This is why I am not quick to share my birthmotherhood with every Tom, Dick and Harry. Or, mostly, Jane. Jane is a judgmental wench.

The pervasive belief that all who relinquished their child for adoption were going to harm their child. Which, of course, then tumbles and spills over into an automatic judgment of how I must parent my children now, most evident in the question I was once asked, in person, face-to-face with someone I still see on a regular basis, “And they let you have more children?”

Who is they? And why on Earth wouldn’t they let me have another child?

Let’s me say this: I was not ever a threat to the well-being of my children.

From moment one when those lines showed up on that pregnancy test in that pink-tiled upstairs bathroom, I knew I would do anything to protect my Munchkin. I would have given my life — and nearly did so three times during the duration of that complicated, life-threatening pregnancy. I fought, tooth and nail, to keep her inside, to keep her safe, to make sure that she had all the time she needed so that she would be healthy; my own health meant nothing to me as long as she was okay. When they came to talk to me about what would happen if she came early, I told them that she needed to be cared for first, that she was their first priority. I would have given my life for her. I endured endless months of bed rest, horrible medical procedures and a general lack of support for my daughter.

And I’d do it again.

The truth is that all of that health stuff only further complicated my singleness and poked holes in my fear and anxiety that I wasn’t “enough” for my daughter. That’s how we came to this place, where I am here and she is there and we are separate. No one told me that “enough” is relative. No one told me that if I was strong enough to endure the agonizing pregnancy with the Munchkin that I was surely strong enough to parent her. No one told me that “stuff” doesn’t make a parent. That adoptive parents fail just as much as we do. That it would be okay. So my anxiety lead the way. And here we are.

So tell me where in all of this that I was a danger to my child.

Tell me why I shouldn’t have been “allowed” to have other children.

Tell me why people look at me like a murderer when they hear that I placed my firstborn for adoption.

Tell me that they don’t doubt my parenting ability, question whether they should let their kids come over without their perfect-parent supervision.

Tell me that you are perfect.

I will be honest. I am human. I am not a perfect parent. I fall short for my parented children almost daily. But they are never in danger. They are always well-fed, except when they refuse to eat a meal that they liked just fine two weeks ago. They are always clean, except right out of the mud pit under the slide. They are always loved, even when they deliberately disobey me by reading past the final lights out. (Those young readers! Love ‘em! But man, go to sleep because tomorrow you will be a bear!) They are always safe, because this specific issue — this unnecessary judgment — has forced me to be a helicopter parent. What if we’re at the playground and BigBrother is on the monkey bars and falls and breaks his arm? Is someone going to see that as an example of me not paying enough attention to my children? What if they’re playing outside in our totally safe yard and someone kidnaps him? Is that then an example of how I am not an attentive mother? And so I hover.

Because of you.

Because of your unnecessary judgments.

Because of the way the news media only jumps on the most sensational stories of adoption.

Because of the way television and movie writers portray birth parents.

Because of the way we forced so many mothers into silence in decades past by telling them that they weren’t good enough.

Because of a need to see birth parents as unworthy, adoptive parents as worthy.

Because I fear that one misstep on my part will be judged more harshly than one misstep on your part.

All because as a scared, very sick, very determined-to-protect-my-child expectant mother, I chose the only path that I thought was available to us at the time.

I hear all the time that being an adoptive parent makes you a better parent because you waited and you “chose” a child. I say that being a birth mother makes you a better parent because you’re too scared to do anything wrong because you know everyone is just waiting for you to fail. Obviously, I don’t believe that at all, on either side, or in any variation that you want to say that one type of parent (attachment parenting, step-parent, those who endured miscarriages (of which I am one), and on and on) is better than another. It’s all false. Lies. Lies we tell ourselves and one another to make ourselves feel better about our choices, our lot in life, our short-comings. We’re all the parents we were intended to be, no matter how we came to the place where we are today. It’s a crap shoot, at best.

I have a grand dream that one day the sun will set on this pointless argument.

And those who are so concerned about the parenting abilities of me and the mothers and fathers like me — or anyone else who just dares to be different than the socially accepted norm — will, if not fully respect my family, go back to focusing on their own families.

But once we were back home and the boys were asleep and the calm settled down and around, I picked up the phone to call Dee back. She had texted a Happy Mother’s Day message earlier in the cacophony, and I wanted to return the sentiment.

