I wait, quietly. I sit, quietly. I enjoy the peace, the quiet a rarity even on a vacation. Soon the boys will be awake, asking for oatmeal and the television and a game and a book and sunblock and, “Can we go to the beach right now?” I breathe in the coffee and push back the thought, but it snakes its way forward, weaving its way into my soul.

She is not here. Again. Ever. She will not wake early with the boys or sleep in as she does. She will not climb the stairs and walk around the corner with a mess of dark curls hiding her big, brown sleepy eyes. She will not walk over and give me a kiss. She will not tell me her dreams. She is not here.

She is actually on vacation with parts of her own family. She is making her own memories while I sit missing the memory of her. I am mostly okay with that fact, the knowing that she is busy living a life that I gave her. I am logically okay with it; my heart feels heavy and rebellious. I wish she was here, with me. With us.

I walked the rows of souvenir shirts. Visibly, I passed the pinks and purples and gender-specifically-girl shirts without a passing glance. Inwardly, I ached. I think that I will buy her a shirt. But I might not mail it. I don’t know her size again; she grows so quickly. I won’t see her in the shirt; that is hard. A few gender-specifically-boy shirts are not ugly and I plan to come back by the end of vacation to make a purchase. I don’t know if I’ll buy one for her when it comes down to it.

I allow these thoughts to pass through me like the stiff breeze coming in off the ocean. I sit and let them wash over me like the tide rushing inland. I allow this to happen in the still small moments of morning on vacation. Soon I will have to push them down and ignore their presence while I tend to the busy work of making a family vacation work… all the while knowing my family vacation is missing a person.

This quote is something that I agree with, wholeheartedly.

“One of the biggest challenges facing adoptive parents is that there are simply not enough adoption support resources available,” Klobuchar said.

I agree. 100%.

However, one of the biggest challenges facing birth parents is that there are next to no adoption support resources available once they sign their names on the dotted lines. Even those that are lucky enough to have birth parent support groups through their agencies are often short-changed by being fed the same lines that they were fed pre-placement: adoption is good, we should be grateful and, by George, we should never speak ill of the process.

Don’t misunderstand me: I want adoptive families to get the resources they need to better ensure that our children are being cared for as best as they can possibly be. But to ignore that birth parents are needing their own forms of support whether their adoptions are open or closed is to ignore some of the true problems within the adoption industry. Where is the bill supporting the ethical treatment of expectant parents considering placement during the adoption process? Where is the bill giving birth parents better access to post-placement counseling and open adoption relationship mediation? We know that the research is on the side of continued involvement by birth parents, but so often birth parents shy away or disappear completely because they have not been given the information and knowledge of how to handle the difficult relationship balance with their child’s adoptive parents.

I really hope that adoptive parents are able to receive improved post-placement services sometime in the near future. I also hope that birth parents’ need for equal support is someday recognized and promoted as a valid change in the way that adoptions are handled. Maybe then — when all sides of the adult triad are being equally and adequately supported — we can truly offer our children the best of what adoption can offer… and the best of ourselves.

I have been asked loaded questions in my day, but none quite so heavy.

It is not that I think he should avoid parenthood because he is a birth father. I am not dooming him to a life of childlessness because of everything that happened. I was just as big a part in the decision to relinquish as he was… or, if I’m honest, I was a bigger part of that decision. He signed the papers, yes, but I was the driving force. And I am an amazing mom to my two boys. I would have fought — tooth and nail — anyone who tried to tell me that the relinquishment of my firstborn made it impossible for me to be a good mother to any subsequent children. I’d still fight tooth and nail.

But still, the question hit me hard.

He never asked me that question when I was pregnant with the Munchkin. Granted, I started in with the adoption plan shortly after my 18th week of pregnancy once I had been placed on bed rest after my kidney surgery. Perhaps he never had a chance to get to that question. Maybe I switched gears to adoption speak before he even had a chance to grasp that he had helped create a life and was, in some way, responsible for the outcome. I don’t know why he never asked me that question.

