It’s true. I’m not good at it. I may be an “out” birth mother. I’ll talk about adoption at will, in person or online. But I “know” the people I talk to in real life about adoption. And I also (mostly) “know” the people I talk about with adoption online. The latter also removes eye contact and my ability to see their gaping mouths when they learn that I am a birth mother.

Conferences (like the upcoming BlogHer) throw people in my face. Force eye contact. Show me their surprised looks.

And you could tell me that I don’t have to tell people that I’m a birth mother. But the truth is that I blog about adoption. And when people ask, “What do you blog about?” And I reply, “Family life, photography, firefighters and adoption,” they don’t care about the other stuff. They say, “Adoption? So you’re an adoptive mom?” That’s the question, eight times out of ten. The automatic assumption that I’m writing about adoption from an adoptive parent point of view. One time out of ten, I’m asked if I’m an adoptee. And then I stumble. “Uh, well, no. I’m a birth mother.”

Sometimes I look away. But most of the time I watch their face for their reaction. The intake of breath. The eyebrows. The confusion that passes behind their eyes. The quick once over while they try to decide, by looking at my clothes or my hair or my skin or my shoes, if I “seem” like someone who “gives up” or “abandons” or just didn’t love her baby enough. Most of the time, people ask normal, non-judgmental questions after that and I have to launch into a shortened version of my story. Sometimes people say accidentally offensive things and I just smile and nod. Occasionally really “funny” people make really offensive comments and I just mentally mark them off as someone I won’t be following on twitter later as I imagine shredding their business cards. Okay, so maybe I don’t do that last one. Or maybe I do. You’ll never know.

But it’s hard for me to handle this topic in such a public way. I try. I’m getting better. But I struggle.

So if you walk up to me at BlogHer and I stumble over what I blog about or avoid eye contact or melt into a puddle of anxious tears, please know that it’s hard for me to lay it all on the line. To say, “Yes, I relinquished my firstborn for adoption and it’s absolutely the hardest thing I’ve done and continue to deal with in my life and, oh my gosh, please don’t judge me because you really know nothing of my story. Yet. Until you read my blog. Where I lay it all out on the line on a regular basis.” I don’t know. Maybe I should just memorize that speech and blather it every time someone raises their eyebrows.

Whatever the case, I want BlogHer ’11 attendees to remember that there are birth mothers (more than just me) attending the conference. We are not unicorns; we are real. And sometimes we don’t know how to explain who we are or what we do. But we’re there, among you.

I’m Still Not Good at Saying, “Hi, I’m Jenna and I’m a Birth Mother” is a post from The Chronicles of Munchkin Land. Want more Chronicles? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, please contact me or @ me on twitter.

We’re home from our visit. Exhausted. In lots of physical pain. Sad. But home.

The sting of leaving the Munchkin behind was lessened a little when we stopped for a quick pee-wash-hands-grab-dinner-get-back-in-the-car-and-eat-on-the-road-because-OMG-I-just-wanna-get-home when I checked my email while waiting to order our food. I did a happy dance right there in the line at Wendy’s. My boys gave me a look.

I am honored to be included as an Honoree in the BlogHer Voices of the Year for my “I Am Not a Unicorn” post here on Chronicles.

I think that Elisa ran late on announcing specifically so I could have something to smile about today. Smiling on the day that I leave my daughter behind at the end of a visit is not something that usually happens. For the majority of the trip home, until that email check, I was batting back tears. When she hugged me this morning, I kissed her head and had to look away as she said she would miss me. I told her I would miss her too. But I couldn’t make eye contact. I didn’t want to lose it… create a scene. My boys were already upset enough about leaving. The Munchkin was already upset. I am an adult and I needed to hold it together. I did learn, however, that batting back tears is a good way to keep yourself awake on an eight hour road trip.

I knew that “I Am Not a Unicorn” was something special when I wrote it. One or two posts per year here at Chronicles just hit me in a special way. They’re rarely the controversial ones, though Michelle nominated the one that got me on the hate lists. They’re usually the ones where I find enough courage to speak from my most inner place; my soul, my heart, my existence. The Unicorn Post hit me because I have been told, time and time again over the years, that I’m a special case. That people understand why I placed because I was so sick. That I’m not really representative of those who relinquish. And while I get what they’re saying and understand that they’re trying to be kind, their words still sting.

I am real. And I’ve always been real.

I know I won’t be reading it from the stage — which is probably good because I don’t think I could get through that mess without openly weeping and, trust me, I’m an ugly crier — but knowing that people who have no interest in adoption, ethical reform, or birth parents being seen as real people are reading that post… well, that makes me grin from ear to ear.

I know everyone is looking for more updates (and cute pics) from our visit. And my scathing review of the Teen Mom and/or 16 & Pregnant Adoption Special with Dr. Dumb-butt Drew. Those are coming. I promise. Tonight I needed to share this. That I wrote something that people who have no immediate connection to adoption thought would resonate with a larger audience. That I put myself on the line with my writing and it paid off. That I am not a unicorn; I am real — the hurt, the laughter, the joy, the pain, the sadness, the love… it’s all real.

