Would it have been easier for you to relinquish if she had been a boy?

Before I had my boys, this question was still stupid. I would look at the person asking the question and think, “Do we love girls more than boys? Are we supposed to? That’s stupid.” Relinquishment is relinquishment, no matter the gender.

Of course, I am now asked the same question but the underlying meaning is different. What they mean now is:

Since you only had boys to parent, would you feel less guilty/grief-stricken/etc if you had also placed a boy and therefore not “missed out” on parenting a girl.

Whereas I thought the previous group of askers were just a few bricks shy of a load, these people rile me up. Thank you for pointing out in your not-so-subtle way that I “missed out” on parenting a girl. But despite the lack of the color pink in my life, had the Munchkin been a boy, I would still be grieving the loss of that child in our daily life.

It’s not about gender. It’s about the missing presence of a child. It’s about missing the laughter as that is a language that doesn’t respond to gender barriers. It’s about missing the hugs, kisses and I Love You’s. (Boys do these things. Trust me.) It’s about missing moments of my children together.

And, maybe, sometimes it’s about missing a girl in general. But that’s a different topic entirely. You can miss a girl and still have missed a boy the same amount. Why is this concept hard to understand?

It’s too nice out to dwell!

Of note: I have always read my magazines back cover to front cover. I don’t know why. I just do.

So one of the first pages I turned to was the end of the “Mom” section that each Redbook features. On a sidebar was a quote from Marcia Gay Harden. She’s a Mom to a ten year old and four year old twins (!) (and a spokesperson for a really great site that I’ll talk about on the other blog next week). Her quote made me dog-ear the page, nod my head and get kind of weepy all at once.

(Being a Mom made me…) Fiercely protective, like a lion. My top priority is keeping my kids safe. Mothering is a beautiful word and it doesn’t only mean making cupcakes.

Now I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that Harden didn’t mean to include me in her quote. But she did. The conception and subsequent birth of the Munchkin made me a Mother in every sense but the making of cupcakes. I did become fiercely protective. Her well-being was always my utmost concern, even as my own health was at risk during that tumultuous pregnancy.

Of course, that has also made me somewhat overprotective of my parented sons but I’m coming to realize that while I shouldn’t smother my kids, being protective isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Finding that balance, of course, is difficult but I’m learning. (I mean, I’m letting my oldest go to preschool in the fall even though it gives me heart palpitations! AH!)

What I’m trying to say is that I’ve been this way, fiercely protective, since I knew the Munchkin would be joining the world. All during the time in which I planned on parenting, I felt like I was guarding her from the evil of this world. Once I became ill and began making an adoption plan, the mothering feeling didn’t magically dissipate. And it didn’t just go away the moment that she left my body. In fact, I felt it in a much stronger way. While I don’t drive her to dance class or watch her like a hawk as she plays on the playground now, I still feel it in my soul. I’d give my life if it meant saving hers, just like I would do for both of my boys.

All this said, I make a mean cupcake. Just ask my oldest.

The best part? Once she finally let my friend know her true identity, it turns out that this woman, who said horribly awful things about birth mothers and young parents in general, apparently runs an adoption agency and counsels young pregnant mothers.

Every time I hear of something happening like this, I think back to my “counselors” at the agency through which I placed. I was initially shocked that they had such little care for me but… every time something like this happens, I am just further made aware that the majority of those working to help place babies have little respect for the mothers who are possibly relinquishing.

It breaks my heart. While I know I’ll never get an apology from my agency, I wonder sometimes if they have any guilt at all. Did they care that they lied to me? Why did they pretend that they didn’t know open adoptions weren’t legally binding in my state? Was it to cover their own rear ends or to make me hopefully not be angry with them so I wouldn’t speak out? Or are they so used to giving half-truths and blatant lies to expectant mothers that they don’t even notice or care anymore? Are they that jaded?

I don’t know the answers. But I think it stinks that people like these are causing people like me, generally positive people, to lose faith in humanity in general. What happened to respect for another and their journey? What happened to wanting to learn from another’s experience, even if your opinion differs? What about the internet gives people big, strong finger muscles that lets them type things they would (hopefully) never say to someone’s face?

Contents: a card with the normal note of what everyone has been doing, a picture of each of the boys, a small note to explain that the coloring book is from The Husband Man and an ambulance/emergency coloring book. Nothing spectacular, of course, but just another month where I did what I felt I had to do. Let me rephrase: what I felt was right by the Munchkin.