I don’t know why he has chosen to ask me now, even before he and his wife have conceived a child.

But it hurt me in a place that I didn’t know still bore scars. My immediate reaction was deep and visceral and full of anger and fury and rage. If I was a throwing person, I would have thrown something, breaking it simply for the release. To see the shards of glass as a visual representation of how I once felt and how I suddenly felt all over again. Thankfully, I chose not to say anything for a few days. I recognized my anger as something deeper within myself, tied to my guilt and shame and sense of utter failure. I quieted up for most of the week, unable and unwilling to discuss what I was feeling with anyone.

He has apologized for everything that happened back then. I have forgiven him. But I tiptoe around real discussion with him during our infrequent bouts of contact. I discuss my career, what the boys are doing, the constant desire for a vacation and a nap and other such simplistic bits of conversation. When I was pregnant with my first son, I couldn’t have imagined asking him, “Do you think I’ll make a good mother?” Then again, I hadn’t forgiven him at that point, so maybe that makes all the difference. I suppose I am most taken aback by how easily he asked me such a loaded question, as if he didn’t even recognize how it might pierce the deepest, darkest parts of my soul that I keep hidden from almost everyone at all times.

The truth is that most people who ask the question — will I be a good parent — are usually those who will be fine. Questioning one’s ability and gauging readiness is important. It’s not a guarantee, but it’s a sign that good things are happening in the head and the heart. I have no reason to believe that he wouldn’t be a good father.

I just wish he would have asked that question seven years and one month ago.

The Cradle

Until a few pages in when the main character, Matthew, starts talking about having been in foster care.

I put the book down for a few days. If this isn’t evidence that adoption as a subject follows me around, I don’t know what is. I didn’t purchase this book. I didn’t seek this book out. I hadn’t heard of this book. It was given to me in a box of books. And, if we’re honest, I liked the cover. So, I started reading it. And there it was. Adoption. Figures.

A few days later, I picked it back up. And put it down. And picked it back up. And read a huge chunk of it. And then physically threw it across the room. And picked it back up. And then accidentally left it in the truck for a few days. Days turned into a week. I grabbed it when we got out of the truck yesterday, resigning myself to finishing it last night.

I cried.

I cry at coffee commercials. And movies and television shows and when my kids say “I miss you, Mommy” on the phone. I’m a crier. So, it’s not monumental that the book made me cry; it’s unsurprising at best. But I cried.

There are two stories within in the book: one of a family starting out and another of a family in which the mother is an acclaimed children’s writer, trying to get back into poetry. She, of course, is the birth mother of the father in the other family. The story talks about how she wrote 72 poems while she was pregnant and then stopped writing poetry for a very long time. I’m familiar with that notion, how poetry suddenly takes on a different form, one that is too heavy to carry for awhile. Our stories differ in that Munchkin’s birth father was not killed in Vietnam, but I related to the feeling. Too much.

In the other line of the story, another child is found to be a half-sibling of the wife in the family starting out. He is, at best, “unwanted” by those who are caring for him. A discussion arises and revolves around the “what is best” line of thought. In this particular case, it was obviously the best choice for him to go home with the young father-to-be, to have the boy live with his half-sister, to be adopted by a family that legitimately cared and wanted him. But the line of questioning, the “what is best” question, always hits me in that place I try to ignore.

“So I want your word then,” Matt said. “your word that when all the papers come, you’ll sign them and you’ll send them back. It costs you nothing., You and I both know it’s the best thing that could happen.”

“Is it?” asked Darren. “For who? I also question your use of the word best.”

“I don’t,” Matt said.

Later, the letter is given to the birth mother by the boy in question above. That’s a long and involved story, one worth reading. As you might guess, the letter is what really got to me. The letter hit me in such a way, was written in a way that I had not previous seen in all of my adoption fiction reading. Was it because it was written by a man about a man searching for his birth mother? I don’t know. But, oh, I cried at these few lines.

If you’re that kind of person then I’m writing to say I’m here, and I’m okay, and it’s okay, what you did, I have lived an okay life.