Go check out the rest of the Honorees’ posts and the speakers’ blogs. (The speakers’ specific posts have not yet been linked in that post.) Some of my very favorite bloggers and friends are honorees and speakers. I jumped around (as much as my back would let me) as I read through the list. And — as an aside — if you’re attending BlogHer ’11, skip that swag party (and whatever else) that happen to be held during the Voices of the Year Community Keynote. Trust me: Free stuff is cool, but the Community Keynote is why we blog. To witness other people sharing their best writing? To support them in that? To stand with them and applaud them for a job well done? That’s what it’s all about, folks. You’ll kick yourself if you miss this. Just trust me.

Voices of the Year & Unicorns is a post from The Chronicles of Munchkin Land. Want more Chronicles? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, please contact me or @ me on twitter.

I’ve never fully recounted my experience with state assistance, Medicaid and food stamps that I received while pregnant with the Munchkin. I still hold a lot of shame, not specifically attached to the receipt of said assistances, but from the reactions of others while I was utilizing government funded programs.

People were downright nasty to me. Family members. “Friends.” Co-workers. The staff at my doctor’s office. The staff at the hospital. The social workers themselves (and it got worse later on). My landlord. A pharmacy worker. The people at my current church who didn’t know I was once on assistance but launched into a tirade about those who are. The list goes on.

But there were compassionate people. The first time I showed up at the grocery store to use my EBT card, I had no idea how to go about it. The cashier was kind. Her tone was one of compassion. She taught me not only about my purchases at that store, but how to use it elsewhere. I still have a vivid memory of leaving that store and thinking that good people did exist.

It was really hard for me to stay on assistance due to my kidney disorder that landed me on bed rest at 18 weeks. Level 3 bed rest, mind you. I was unable to work. I was also unable to drive. So, when I would miss a visit with my social work regarding my lack of employment seeking, they would cut me off of assistance. I would then break bed rest, whcih was really dangerous for me to do, and get back to the office. Remind them. Show them my forms. And be fine again. For awhile. I was cut off twice during the pregnancy… and again right at the end. I paid for Munchkin’s birth out of pocket… for years. I just recently paid it off.

I’ve been asked why I didn’t go back in right after birth and get put back on assistance. The social worker on my case was so incredibly rude to me when I admitted, somewhere in the 8th month of pregnancy, that I would be placing my daughter for adoption. She verbally lashed me for “working the system” and taking money from people who really needed it. She yelled for a good twenty minutes. There was no way I was going back in to that office and asking for my birth to be covered when I didn’t have a baby to show for it. I left Pennsylvania six days after Munchkin’s birth.

I am grateful that the assistance did cover what it did. As I said, I had a ridiculously complicated pregnancy. The assistance covered my first lengthy hospital stay when my kidney disorder was found. It covered that first surgery. A second lengthy hospital stay. A third surgery and that hospital stay. Four L&D trips in which I was in preterm labor due to said kidney disorder and the medications I needed to take to combat the labor, dilation and constant contractions. An ER visit for heavy labor, a subsequent trip to Pittsburgh via ambulance (lights and sirens) and that lengthy hospital stay. That last hospital stay was actually what ended up cutting my benefits. I missed an appointment at the office while I was fighting for my life and my daughter’s life in a hospital bed in Pittsburgh. Two weeks later, they cut me, but I didn’t receive notice as my parents had me staying in their house as my doctor’s had said labor would be soon. I found out about my cut benefits about six hours after the Munchkin arrived.

Due to my experience, I have a lot of compassion for people on assistance. That’s why I felt a lot for this writer at BlogHer who talked about judgments passed on people who are on assistance having things like cell phones or the Internet. And that’s why my vision kind of shakes and I can’t form coherent sentences when people spout of nasty things in the comments or on Facebook in reply to posts like that. I can tell, immediately, that those people have never had to fight for their life, for their unborn baby’s life, while trying to stay on assistance. That they’ve never had a social worker yell thisclose to their face. That they’ve never felt the shame and stigma of both accepting assistance and relinquishment. I try to force myself to realize that not everyone wants to understand the plights of others, but it just breaks my heart for those that are continuously stereotyped by those who don’t even want to understand.

I get so discouraged with society when we let the negative define a whole group of people. If we all did that, we should say that everyone who is not on assistance is a nasty, prejudicial, compassion-less meanieface. If we know that not to be true, why can’t we stop stereotyping those utilizing services?

I’ve Walked That Mile in Those Shoes is a post from The Chronicles of Munchkin Land. Want more Chronicles? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, please contact me or @ me on twitter.

Everywhere I turned at BlogHer ’10, I heard the word adoption. Some of that was because I traveled with two adoptive moms, both of whom I am lucky enough to call friends. Part of that is because I am a known adoption blogger, even though I’m on the birth parent side of the triad. Part of that is because a large number of my online-formed-friendships are with others who identify in one way or another with the adoption triad.

