. Mostly.

Over lunch the other day, I mentioned that I’d be in Columbus on Thursday working on the book I’m writing with Dawn. My lunch mate had not yet heard of my book and asked the topic. I paused, ever so briefly, before launching into the “I relinquished my firstborn for adoption and Dawn is an adoptive mother and, really, our timelines are quite similar, so, at first we were going to write a memoir but the industry is saturated, so we changed to a book that discusses how openness is changing the adoption world for the good and the not-so-grand.” Yes, that is a run-on sentence but it’s how I talk when I’m nervous. That was likely said all in one breath while fiddling with my silverware and avoiding eye contact. I looked up afterward and she said, “That sounds interesting.” Without sarcasm or irony or judgment. She didn’t probe or ask questions about my adoption journey. We just continued on with conversation.

I’m left wondering why I fear the process of telling my story to new people so much. I know the answer, of course, is because some people are truly judgmental. There’s still a stigma and a shame attached to what I have done, the path I have walked. More over, even some of my sisters in birth motherhood claim that I should be private and selective in who I tell, verging on the line of secretive.

I’m not good at secrets, people. Especially my own.

I don’t want to wear a “HEY! I’M A BIRTH MOTHER” shirt. I don’t think it’s the first thing that I need to tell people about myself. It’s not the biggest hat I wear but it is an important part of who I am and why I have done certain things in and with my life. Like mothering in general, really, it shapes future decisions. While I’d like new people to know that I’m a writer, a photographer, a wife and a mother, I am seeing less of a problem with them also knowing that I’m a birth mother.

Then again, my oldest son will hit elementary school in a year and a half and my tune may very well change. There are small-minded individuals everywhere, of course, and I have found that no one is as judgmental as a mom (or group of moms) who wants to be accepted. Which seems counterproductive, don’t you think? The last time I shared my birth mother role with a group of mom’s at a playgroup, I was shortly thereafter shunned. I’m not looking forward to dealing with that again… ever again. But, whatever the case, this recent experience has been a confidence booster that I think I needed.

How much do you share regarding your adoption story? How much is too much?

After I asked that, D let me know that she has purchased a domain and is going to blog! I will not link you as of yet. I will wait for her to find her comfort level and out herself. That said, it was perfect timing for both this question and the one I plan on asking next!

I’ve learned a lot about what is mine to share and what is D’s to share… and what will be Munchkin’s to share. I have learned these boundaries by making mistakes. I like to learn the hard way. I have over-shared at times though D has really only called me out on it once. I fixed it and we got past it, like most of our blips and bloops on our adoption journey.

I think that’s what makes adoption blogging so difficult.

I can write just about anything about the family that lives under my roof. I’m participating in the making of these stories. As long as I am not putting my husband’s job in jeopardy, I am pretty much free to share what I please. I do censor myself in some ways, refusing to share anything about our sexual relationship not really because I’m a prude but because my husband’s grandparents read our blog. (There’s an ick factor there when it comes to sex, no?) Again, while I may share about fires, I don’t share details of the fire itself and more often share about what I experienced, at home, while he was off fighting. When I share about the kids, I don’t post pictures of naked tushies or anything overly embarrassing. As Dawn said in her comment to the question, I will always give the family veto power.

But it works differently in adoption.

It’s not always possible to share only my story. Our stories, as they pertain to adoption, get tangled together in different ways. We also view things differently, react to them differently and experience them on different levels and in different ways. I think I mostly make that clear in my writing but I suppose that can get lost in translation.

I rarely write about the Munchkin herself here, sans-really cute stories of our conversations or the occasional discussion of something she is experiencing. Why? I don’t want to step on D’s toes. The truth is that when it comes down to it, she’s the mommy and should therefore be the mommyblogger. You know? I tend to back off in that area, moreso than I used to do. As Shannon pointed out, I’m more apt to talk about theory and ethics and what not rather than the ins and outs of our story. Or my own healing process which still has to be edited at times. It’s difficult, this adoption blogging.

If I’ve learned anything, it’s that the lines in the sand of this topic shift from time to time. During difficult times, I find it safer, for all, if I hold back a little. During times of ease, I find that it’s a bit more acceptable to go back and rehash some things (respectfully) or share a little more about current stuff. Shifting shifting. It’s probably more about learning what and when than about a hard and fast rule. At least for me. For us.

As with any death, the week spent at home was mostly spent talking about and remembering the man that was my grandfather, my Papau. All kinds of stories were told. Lots of laughter was had as he was a man that was always smiling. In the midst of these stories, I was remembering a discussion I had with Papau this past September. Without vocalizing that story, I learned another that recently happened between my mother, my grandma and my grandpa.

The topic was adoption.

My grandma was the first one to whom I mentioned adoption. I stayed with them after the surgery on my kidney as my parents were away in Las Vegas. (You know, because I can’t have an emergency when those who need to help me are available. As further evidence, my husband was working when the call came that my grandfather died. I digress.) I asked her about it since I had just been told I would be on bed rest, unable to work for the duration of my pregnancy. I was only 18 weeks pregnant. I panicked. She said the typical things like it would be noble and everything would work out.

The discussion that was had recently went back to that very first discussion. My grandfather, who got to see the Munchkin last May, said, “She never asked me.”

He’s right. I didn’t.

He went on to say that he would have probably told me not to place. That’s neither here nor there. I can’t change the past. The point of this post is that I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that my grandpa loved the Munchkin, too. He let me talk about her where other family members, without malice, will often change the subject. He asked after her, after her parents. He always loved when I showed him a new picture. And when he saw her this past May, he talked for conversations after conversations about how beautiful she was/is every single time I would call. For months. He loved her. He loved me.

And I am glad that I am able to know that in light of his loss.