My wife’s name is Marissa. Our new boy’s name is Chris. He is seven pounds, nine ounces and he is seven hours old. He has expressed an interest in knowing you in the future.

The Munchkin was seven pounds, nine ounces.

The book itself has holes. I don’t know what happened to the birth mother’s parented son, off to war. This irks me. The story of the cradle itself, however, is really quite interesting and almost makes up for that large gaping hole of irk.

I wouldn’t have read the book had I known that it was about adoption. I’ve been on adoption overload as of lately in all of my usual fictional outlets. I use fiction to escape from the realities of my life. To be thrown into a tumultuous story full of triggering adoption speak, a few stereotypes and some emotional baggage — without warning — was not exactly a walk in the park for me. But I’m glad I read it. It has nothing to do with my story, though I found myself relating to some of the discussions, the emotions, the general feelings that accompany this life. Talk of repression had me nodding my head. The description of various moments and feelings. Perhaps they really are universal.

In the end, this book didn’t change my life. It didn’t enlighten me as to anything within my own adoption journey. What it did do, however, was bring me out of my adoption-fiction funk. Adoption can be written in a non-overly-cliched way. There are still fresh ideas out there for how to tackle the subject. It’s not all about the stereotypes and baby-stealing and mean adoptive parents and court battles. Somerville wrote in an essay in 2009 about the book that he originally started the plot for the book with the idea of a “person looking for something.” I didn’t know I was looking for this book either.

I’m glad I found it.

But, man, I got saturated with adoption speak this weekend. Early in the weekend.

At one point, I simply had to ditch everyone and everything and stick my fingers in my ears and yell, “LA LA LA! I CAN’T HEAR YOU! WHAT IS ADOPTION?!” Then I remembered to do my deep breathing techniques, pulled out my coping techniques and basically got over myself. I must say that I’ve come a long way in managing my own anxiety. Yes, I still have to take a moment and step aside and actually remind myself to breathe, but let’s be honest: Jenna of four or five years ago couldn’t have handled crowds that big, constant adoption speak and the general hub-bub of the conference. I count the brief moment of saturation and subsequent breathing as a total win for myself.

And then I realized something. Despite all of the adoption speak being constantly thrown around, the number of birth parents in attendance was low. I can’t even count the number of adoptive parents in attendance. And, thankfully, they were mostly adoptive parents that I know and love. But birth parent wise? Me. Claud. Shannon. Another one who isn’t actively blogging her story but follows the discussions. I heard of two (I think, though the two might be the same person but described differently) others that I never managed to run into myself. (Adoptee speaking, I ran into a handful, but still not as many as the adoptive parents.)

I wonder why.

Of course, it’s perfectly representative as to what is going on numbers-wise in the blogosphere. For every birth parent blogger, there are scores of adoptive parent bloggers. (Same goes for adoptees.) When you factor in things like any birth mother from the closed era being told to keep her mouth shut and move on with her life with the fact that those in open adoptions who dare to blog the “hard” stuff of the reality of the journey are told to shut their mouths and be grateful, well, it’s not hard to understand why our numbers rise and quickly dwindle, rinse repeat.

I felt the number and entire issue acutely as I sat in on the grief panel. It was amazing. It was heart-wrenching. It was funny (no, really). It was something I needed to sit in on and consider. But it did, in fact, make me feel more alone. I did experience something similar to two of the speakers, being told that it was my fault anyway. I also experienced the “you should be over this now” in relation to both Munchkin’s relinquishment and Rose’s miscarriage. There were similarities. But so many differences. As of this year, with all the death my family has experience, I can honestly say that I don’t feel as though death related grief and adoption related grief are the same, much as Kim stated when divorce and death were briefly compared. Both griefs to experience and live through, but, for me, so vitally different.

And so I wonder where our voices are. I mean, I know where they are. They’re here, on the blogosphere, continuing to discuss the ins and outs of the experience. But do we shy away from bigger events to avoid the actual face-to-face “yes I’m a birth mother” discussion? Do we fear the look of panic in someone else’s eyes when we make that admission? Are we scared of the judgment, perceived or otherwise? I know the answers, as they were part of my answer for so many years. Sure, it was convenient that I couldn’t attend because of 50th Anniversary Parties and other things. But it was also easier.