She was busy with JD and reading, so we exchanged a quick “Happy Mother’s Day” and “I love you,” and then she handed the phone off to the Munchkin. After the “hellos” and “how are yous?” and “did it rain all day theres?,” a slight pause happened — as does when talking to children on the phone — and she said, “Happy Mother’s Day.”

I had a brief moment where I had to stare at the corner of the ceiling and blink rapidly — but instead of trying not to laugh, it was to keep from becoming a complete blubbering mess on the phone with this amazing, fabulous, best little girl ever. Once I composed myself, the conversation continued as you might imagine with some “thank yous” and “I miss yous” and “I love yous.” Then she asked to speak to my husband so she could tell him Happy Birthday. He also had a moment. She is, quite honestly, the best little girl on the planet. I don’t care what you say.

There are little moments along this open adoption journey that stand out as big, important things. Maybe not to the rest of the world, but to my heart. My daughter told me Happy Mother’s Day.

I can count this year as not only having survived, but having enjoyed Mother’s Day. That, in itself, is a huge milestone.

I’ve been walking in peace this year, allowing sadness to mingle with happiness.

I knew what to expect at the ceremony, so I figured I would be fine.

But that darn candle lightning ceremony — the walking up all alone, the lighting of the candle, the saying of her name, the glitter, the wish — oh, it just slammed into me. I tried to breathe. I didn’t want to cry. I turned to walk back, focusing on the flame of my candle. I made the mistake of making eye contact with my dear friend and support person, Amanda, as I lit her candle.

And I was done.

I sat down and cried hard, snot and tears and mascara flowing. A dear birthmom friend to my right hugged and held me. When another returned from her lighting to my left, there was more hugging and touching and general supporting. I am thankful for those who love me even when I ugly cry.

I am a sucker for ceremony, for tradition, for outward expressions of the emotions we feel.

To quietly say her name, to stand in front of everyone and participate, to honor her in a quiet moment of visibility, to wish the world for her, to stand up for her… it means a lot to me. I cannot adequately explain why it is important to me. Perhaps it’s the same reason why baptizing the boys was important — an outward manifestation of my dedication toward being the best I can be for these children. That’s the best I can come up with really.

The emotional crash after the ceremony has been daunting. I’m hoping a good night’s sleep will leave me with energy and space to live in the moments of tomorrow.

I won’t say “Happy” Birthmother’s Day, but I will tell you that I wished each and every one of you who shares this title with me a feeling of peace. It’s what I wish and pray and hope for all of us, no matter our story or our journey.

Write to someone else in the adoption constellation (someone specific or a general group). What do you want to say to them on Mother’s Day?

I want to write three very brief letters to my three favorite adoptive moms this Mother’s Day. They are all very different letters as each of these adoptive moms are vastly different. But all three of them are my friends. I always get offended when I hear that adoptive moms and birth moms can’t ever be friends. I’m all, “Pfft, whatever. I do what I want!” I don’t deal well with being told I can’t do something, so I seem to collect adoptive moms. And, of course, you know, that one that comes with the territory of being a birth mother. I do kinda like her too. (But, let’s face it, she also just kinda fell in my lap.)

Without further adieu, my letters. (Be forewarned, one of these is very irreverent. Because friends can do that.)

– __ — __ –

Dear Dee,

Thank you. You are a strong, amazing, compassionate, loving, funny, great mom. I love that you trust me with parenting questions. I am thankful for the way you love the Munchkin. I am also thankful that we can make fun of stupid people together; what would I do without you?! I wish the world for you in the coming months. I’m always here for you. Can’t wait to see you soon!

Happy Mother’s Day!

Love,
Jenna

– __ — __ –

Dear @2princessmama,

Thank you for proving that adoptive parents are equally crazy by getting a divorce and then shacking up and living in sin. You make birth parents look good. Thanks for taking the time to go to that celebration of stupid crackwhore birthmoms this Saturday, though I know it’s because you want to see for yourself that we have a day that qualifies us as less than you. Also, you owe me wine.

(Don’t you love making people gasp in horror? I do. We’re awesome.)

Happy Mother’s Day — you really are a great mom. Don’t let the young’ns tell you otherwise.