I find it difficult to pick pictures of the boys each month. (This month I have my youngest son sitting up outside, smiling very big, because he was not sitting up unassisted in May. My older son’s picture is a shot of him wearing his Daddy’s new motorcycle helmet as that is also a new “thing” in our lives. Joy fun!) I take a billion pictures every month. It’s hard to pick just two. I always write their names on the back along with the month and year.

My therapist asked me a question during my last session when I mentioned that the picture I sent of the boys in May was one of the two of them on Mother’s Day. She said, “Do you ever send pictures of yourself?”

Well, no. And I have plenty of excuses! Let me list them off for you, Therapist Lady!

1. I’m the photographer in the family. Pictures of me are rare.
2. These darn hormonal fluctuations have my skin looking hideous and, therefore, even when The Husband Man does snap a picture of me, I am not willing to share it with too many other people.
3. I don’t change much from month to month.
4. The boys are way cuter and way more interesting, don’t you think?

And while #1 is a really valid point, there are some tolerable pictures of me every month. But the real reason, of course, comes down to the fact that almost any picture of me that is presentable features one or both boys as well. I feel weird, to be downright honest, sending a picture of me smiling and holding my boys to the daughter that I placed for adoption. To me it screams, “See! We’re happy without you!” It’s not that we’re not happy. Sure, my youngest is teething now and that is super unhappy but we are a happy family. But that’s not because she’s not here.

It gets all jumbled in my head.

I thought about the things Therapist Lady said that day, about how I should be including pictures of myself as well. But I didn’t do it this month, even with a week to digest her points having passed. It just doesn’t feel right.

Anyway, it’s all sealed up now (meaning you can’t talk me into it! HA!) and ready to be dropped at the Post Office when we head out to run some errands this afternoon. I feel pretty good sending it before the verylastday of the month. In fact, I had the note written very early this month so I need to remember to mention my youngest boy’s new tooth (which will probably be teeth by then) in July’s note.

Guilt tells us that we have done something wrong, but shame tells us that we are something wrong.

-Sheila Walsh, The Heartache No One Sees

Emphasis hers. But it would be mine as well.

I have had the guilt/shame argument with those who simply refused to grasp anything outside of their experience. They’re different feelings. They exist for different reasons. They may be tied to the same core concepts but there are differences through and through.

I have guilt, like any mother, over the decisions I have made for the Munchkin and my parented boys. The book Mommy Guilt didn’t touch my adoption-related-mothering guilt. Not with a ten foot pole. I feel guilty that I wasn’t more knowledgeable about laws, ethics and adoptee issues prior to placement. I feel guilty that I have made some mistakes in my relationship with her and with her parents. I feel guilty that… wait for it… I feel guilty. That’s right. Oh, sweet cycle of guilt! But, honestly, sometimes my guilt has made it impossible for me to move forward with something that I knew needed to be done. And, hence, the guilt about the guilt.

But shame is a different level.

I don’t feel guilty about my role of birth mother. I feel shame. The words of others, some said with ignorance and some said with malice, have made me doubt my self-worth and the worth I have to my daughter’s life. When I am asked how many children I have and I respond, “Two,” shame is what keeps me from telling the truth. Because the general public seems unable to separate the action of placing (the “done”) and the person doing the placing (the “are”). As no one wants to slip on my shoes for even the briefest of occasions, they can’t seem to grasp how someone could place a child for adoption and, as such, I am immediately labeled along the lines of heartless, careless and generally distasteful. Their disapproving glances are not seen, by me, as a judgment of the action but a judgment of my person.

It’s probably not en vogue to admit that you have shame. But, alas, I do. I’m working on it. If only the general public would either step to the plate and work on compassionate responses or shut their mouths all together. Then maybe I could make some progress.

I trudge on.

Granted, I didn’t have millions of dollars at the ready. I also didn’t have the support of my family (due to communication problems amongst us all). But dang it, I was older. Why her? Why not me? Or, why me? And why not her? Or… why any of us?

I know she has her dissenters, of course. I’ve seen people blame the Pregnancy Pact on her. I’ve seen people blame her for being a bad influence. I’ve heard the nasty things people have to say. My heart breaks for her because of all of that crap. I want to smack people around and say, “You were a decision or two away, at some point in your life, from something similar.” Of course, these arguments are usually had with those who waited until they got married to have sex and therefore feel they can pass judgment on young, unwed parents. I haven’t quite found the appropriate respectful argument to let them know that they’re still not all that different from those of us who were young and pregnant. I’m working on it.