When it comes down to it, I’d like to see larger representation of birth parents at BlogHer: on site, at the conference and on the panels. If we can talk about infertility and grief and death and loss and issues revolving around the importance of feminism and action by women, they we most definitely can talk about how ethical adoption reform is a feminist issue, and more over, speaking of the adoptee right to their original birth certificates, a humanist issue. So many blogging topics and activism things smooshed into one niche on the blogosphere… and very little representation. I think, perhaps, that was my only letdown of the entire conference: hearing all of this great talk about so many issues and not seeing any visible representation of the issues most near and dear to my heart. A minor issue, as I enjoyed myself so thoroughly, but an issue for me all the same.

I hope that other birth parent bloggers will consider heading to San Diego next year. I’ll be there. I hope to meet you face-to-face and thank you for being a friend.

We each interacted with at least one professional during the adoption process (agency, lawyer, facilitator, consultant, hospital social worker, etc.). What was one thing that they did that was most supportive of open adoption? What one thing was least supportive?

Our “agency” did nothing to support openness. Nothing.

The openness that they lead me to believe was my only option involved updates for the first year, sporadic updates through a certain age (I recall five, but it may have been seven) and then nothing. It wasn’t until my daughter’s adoptive father talked about potentially visiting after the adoption that I even came to realize that open adoptions could be fully open. It was a far-fetched idea for me at the time, and I told him I would consider it, not wanting to close the door immediately but unsure of if I could handle it. (Obviously, I came to my senses!)

What was the least supportive thing? Where do I begin?

• Lying by omission by not informing me that open adoptions were not legally binding in our state.
• Not providing me with pre-placement counseling that would have helped with future openness issues.
• Not telling either adult party about the ins and outs of open adoption.
• Not providing me with post-placement counseling when I asked for it.

The list goes on. Of course, looking at the atrocities that they are still heaving upon the adoption industry, it’s not surprising to read that list, now is it?

If it wasn’t for my therapist, that I paid for myself as my “agency” refused to help me locate or pay for one, I wouldn’t have made heads or tails of open adoption. To be fair, I was her first “fully” open adoption birth mother as well. She read books, dug into our story and worked hard to come up to speed so that she could help me figure it all out. I am grateful that at least one professional, though not specifically attached to the industry, came through for me.

It is not a secret that I dealt with postpartum depression after the boys. I have talked in detail about how I was totally side-swiped after our oldest son was born. I have talked less, however, of the near incapacitation after our youngest son was born.

I couldn’t talk about it while I was going through it. I physically couldn’t type the words. I could barely acknowledge what I was going through emotionally. I was simply unable to explain what I was feeling, what I was feeling in the deep recesses of my mind, my soul. It was a scary spot to be in for me, someone who is usually good with the words.

Even after the dark veil lifted and I began participating in life again, I couldn’t bring myself to talk about what I had experienced in specific detail.

Because I judged myself. And I was embarrassed. And I was scared.

The summer between my junior and senior years of college, I found myself hospitalized. My eating disorder had hit it’s lowest point, and in some still blurry string of events, too many diet pills were consumed. I spent time in the ICU before spending a week in a place that still haunts me to this day. The things I saw are not things I care to remember.

And so, when I found myself considering driving into trees after my youngest son was born, I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t tell my husband. I didn’t tell my mom. I didn’t tell the friends that I had met in the wake of my youngest’s birth. I didn’t even tell my therapist. No one.

But every time I drove past a tree or a pole or a brick wall, I thought about veering the vehicle off the road. Just a quick snap of the wrist and it would all be over. It would look like an accident. In an area prone to deer and other wildlife on even the most major of highways, no one would have thought differently. Maybe the car had malfunctioned. Or maybe I was distracted by a ringing phone. It would have been a mystery.