Love,
Jenna

– __ — __ —

Dear @fouragainsttwo,

I won’t be as irreverent as I was with our other Amanda-named-friend, but know that I think you are a fantastic mother to all of your daughters. I am thankful for our friendship, for your mothering, for the way our stories have intersected. Thank you for tolerating me and my noisy boys.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Love,
Jenna

– __ — __ –

I promise you, innocent readers, that none of these letters, even that one in the middle, are written in a mean way. I am super thankful for each of these amazing mothers. They have all taught me something about mothering, about birthmotherhood. They have all laughed with me, cried with me and been angry with me. And, well, uh, probably been angry with me. They have all forgiven me. They are friends. And they are moms who deserve a high five this Mother’s Day.

And wine.

Happy Mother’s Day.

So what the heck?

As I opened a document for work this morning, it all made sense: Ah, Mother’s Day.

It’s kind of hard to ignore it when I work as an editor whose specialty is Moms and Family. It’s been in my face for week. It likely took me this long to realize what my problem was because I’ve been treating Mother’s Day as work. It has been. I’ve been focused on it for weeks now, featuring posts and writing them and generally being knee-deep in a day that I don’t even like. Swell.

Now I’ve realized that the treating it like work doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist, hence the tears bubbling over into other random parts of my life. I should apologize to my husband tomorrow for weeping through almost all of our TV watching last night. He probably thought I was losing my mind. Then again, he probably understood and didn’t want to point it out. He’s smart like that.

On Saturday, I’m attending the Birthmother’s Day ceremony in Cleveland at Adoption Network Cleveland again this year. Again, I am faced with the fact that I don’t believe in having a separate and unequal day for birthmothers — but that I also long for a sense of community and understanding. Again, I think it helped to have a separate day for my loss, to acknowledge both the joy and pain in the relinquishment of my daughter. It still has an “ick” factor to it, in that I hate being shoved to the side. But I go. I need to be with other people who understand, who support me as I continue on this sometimes difficult path. I’m dragging one of my best friends with me this year who also happens to be an adoptive mom. We should have a snot-filled time together.

Sunday will come and go. My boys will give me hugs and kisses. My husband will love on me — and I will love on him because he unfortunately shares his birthday with Mother’s Day sometimes and that sometime is this year. The sun will set and the sun will rise on Monday and it will be over for a year.

I’m always asked what I want for Mother’s Day and I never have an answer. You can’t wrap what I want. You can’t have it delivered. You can’t cook it or bake it or order it from a store. My dream is always to have my children in the same place on Mother’s Day. Time and distance make that rather impossible at this stage in life, so I just keep my hope to myself that someday it could happen.

However, I will also accept Marigold Fiesta. What? I do like to unwrap presents.

So I thought I would explain more about what “my peace” means to me.

First and foremost, peace doesn’t mean happiness. Quite honestly, happiness is fleeting. If you want to live a full life, you should be searching for joy, not happiness. Happiness is based on life situations and external circumstances. Joy is based on your outlook on life, your core views on life, your inner being — even when the situation at hand isn’t happy. I live a joyful life, but that doesn’t mean I’m always happy.

How does that relate to adoption? I’m not always happy as a birth mother. There are times when I am downright sad. Her birthday, holidays, moments that catch me off guard. They are hard, they are real. Allowing myself the room to be sad is part of my peace.

I don’t allow others to tell me when to be happy, when to be sad, when to feel anything. I feel what I feel. Recognizing that was a big turning point in my healing. I am allowed to feel what I feel.

Because I am a person who leads a joyful life, not just a happy one, I look for the good in everything. Sometimes I fail. I am human. Even when I am sad however, my life is not lacking joy. Even in the darkest of times, when happiness seems a billion light years away, there is joy — in family, in self, in life itself.

So, no, my peace doesn’t mean that I’m always happy. It means that I have a joy in knowing that I gave birth to a daughter that I fought, tooth and nail, to keep healthy during pregnancy. It means that I am allowed to be sad. To be angry. To be scared. To be apathetic. To be excited. To be overwhelmed. To be underwhelmed. To be whatever I need to be at any given moment. It means that, at my core, I’m okay with the mixed bag of emotions that come with adoption relinquishment.

You’ll note, of course, that I mentioned anger. So many fear anger, and I did for quite some time. I don’t feel angry often any more, though I did have a moment on her birthday this past year during which I was so angry with Munchkin’s biological father that I could have spit. But it passed. And there was room for the feeling when it was there. Anger is not a negative emotion. It is simply emotion. When we act out negatively in anger, things can get messy. Feeling it, acknowledging it and seeing how it fits into my journey allows me to nod my head at it and move on to the next emotion — which is hopefully something easier to swallow.