All the same, I hope the younger Spears sister is able to rise to the occasion. Not for the sake of the media. Not for the sake of her naysayers. And not for the sake of the tweens that apparently idolize her. (Hi? Solution to the problem? Teach your children either that all people are human or that celebrities, in general, don’t make the best role models. Cite examples.) I have these hopes for her new baby girl. Period. I hope that they are able to enjoy the life that they both deserve together: one with love, learning and laughter mixed together. That learning part? That’s the hard stuff. Trust me. You want to learn from the hard stuff. And you want to learn from the good stuff.

Just writing this out, I feel a bit less jealous. That is, until the next unwed and/or young celebrity gets pregnant. Because they will always exist. Just like in the everyday population.

I went through my current favorite Christian songs. I downloaded (legally!) a bunch of different tracks. And I got frustrated. The songs that I like tend to get a little, uhm, loud and I don’t really feel like blowing out any hearing aids. The other problem is that there are so few female vocalists, especially of the Christian variety, that have any “edge” or iota of interestingness that fit in my vocal range. Using a track from a male vocalists is difficult as heck. I fail at it. FAIL!

So, finally, I got aggravated, spent another $5.00 and downloaded the sheet music for the song I most wanted to sing from sheetmusicplus.com and called the pianist from my church. I didn’t even have to bribe. She’s happy to work with me and she will be in church that Sunday. Works well.

I’ve decided on Never Alone by Barlow Girl. When you watch it on YouTube, picture it without loud guitars, just piano. Gives it a more… raw… feel. No? More vulnerable? Exposed? That’s what I’m going for as that’s how I’ve been feeling as of late. The handful of songs that I was considering all played around with that theme. That vulnerability. That absolute nothingness without God. It’s where I am so it makes sense that it would speak to me.

I have a strong faith. I do. But it’s really been shaken lately. I’ve had my moments of anger with God, which I am assured that everyone deals with at various points in their lives. Right now, I’m really … working on it. But struggling at the same time. I know He is there… but dang if I don’t feel alone in all of this as of late. I don’t understand what is going on and why and it hurts. I feel broken. I feel so many things. And so, it makes sense that I resonate with this:

I cry out with no reply
And I can’t feel you by my side
So, I hold tight to what I know…
You’re here. And I’m never alone.

Perhaps it also speaks so much to me right now because of my belief that a mother’s love knows no ending, no bounds? Kind of like the Father’s? Oh parallels of my life! Anyway… I’m sure it also has something to do with the guitars in the real version. Aren’t they FANTASTICALLY ANGRY?! But the piano itself is beautiful. It’s kind of like me. A dichotomy of conflicting feelings. Hopeful and hopeless. (Also, it doesn’t hurt that the lead singer is a brunette. Heh. I can “see” myself in the video. If only I could rock a big electric guitar like that, perhaps I’d have a great creative outlet for this stuff.)

Anyway, I’ve got just about three weeks to practice. I’m meeting with my pianist a few times over the next few weeks to get it down. The verse is on the lower end of my register but… well, it feels good to sing low right now. Matches my mood.

It’s hard not to cry into your coffee cup after your son asks you why your daughter doesn’t live under your roof.

I took the route of “people live in different places.” I explained that, just like Yia Yia and Papau live in a different house, so does Munchkin. He said, “Okay,” and went back to eating his oatmeal.

I take it that this is the first question of many to follow. I obviously took the age appropriate route right here. I think he’s just a smidge too little to understand the concept of adoption; that I birthed the Munchkin and that D is her Mommy. He understands, at this point, that she is his sister and that D is her Mommy but I don’t think he realizes that the word “sister” means that I also birthed the Munchkin. And why would he have any concept of that yet? I’m just glad he gets “sister means brother, but girl!”

And so it starts. Questions. Big ones. From parties that are totally innocent in the mess of this thing and had no say in the matter. Oh, parenthood at its finest.

I got home and continued searching for an appropriate song to sing in church the first week of June. I continued to think and pray about everything that has been going on. Obviously, I do that a lot anyway, but was really praying for some kind of direction as opposed to just voicing my sadness. It’s funny how that works.

And then I remembered a book I bought the first summer after the Munchkin was born. I read about a chapter and a half, put it in the basket by my bed, and didn’t pick it up again until last night. I wiped four years of dust off the cover, found a comfortable spot in my bed and began reading.

And it’s time.