I miss him. His love was so wonderful. And I know that. I hope that someday I’m able to share that love he had for her properly so that the Munchkin knows as well. I hope she’ll know. I know but I hope she’ll know.

I’ve received some questions (polite ones) via email as to why I’m not writing a memoir. And, similarly, why Dawn isn’t either. Originally we thought we could pair our memoirs together, making an interesting dual story as our timelines are so close but we struggled. I don’t know why she struggled but I just recently, during one of the above mentioned drives, realized why I was struggling so much. Music helped me figure it out as music often does.

Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
The rest is still unwritten

-”Unwritten” by Natasha Beddingfield

And that’s my problem. The rest is still unwritten.

I read a book (Thinking About Memoir, Abigail Thomas, 2008) before Dawn’s agent approached her/us about pairing up. It’s always been my goal to write a book but I had been struggling with the topic, subject, genre and other associated issues. Everyone has always assumed I would be writing a memoir and so I spent a large chunk of time researching memoir writing. One of the things that I took away from that book was that a memoir wasn’t and/or didn’t have to be an entire life story. Just a glimpse, one story or a few stories that made up a bigger story.

But I can’t seem to wrap my head around how to do that with my story.

And I had so many questions for myself. Did my story start with the two lines on a stick? Or the conception? Or the emotional turmoil that sent me to New Jersey in the first place? Or earlier? And when did it end? I had more concise answers as to when it didn’t end. At birth, as some in society would assume? No. After the first visit? No. Her first birthday? No, though that would make an easy ending, most of my healing occurred after that point. After my oldest son’s birth? Again, while easy, so much more came up after that point. After their divorce? No, because that’s overly negative and D and I have strengthened our relationship so much since that time. There’s no good ending to my story.

And what’s a story without a good ending?

Don’t get me wrong. I’d really love to write my story someday. But it’s still being written, both in everyday life and here on the blog. I don’t know what the story is going to say about me or adoption just yet. That’s what I keep getting hung up on. I expect our story to take a few more twists and turns over the years. I expect us to have a disagreement or twelve. I expect us to have some really wonderful moments. I expect (and hope) to continue to grow, change and really push myself towards maintaining my inner peace. The story isn’t over.

I don’t know if it ever will be.

My biggest fans may just have to be content to read the blog when it comes to my personal journey. Dawn and I have chosen to go the non-memoir route both because of the saturated genre and because, really, we feel we have some important things to say on the topic. Open adoption can be great but it’s hard. It’s changing things both in the adoption industry and in society. The changes haven’t always been good or ethical but openness is changing things and we need to discuss it all. There are stories that need to be heard, sometimes as cautionary tales and sometimes as encouraging ones. People are still going to adopt, whether we tell a doomsday story or not. As such, what I think Dawn and I are hoping to accomplish is to provide enough information… the information we weren’t provided with prior to starting our respective journeys. That’s always been my biggest complaint: I wasn’t given the information.

And maybe that’s why I’ve always felt so compelled to write a book. Less about my story and more about what I need others to know before they walk this road. (Can you hear the gears clicking in my brain?)

Also, we have a dual twitter account, @YMObook. We’ll be throwing out requests for information and interviews as well as updates. Feel free to follow if you so desire. (Any requests for information will be retweeted by one or both so you don’t necessarily need to follow unless you want to watch the grueling process of writing a book.)

Jealousy is nothing more than fear of abandonment.
-Unknown

Wow.

I wonder if, perhaps, that’s why we see so much jealousy, back and forth, between adoptive and birth parents. I know I’ve felt a twinge here and there over the years when D got to experience something with the Munchkin that, had I parented, I would have experienced myself. Those little thoughts that poke at my brain and push the “what if” button. Not proactive thoughts, mostly reactive. Having read this quote, I’d really like to explore the concept of whether those jealous thoughts were just based on abandonment issues as attached to relinquishment. Maybe. Possibly.

I’ve seen adoptive parents become jealous of birth parents, too. Are they simply afraid that their child will abandon them for their birth family? It’s an interesting concept. Is that why some adoptive parents are hesitant to help their child in the search process? My mind is swirling with any time I’ve ever felt jealous. I don’t think it’s a foolproof quote but I think there’s some truth to it.

Jealous of my high school into college boyfriend’s new friend that was a girl? Total fear that he would leave me for her. (Which he said he didn’t. But he married her. So… I’m just saying! Great guy though. Great girl, too!) Jealous of my brother? Felt totally usurped after being an only child for eight years and was afraid my parents loved him more. (They say they love us equally. I trust them. Now.) And those are just two examples. So, yes, I can see some truth to it.

I don’t know how it plays out when you factor in material things though. I don’t see how being jealous of someone’s house/car/clothes/job/culinary ability stems back to fear of abandonment. I mean, I’m totally jealous that Ivory can sew really, really awesome things. (Though I’m re-teaching myself, folks! Kind of.) I don’t think that means that I fear my husband will leave me if I screw up the hem on his pants. I wonder then if this quote applies only to jealousy between people and relationships and not physical(ish) things.

Whatever the case, I rarely (rarely) find myself feeling jealous as of late. The truth is that, yes, D gets to experience some great things with the Munchkin. But I also have my own relationship with her. Maybe it’s learning not to compare apples and oranges? Maybe. I do occasionally get jealous about this one lady’s awesomely toned body at the gym but, if anything, that only makes me work harder and sweat more. Mostly. Every now and then it makes me want to eat an entire pizza but that’s probably a separate issue. I also am jealous of a co-worker’s really awesome camera… until I realized that most of my money goes to caring for my really awesome children and then my priorities straighten themselves and all is well again.

I’m going to try and keep this quote in my mind the next time a jealous thought pops in my head and see if I can stem it back to something of this nature. It’s all just very interesting.