My peace also doesn’t mean that I don’t miss my daughter. Some people assume that, have sent me crazy, ridiculous emails accusing me of “forgetting” my daughter or doing her harm by talking about peace. I miss my daughter. Plain and simple. There is no question about it nor has there ever been. I miss her. But I also can’t do anything about the past which brings me to another key point in my peace: Accepting the past, hoping for the future.

I made choices. Some were helped along by bad advice and lies. But I made choices. I accept those choices and their consequences. Oh, they stink at times. That whole missing my daughter and feeling sad? Not fun. The times when my boys question me about the whys and hows of letting her go? Cuts me to the core. But I accept it. I cannot change my past, but I can hope for the future.

I can hope that someday I will have a decent-to-great relationship with my daughter. I can hope that she will understand and, if not, forgive me. I can hope that my sons will understand and, if not, forgive me. I can hope that I will continue to have a great relationship with her mom. I can hope that changes with come to the adoption industry that make it so young mothers aren’t lied to. I can hope that speaking out educates others and changes long-standing stereotypes. I can hope that laws change so that adoptees get their original birth certificates. I can hope that someday the angry moments are much fewer and much farther between. I can hope that the joy I have for my life overflows into my everyday demeanor. I can hope that someday my peace allows total self-forgiveness someday. I’m getting there; guilt and shame are hard to beat, and even in their overwhelming negativity, there is room for them as long as I don’t allow those two things to rule my actions or the rest of my feelings.

My peace is about living this life the best way I can each and every day. I stumble sometimes. I fall. I don’t have all the answers for myself, let alone other people. But every time I wake up on a new morning, it’s a new chance to live my peace. My joyful, happy, sad, angry, guilty, shamed, excited, proud, worried, anxious, trusting, accepting, messy peace.

And, oh, I am thankful for that chance every day I get it.

From his first post:

I have decided to start this blog because there is a boy out there who has a Daddy or “Birth Father” that he has yet to meet. Not because of his decision and definitely not because of my decision. In fact, up until about 45 days ago I never even knew I had a son. How could this be you ask? Great question, please let me tell you…

Yes, he has a son that was relinquished for adoption without his knowledge or permission. He is understandably flabbergasted and upset and likely a million other emotions in between. I have told him to reach out to the bloggers behind some other birth father blogs who have sadly lived the same life, though most of those come from further west and not here in Ohio. He has not met his son though the DNA came back as a match. He’s now in a waiting period where the adoptive family, also understandably shocked, holds all the power. He’s having a crash course in the issues of adoption, isn’t he?

I have no patience for mothers who do this to fathers. I have even less patience for a completely corrupt adoption industry that allows things like this to happen. I hate that we are unnecessarily, unethically and illegally taking children from parents who would parent, who would be fantastic parents, simply for the almighty dollar. It’s horrifying.

Ranting aside, please go support this “new” birth father. Like many in the adoption niche of the blogosphere, this was not his choice. At all. He needs the love and support of the lot of us right now and I encourage you to do so.

How do you feel after a visit?

After a visit is always a hard time. It takes a few days, sometimes a few weeks, to step back and evaluate the larger picture of a visit. The immediacy of “after a visit” is always fraught with deep emotions and anxiety and tears and the general “missing” of my daughter. I am often quiet and introspective, because I fear opening my mouth and saying or typing the things in my head. To be honest, I’m often afraid of feeling the things I feel.

The truth is that I miss my daughter all the time. I miss when she’s not here, doing the everyday things that we do every single day. But after a visit, it’s very much so in my face. I am face-to-face with the lack of her presence in our home. I am forced to acknowledge some of those feelings that I otherwise am afforded the right to ignore. It’s not that I ignore my daughter, but most days I am able to avoid dealing with the sadness, the grief, the loss, the guilt simply because I have too much else to do. The end of a visit brings all of those things to the forefront and I am forced to sit in them, to dwell amongst them. I am forced to take account of them, to feel them. I am forced to reevaluate where I was after the last visit and how I have grown or stagnated or even regressed since the last visit in terms of healing and emotions and appropriate responses to negative feelings toward myself. I am forced to answer the question, “Am I still doing this for the right reasons, even when it is hard. Am I continuing to place my daughter first in these decisions? Am I soaring or falling? Am I winning or failing? Am I enough?”

In short: the “after a visit” time is absolutely exhausting for me.