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.

BlogHer ’10: Adoption Overload, but Still Not Enough is a post from The Chronicles of Munchkin Land. Want more Chronicles? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, please contact me or @ me on twitter.

I’ve been awash in memories for the past week-or-so. And not the good kind. Thinking about it, however, not necessarily the bad kind either. Perhaps it’s the distance between myself and said memories; a bit of perspective making them easier to digest, process.

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.

Driving Into Trees is a post from The Chronicles of Munchkin Land. Want more Chronicles? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, please contact me or @ me on twitter.

There was a time, not too long ago, when I felt anything but inspiring.

I was pregnant with the Munchkin, working as hard as I could to save up the money to get ahead of my bills. I wanted, desperately, to parent. And then we discovered my kidney disorder on a fateful June day when I spiked a fever of 104. I had surgery while pregnant and was placed on bed rest. I couldn’t work. I panicked. I placed my daughter for adoption. And I endured the darkest days of my life.

But life went on, as it always does. And I got married to a wonderful man. Due to my previously mentioned kidney disorder, my OBGYN recommended that we conceive as soon as we could if we wanted to have a successful pregnancy. So, we talked, weighed the pros and cons and got to conceiving. We welcomed our oldest son into our immediate family. And then the dark veil of postpartum depression washed over me. I was incapable of functioning for far too long. I felt like a failure as a mother for the second time. But therapy got me through those dark days and I came out on the other side a better person.

And then we lost a baby to miscarriage.

I didn’t expect that. Writing it still twists something inside my soul. I was angry with myself, with God and with everyone who was pregnant, planned or unplanned. While that baby was unplanned, she was so very wanted. Despite my health condition, miscarriages weren’t predicted for me. Crazy difficult pregnancies? Yes. Miscarriages? No. I was devastated. We waited until after her due date and tried again.

And welcomed our youngest son into our family. Once again, I was side-swiped by postpartum depression. I thought, prior to his arrival, that I knew enough about it to avoid it on another go round. Hormones and brain waves are tricky. More than once I considered driving into a tree, something I still haven’t fully discussed here on this blog. Again, therapy and an amazing support system pulled me through. Then I mourned the fact that, due to my health, we were done forming our family. It was hard. I survived.

From that point on, I kept on surviving.

And then I slowly started doing more than surviving.

And then, as I kept on keeping on as I always had, I slowly started living.

I didn’t plan on being inspiring. I didn’t do anything, including writing about it, with society in mind. I did what I did to get through what I was going through, hoping to make it out on the other side with my whole self, emotional and physical, in tact. I did that, and I continue to do so in spite of my bad days. I live through the bad days. I live through the good days. I look at the bad days and see if I can find a lesson to learn. I look at the good days and see if I can find a lesson to learn. I occasionally offer advice to others. I frequently look to others for advice. I am not perfect. I am human.

I have been nominated for Most Inspiring Blog at the BlogLuxe awards. Part of me thinks the whole idea is an easy and proactive way for someone to get some link-backs. The rest of me thinks that maybe, finally and again, some good has come of what I have lived through, what I have endured. I can’t change anything that has happened. I can’t go back in time to when I was forming in my mother’s womb and make my kidney and ureter form properly. I can’t go back in time and tell myself things that would have helped me make different decisions. I can’t undo what was done, what papers were signed. I can’t un-miscarry a baby. I can’t magic all of what has happened and create a new reality.

But I can live.

I am not perfect. If you’re here solely to be inspired, you’ll be disappointed more than you’re inspired. I fail. I am flawed. But I keep my chin up, because it’s the only thing I know how to do. I make the best of what I have been dealt and what I have chosen, because that’s what I was taught to do. My story isn’t what I would have chosen, but I choose to continue being who I am. And if all of that is inspiring, so be it.

If you’d like to vote for me, I won’t shun your votes. I don’t need to win to continue doing what I’m doing; that is a preprogrammed part of who I am and what I do. I believe that a reform-minded blog being acknowledged in the mainstream blogosphere can only serve us all some form of good. Things need to change. Voices need to be heard. And I’m always going to be who I am. Maybe that’s not inspiring enough for some people but, to be honest, my journey has always been about me (and my family). I’m okay with whatever comes at me.

I have to be.

_
[Come back tomorrow for more about the visit. I needed to derail for the day!]

Inspiring Is as Inspiring Does is a post from The Chronicles of Munchkin Land. Want more Chronicles? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, please contact me or @ me on twitter.

As I make my way back into the groove of blogging and working after the loss of my grandfather, I’m thinking a lot about a question I asked over on BlogHer just yesterday. Basically, the question was:

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.

Some Thoughts on Sharing, Over-Sharing and The Like is a post from The Chronicles of Munchkin Land. Want more Chronicles? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, please contact me or @ me on twitter.