I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready for “intense” healing at that point in my life. I had stopped drinking the Kool-Aid, of course. I knew that I was hurting. I knew that I needed healing. But I hadn’t even started to grasp the full reality of my pain. And that’s why I wasn’t ready. I just didn’t have an inkling of what I was missing in my daughter’s life. I didn’t have any idea how the boys’ births would change me as a mother and how they would change my grief each time. I didn’t know how having absolutely no control in a relationship would leave me feeling powerless and angry. And I didn’t know, just then, that you really have to hit low points before you absolutely have to force yourself to start clawing your way out.

These are the low points, no?

I remember buying the book and resonating with the title. The Heartache No One Sees. I was so new to all of this and I wasn’t yet sharing the news of my daughter with new friends. Her picture was not yet on our walls. I knew I was hurting but I was putting on a front for the rest of the world. And up until a few weeks ago, I found myself doing similar things. Putting up a front so the rest of the world didn’t know my hurt and pain. I did so to protect others. But mainly I did it to protect myself from my fears and my own sadness.

Well, let me tell you, that’s no way to heal. Trust me. Doesn’t work. Been there. Done it.

I’ve made it farther in the book this time than last time. I’m taking that as a sign that this is the right path for me to take right now. I’m going into this part of my journey fully aware of my hurt and pain. I’m not lying to myself (or to you, for example). Right now? This sucks. And I’m hurt. And I don’t want to hurt anymore. I’m not naive enough to think that reading this book will solve my problems. I’m also not naive enough to think that I will ever stop missing my daughter. But this is just another step I need to take right now.

I know not all of my readers are Christians. Sometimes I worry that sharing my faith and how it plays into my healing journey makes others uncomfortable. But that is never my intent. I’m being honest about my experience and what I need right now.

The pain that we experienced as children or in other relationships as we have grown casts long shadows over the present. It affects the choices we make and the way we respond to life, to God and to other.

Yeah. Got that. Trust me.

And now you know where I am this morning. Which is a vastly different place than even yesterday morning. I would have laughed you out of my house if you would have told me I would write this post this morning. Yet, here I am. Again, not happy. But working towards something.

154 days into the abyss, my oldest son had his birthday party. Six days later, my younger son was born. (They’re exactly two years, one week apart.) On the 179th day, she celebrated her birthday while I was deep in the throes of exhaustion as I worked hard to establish a good breastfeeding relationship with the new baby. On day 190, I sang a solo at church and on Day 191, we celebrated our fifth Christmas apart.

At 313 days, I celebrated another birthday, only reminded of the first birthday after she was born and that first visit we shared. It was hard for me to remember but I cherished those memories all the same. And on the 329th day another Mother’s Day came and went. She told me Happy Mother’s Day. That felt nice.

On the 365th day, I was busy with the boys in the middle of 36 hours alone. On the 366th day, I was on the tail end of 36 hours alone and didn’t have much time to think.

And that brings us to today.

Life has changed so much. I won’t even speak for them. BigBrother is talking SO much and thinks he is so funny. A year ago, he was still content to ride in the front carrier when I took him places, despite the growing bump of his brother. Now he won’t think about being worn. He runs everywhere. And jumps everywhere. And kind of just bounces. And when LittleBrother joined our family, he was new and baby-like. And he’s not anymore. He’s sitting here, playing with his Daddy and laughing real laughs. He’s dropping things off of his high chair just so his Daddy will pick them up. He’s babbling in consonants and generally making us smile at all times.

I’ve grown and changed. In so many ways. I mean, I grew BIG with life in my womb. And I’ve slowly been shrinking back to something that resembles the old me. Slowly. I’ve somehow managed to keep my anxiety in check without resorting to medication. I’ve cut my hair short. And grown it back to mid-length. Also, my eyesight has changed though I haven’t made an appointment for a new set of glasses and contacts yet. I’ve really been learning a lot about healing in the past year as well. And perhaps that was the point… this is all a test to see if I’m putting what I’m learning into practice. I hate tests. I never was great at tests. Except the SAT. Rocked the SAT.

I miss her.

Today is being spent in normal hectic fashion. I got very little sleep last night thanks to weird dreams and two boys who thought 5:00am was a fine time to play. (It’s not, by the way.) Then I had a lot of work to do this morning. And I’ve been busy with some projects. And the laundry. And lunches. And supper later. And baths. And tonight is Bible Study (though I’m not quite in the mood for any spiritual challenges, thank you very much). And I’m reading an interesting novel.

But, just like any other day, she’s there, in my periphery. She’s part of me, part of who I am as a whole, but she’s out of my reach. It’s just a part of my reality. I never thought a duration of this time would be part of my reality but, well, it is. And I’ve got to learn how to better process that reality.

I think I need to take karate.