It’s more exhausting than keeping up with four children, multiple adults and, if we’re over there, multiple pets. It’s more exhausting than answering questions all the way to the Munchkin’s house. It’s more exhausting than being put on the spot with questions or statements that you couldn’t even imagine to expect. It’s more exhausting than worrying about a visit in the days before it arrives. It’s more exhausting than traveling, alone, with two very active little boys and a “60-year-old back.” The self-evaluation that happens in the immediate aftermath of a visit is just draining.

But, of course, firmly worth it as well.

Because eventually, the dwelling is dealt with and I come to a personal conclusion about the emotional work I need to do before the next visit, and I am able to step back and look at that larger picture. It is almost always a picture that I want to remember. And as I said in that post, after that emotional work is done — whether it takes a day or twelve, I come back to what keeps me going, to how I deal with this thing called open adoption:

I know I’ll remember that heavy weight of sadness that washes over me as we walk out the door to go home, but as I always do, I’ll remember the good stuff first. It’s how I function, how my brain works. I can’t focus on the negative. I can realistically accept the bittersweet aspects of visiting and how it’s never easy to leave. But we made some good memories on this visit.

And I will carry them with me until next time — until forever.

We’re gearing up for a visit at the end of May, so I’m doing some emotional work to prepare myself for the post-visit blues knowing, full well, that they’ll still sideswipe me, that I won’t really be prepared. And that, in the end, it will all be okay.

I was looking through photos of that visit this evening, remembering the things we did and the things we said and the memories we created. I felt that twinge of sadness, but I also felt that joy that we have what we have; we are rare and I am grateful for everything we have created for ourselves.

LittleBrother is on a big Munchkin kick as of late.

“Is it the end of May yet? But can’t we go at the end of April? We did last year!”

It’s hard to explain that you can skip preschool with much more ease than you can skip Kindergarten… that elementary school ruins your lives and it stays that way clear through college… and, let’s be honest, on into the work years of our lives. He just knows that last April, we went to see the Munchkin and, dang it, we should this year as well.

My heart agrees. My schedule does not. It’s hard to fit in two separate t-ball leagues (age differences) and play dates and, well, work and church and family and making a new house our own and on and on. That’s not even taking into account the busy life that Munchkin and her family lead. I wouldn’t wish different for us — I think that each of our immediate families lives a life that keeps us busy and active in ways that are beneficial to each family member. It’s what I wanted for myself, for my sons… for my daughter. I love that she’s involved with so much.

But the passage of time blows by so quickly. And suddenly we’re all one year older. I feel one part thrilled that we’ve lasted another year — alive and in a successful open adoption relationship — and one part part sad that we are apart this year.

All I know is that I am a far cry from the twenty-one year old girl who read a positive pregnancy test. In good ways… and in ways that you don’t know to expect, some of which are sad. I am proud of who I am, even if one of those parts of me is sometimes sad.

Mainly because Alex’s mom kept forcing adoption down her throat.

Let me back up and give you the basics of the episode. Alex was a 17-year-old soon-to-be senior in high school. She and Matt are expecting an obviously unexpected baby. Matt is, for all intents and purposes, a loser; he parties, he doesn’t work, he’s constantly either hung over or high throughout the episode. Alex’s mom is decidedly unsupportive. She tells Alex that she can either choose adoption or find a new place to live. Eventually, Alex hooks up with her friend Brianna’s parents, who want to adopt a baby.

And that’s the basic premise of the episode.

The whole “choose adoption or find a new place to live” storyline was a difficult one to endure. Quite honestly, I yelled a few times. We try to pretend that adoption is a choice in 2012. We try to pretend that mothers facing unplanned pregnancies aren’t ever forced to relinquish their children. We try to pretend that we have moved on from the Baby Scoop Era when young mothers were never given a choice; it was understood the baby would be relinquished. End of discussion. But I can tell you that Alex’s mom’s words aren’t unique. Too many young mothers are still being faced with “you will go through with an adoption or our home is closed to you.”

I understand not having the time or money to raise your child’s child. I get that. But I also know that forcing someone to choose adoption isn’t the answer. Adoption, even under the best circumstances, involves a lot of grief and loss. When it is forced, the grief and loss are, in my opinion, exacerbated even more so.

Poor Alex just kept getting put through the wringer throughout the entire episode. Her mom simply wasn’t thinking, at all, every time she opened her mouth.