I’d like to tell you that I only had those feelings when the kids weren’t with me. Or, maybe even only when they were crying while I was driving. But it was every time I passed something solid. Every time I saw a tree, I wanted it to end. Every time I saw a roadside memorial cross, I wanted it to be mine. I just wanted it to end.

What, exactly?

The fear. The anxiety. The black cloud of doom, worthlessness, nothingness. The self-loathing for my past choices. The all-consuming grief that left me sobbing in the shower in the middle of the night. The doubt; oh, the doubt that ate at me day and night. Every time I raised my voice to my older son, that doubt poked at my heart as a reminder. “You’re no good at this. See? No good at all.” Every time I felt touched out at the end of an all day breastfeeding frenzy when my youngest was going through a growth spurt, that doubt mocked me. “Annoyed by the touch of your own child? What kind of mom are you?” Every time I had the thought of driving into a tree… “See? Told you.”

The driving into tress phase didn’t last too long. It was the rock-bottom point of that bout of postpartum depression. I upped my therapy during that time, but I didn’t tell my therapist. I wanted to. I probably needed to. But I couldn’t.

That same doubt that poked and prodded at me kept me from seeking the full help I needed. I didn’t know if my therapist would recognize me as a sane woman experiencing severe depressive thoughts or if she would write me off and send me away. I didn’t know if being sent away would mean losing my children. Logically, I am aware that my husband would have had them in his care, but my thoughts were — obviously — not logical at the time. My biggest fear, to this day, is that I will lose my children in some way. An accident. An illness. A kidnapping. Or my having done something — or someone perceiving my having done something — that causes them to be removed. Admitting that I frequently thought of ramming my vehicle into trees didn’t seem safe.

And had my kids been taken away? I would have ended it. In seconds. I have no doubt.

I survived that dark, scary, absolutely mind-numbingly frightening time. By the grace of God and some other miracles still unknown. I have become, or, maybe rather, I always was an amazing mother to my boys. I don’t imagine that I love my children more than a mother who has not been through the depths of hell, but I do feel that I’m so very, very lucky to be here as their mom. There were days when I didn’t think I’d still be here, arguing with them over whether or not they have to finish their zucchini and re-tucking them in at night with little kisses and whispers of love. I feel so incredible grateful to be here, with them, now.

I have been writing this post for nearly two years. There are six or seven drafts of it in my account, all abandoned because of the shame, embarrassment and left over fear that still lingers when these nightmarish memories pop into my mind. I decided to schlub my way through this post, which took three days to get through, because I am honored and, dare I say, excited to be participating in a very cool thing at BlogHer ’10. Katherine Stone of Postpartum Progress and Casey of Moosh In Indy are putting together a photo of PPD survivors. I will be there. With bells on. (Okay, no bells.) And if you have survived postpartum depression, even if you didn’t dream of driving into trees, I encourage you to be there too. Let’s show the world — and maybe even me — that we have nothing to be ashamed of.

It’s not.

And so, if anyone ever needed proof that the ANLC has no ethical concern for expectant parents considering adoption, please take a gander at this. Let me screencap it for when it eventually ceases to exist, which can’t be soon enough.

In case you can’t read it, it says:

“Adoption Network Law Center is supporting MTV in casting for the new season of 16 and Pregnant.”

And goes on to say:

“If you are:

Then apply here!”

Exclamation point their own!

First and foremost, the fact that an unethical adoption facilitator (as they are not an actual agency and thus not governed by the same state laws) is helping with casting for a teen reality show is alarming. It is jarring. It is a big red flag waving in the air declaring that something is wrong with the system.

It should read:

“Hi, we’re going to use these fun graphics and colors that appeal to your teen senses to draw you in before we speak with your parents. Then we’re going to tell you great things about MTV! I mean, IMAGINE HOW FAMOUS YOU WILL BE! And then we will fill your head full of lies about how you could never possibly be enough for your child and how everything is working against you and how you’d be a bad mom. And we’ll make promises of openness even though it’s not legally binding in most states. And then we’ll give you half truths about the ins and outs of signing your rights away. And then! We won’t talk to you ever again even though we make promises of post-placement counseling. YAY! SO PLEASE APPLY NOW! MTV! SHINY THINGS!”