“There will be no babies in this house. That was one form of birth control.”

Newsflash, Alex’s mom, even the best birth control fails. It does. I just don’t understand the whole “there will be no babies in this house,” throw the baby out with the bath water (pun intended) mindset in the first place. Yes, you can be crazy disappointed in your pregnant teen daughter. Yes, you can be angry. Yes, you can be frustrated. Yes, you can put your foot down and say that you are not raising the child. But why on Earth would you kick your child, who is seemingly otherwise a fantastic child, out while pregnant or shortly after birth? Where does this come from? There’s tough love and then there’s no love.

As Alex is sitting on the couch, crying, while her mother pushes adoption down her throat, my heart broke. “My heart is telling me no,” is met with the whole “there are lots of families out there that would have unlimited visitation.” First off, open adoption is not a band-aid for pain. Open adoption is still adoption; it’s still an unimaginable loss. Then we have this mother basically lying to her daughter. There are not a “lot” of families out there that would agree to “unlimited” visitation. Even in our open adoption, I’m sure if I showed up every day, Dee would reach a breaking point. (Possibly only because our kids together make a lot of noise.) Families need time and space. Even birth families; if Dee wanted to come over every single day, I’d have to draw a line. We go on vacation and camp and sometimes just like to sit in jammies and not do anything for one whole day. Unlimited visitation is an unrealistic expectation.

I think the hardest thing for me watching the episode were the people who decided it would be good to tweet me with things like:

(Reference: One of the girls at Alex’s dance studio told her that if she relinquished, at least she could still go out. Alex did not say this herself.)

Oh yes. An adoptive mom, as she told me later, told me that the baby in question deserved to be adopted. I was, understandably, less than pleased with that entitled thought process. Because this mother is young? Because she doesn’t have a lot of resources right now? Because she doesn’t have a large support system at the time? What did this mom, other than not being able to make a decision, do to show that she wouldn’t be a good mom?

Absolutely nothing.

The dad? Sure, he’s an ass. But I can tell you, without a shadow of a doubt, that sometimes adoptive dads are just as bad on the loser scale. So don’t tell me that just because the biological dad was a big loser meant that the baby “deserved” to be adopted.

A single, young mother does not mean a baby “deserves” to be adopted.

There were other tweets like it, all of which hurt my heart immensely for any young mother trying to make a decision. I know what they are bombarded with; the stereotypes, the bias toward adoptive families. It’s so hard to make a decision, to feel as though you’re not letting someone down.

Which brings the potential adoptive family in this episode into the picture. I didn’t hate them. The potential adoptive mom was a little baby hungry, but the potential adoptive dad kept it all in perspective, all but demanding that no one make a decision until the baby was born. He said it twice on camera and I wanted to kiss him both times. That is important, to have that space to make the decision after the baby is born. They were unofficially “matched,” of course, but Alex was given that space to decide, however much the potential adoptive mom said she wanted the baby.

** SPOILER ** SPOILER ** SPOILER ** SPOILER **

In the end, Alex chose to parent her daughter. When she told the potential adoptive parents, the potential adoptive mom cried a bit, but there wasn’t a big, dramatic scene. I was proud of both of them for that; it took a lot, on camera, to keep words and emotions in check. The feeling of loss they experienced must have been difficult and I really do applaud both of them for not being the stereotypical, angry, finger-pointing adoptive parents.

Lastly, I was proud of Alex’s mom for coming around. The truth is that so many parents who put up the “NO BABIES IN MY HOUSE” front, often come around once that little bundle of joy arrives. I won’t say that they all do, but grandchildren have a way of softening hard hearts. Alex’s mom didn’t drop everything to help Alex parent, but she “allowed” her to come back home and offered the support that she could with the time and resources that she had.

In the end, I like this episode more than the Catelynn and Tyler relinquishment storyline. I like that we were shown how young mothers could feel forced to relinquish by their own parents. I like that we were shown it’s a good idea not to make a final decision regarding relinquishment until after the baby is born. I like that we were shown it really was the mother’s decision to make — not her own mom’s, not the potential adoptive parents. I like that she was given space.

I know what’s being said about the episode, much like the tweet I received while watching it. But that baby deserves to be loved and cared for, and that’s what she’s getting right now.

You can watch it, but be prepared for it to kick up some emotions.

Adoption is not a magic, easy option to an unplanned pregnancy. It’s hard and it should never be a forced decision.