It goes on.

“I’m looking for a loving family to adopt my baby.”

And they won’t tell you that adoptive families divorce at the same rate. Die at the same rate. Fumble and fall in this difficult economy. You know, just like the rest of us. They’ll paint them as perfect. And, don’t get me wrong, there are gems among them. But they are all human. And they will all make mistakes. And without any help from this specific so-called agency, many will falter and fail when it comes to openness, having no support to turn to when the going gets tough. (Same goes for birth parents.)

What a deal, really. You can lose your baby and be exploited. Swell.

I have issues enough with MTV’s show. I have issues enough with adoption consistently being painted with rosy colors, ignoring the hardship that birth parents endure for decades after the physical act of relinquishment. But this blatant mocking of all things ethical in adoption is a new low for even the lowest of lows in the adoption industry. ANLC is basically laughing in the face of every expectant mother considering relinquishment, every mother who has already relinquished and every mother separated by adoption yet to come and saying, “Tell your story? We’ll sneak around and make adoption look glamorous. And then we’ll shove them over to you after we’re done.” Cackle, cackle, glee, glee.

Cases for ethical reform in the adoption industry are staring us all in the face. They’re screaming. They’re siren-blaring, arms-flailing, jumping-up-and-down in front of us. And no one seems to care.

If you are a teen who has investigated that link and would like to talk with someone (or multiple someones) about adoption, relinquishment, grief and loss, life-long impact on future children, openness and its non-enforceable nature or ANLC, please don’t hesitate to contact me. Please use my contact form and put ANLC/MTV in the subject so I don’t miss it. IP addresses are recorded.

I am awash in guilt.

As such, know this: adoption is not an isolated event. The effects of relinquishment/adoption will be felt by so many more people than you can begin to imagine. Adoption agencies will not counsel expectant mothers considering relinquishment to consider the emotional fallout that will be felt by their future children. But it is a reality. And it needs to be discussed. More.

I’ll discuss it. Soon. I just need to mourn and grieve a bit.

Today, I’m having a special day with my oldest son. He’s accompanying me to the Do Good Day in Pittsburgh. I’m sure we’ll talk in the car, as we always do. I know that a special day out with mom won’t solve everything. I know he’s going to have more questions. (And don’t misunderstand questioning for confusion.) But he needs this today.

I need this today.

1. I don’t want to overwhelm the kid.
2. He’ll start in on a topic and it inevitably returns to a discussion about the cinematic qualities of Toy Story 3. He’s four. Give him a break.

His issues with the visit boil down to a few things.

He misses her.

He put on his serious face and continued on for three or four sentences before changing back to something less serious when he made that statement. He talked about missing her and how he loves her and likes playing with her and she’s his sister and she lives far away and she drew him a Buzz Lightyear and when are we going to see Toy Story 3 again anyway? (Now you know the inner workings of the brain of BigBrother.)

Adoption.

I’ve used the words adoption/adopted before, but he’s trying it on for himself as of late. During dinner tonight, we discussed how Dee adopted the Munchkin. He repeated it a few times, said something about growing in my belly and then said, “Did you adopt any babies?” Well, no. I then explained that all three of them grew in my belly and how Dee adopted the Munchkin because I couldn’t take care of her because I was really sick when the Munchkin was in my belly. He was quiet for awhile.

Distance.

“But why does she live so far away?” Good question. No easy answers. Life happens.

It makes him sad.

“It makes me sad that my sister doesn’t live here.”

That’s the point where I emotionally shut down. Not totally. I agreed with him and validated his feelings. I assured him that feeling sad is okay and that crying about it is totally warranted. Then he talked about how she should come visit because he wants to show her his computer, which also now has Zoodles and then back to Toy Story.

I am handling it well. So is he. It’s just a new place to be in, this verbalization of all things adoption. I kind of want to crawl under the covers and not deal with any of it but I don’t have time for any of that jazz. So, here we are.