2

I Held it Together… Until Now

I had played it off like it doesn’t matter. I stated a disinterest. I talked about how I wasn’t participating and, darn it, it is just a stupid Hallmark holiday anyway. And then I read a poorly written poem and my walls came crashing down.

I still hate it. Mother’s Day, that is.

The day makes me so angry. It should be a day of celebrating but it never really will be. You see, since my three living children don’t share a birthday, I can grieve on the Munchkin’s birthday and not feel guilt. Well, that’s not 100% true because when I am in attendance at her parties, I feel guilt that I’m grieving because I should be rejoicing that I am one of the lucky, blessed few to get to be in the same room with my relinquished daughter as she grows a year older. But when I’m feeling that grief, I’m not short-changing my parented sons.

On Mother’s Day, when I’m left with grief for the daughter I placed for adoption or the daughter that we lost to miscarriage, I am short-changing the two boys that crawl all over me. The older one who puts on a super hero cape, firefighter boots and runs around the living room. The one who told me the other day that he does not, in fact, have a uterus in his belly. He just has food. The younger one who stands up and sits down and stands up and sits down on my lap and yells, “SIT!” over and over… which sounds funny as it is toddler speak and makes me giggle. The one who gives open mouth kisses any time he walks past me. The two boys who hug each other after they fight over a toy. The two boys who call each other friend. The two boys who smile at each other each morning like the sun sets on the other’s heads.

I should be rejoicing on Mother’s Day to be their everyday, awesome Mama.

But I do that every other day of the year. I love being their Mom and anyone who spends more than five minutes with me knows that fact. And that, in essence, is what I hate about Mother’s Day. The whole concept of only honoring mothers, in all of their many forms, one day per year. What about the other night when I stood by my youngest’s cribside and just rubbed his back as he was whimpering in his sleep due to teething pain? What about a few days ago when I held my oldest son in my arms and told him that it was okay to miss his daddy and yes, it was okay to cry? What about when I scattered roses on our local lake for the daughter I would never see, never hold, never hear? What about that first time I placed my oldest child into the arms of another mother… and what about every time I let her go again after a visit? And every single second in between?

I have been a mother since I saw the line on that pregnancy test in that badly tiled bathroom in 2003. I went into Mama Bear mode quite quickly and did everything in my power to protect that child. I was of failing health and I still made decisions with her best interest in mind, not even my own. And people want to tell me that doesn’t count? That was just a trial run? It was nothing?

In the end, I know that I am in charge of the definition of my own motherhood. And I am okay with that 364 days per year. Mother’s Day, however, trips me up. I can’t get around the fact that they don’t make a card for me and my strange motherhood. I can’t figure out how to celebrate and grieve and honor every part of my motherhood at the same time. I can’t figure out how to properly channel these emotions and put them to their best use. I can’t enjoy a day that refuses to acknowledge so many of my sisters… not just birth mothers but every single one of these mothers that is in a situation in which society doesn’t want to honor their mothering, their motherhood.

And so, the tears fall even though I swore that I would ignore the hoopla this year. I’ve been ignoring tweets on Mother’s Day. I’ve been ignoring gift guides. I’ve been ignoring it all. And it’s all smacked me in the face and reminded me that some people in this world view me as “less than” because I get pregnant easily and because I made choices along the way. And to that I say: my children, all of them, have something amazing in me. I may not be perfect. I may not have all the answers. But I have a heart so full of love and compassion. I have an amazing gift in my children and I’ll be damned if someone tells me that I’m not good enough simply because of x, y or z.

And maybe that’s the attitude I need to work on this year…

10

Breakdown

Dumb. I’m dumb.

I went to Hallmark to buy cards. I hadn’t gotten a chance to get out of the house all week because the boys were a bit, uhm, well, whiny. So, I walk into Hallmark. I pick up the obligatory grandmother and great-grandmother cards from the boys. I move over smidge, pick up some cards…

AND START CRYING. RIGHT THERE. IN HALLMARK.

For the record? Our Hallmark had Someone Special, Friend, Godmother, Like a Mother and just about every other mother variation. You know. Except me. Not that I want a card that SAYS birth mother. But I just wanted a small bit of validation. None available.

But yeah. I cried. In Hallmark. And not exactly discretely either. I tried. But failed. Tears. A bit of snot. Eye makeup running. It was classy. Sexy even. But the opposite.

Next year I’m sending the Husband for cards. Mental note. Right?

11

First Mother’s Day and Onward

My first mother’s day with the knowledge that I fell in the category of women to be honored came around when six-or-so weeks pregnant with the Munchkin. I wasn’t showing, obviously, as she was my first child. Clothes still fit. I remember, as I’m a detail oriented person, that I wore a crisp pair of khaki pants, a blank tank and a black sheer shirt over that to the Fleetwood Mac concert in Pittsburgh. I was planning on parenting my child, already nicknamed Munchkin, and discussed names with the friend who attended the concert with me. I find it funny that I never discussed girl names; perhaps I subconsciously knew that I’d never get to officially choose one.

I spent the day planning for my future. Our future. I was just about to secure a job that I thought would get a savings built up for the arrival of the child I was carrying in my womb. I had no idea that I would, within three months time, be bed-ridden for the rest of my pregnancy. I had no clue what was just around the bend in my life’s journey. There was no way to know. I was pregnant and although I was single and scared, I was already in love with my child. That’s a special bond. And on that first mother’s day of my mothering career, I let myself feel that special bond.

My second mother’s day didn’t go so well. Just about five months after she was born, I tried to hold it together. I did. J and D did a great job on their side. A package was sent before the weekend hit so that I could choose when to open my presents. They sent a golden rose which I still display and adore. My then-fiance (now husband) spent the weekend walking on eggshells. He didn’t quite know how to handle me, the emotions that were swirling around our apartment. He gave me a card, bless him, with a letter that I never want to lose. He acknowledged my motherhood, my emotional battle. My Mom did not tell me Happy Mother’s Day. My friends didn’t do so either.

I went to church that Mother’s Day. I went alone as my fiance was working. I cried at various points during the sermon. I felt completely alone as the Pastor asked the mothers in attendance to stand for recognition. I sat, quietly crying, feeling desperate and rejected. I felt useless. What good was I to my daughter anyway? No one wants to acknowledge birth mothers, their grief, their loss or their journey to healing. It was one of the first times that I realized how the public wants to sweep birth mothers under the rugs. It hurt.

My third mother’s day was a mixture of emotions, joy and sadness. I was about eight weeks pregnant with BigBrother, still experiencing morning sickness. My Husband, having worked better to understand my emotions over the past year, worked to make an appropriate deal out of the day. But I didn’t go to church. I couldn’t. The prior year’s experience made it inconceivable to attempt.

And yet, everyone I knew wished me a Happy Mother’s Day. My Mom called. Friends called. My Husband’s family called. I hadn’t yet given birth to the child that would soon become my first son. But I was married. And expecting. And the red carpet was rolled out. I was kind of mad about that, questioning why it hadn’t been like that my first Mother’s Day. But I did enjoy the pampering. I won’t lie. It felt nice.

My fourth Mother’s Day was spent, once again, without my Husband. Firefighters work 24/7/365 as fire doesn’t understand holidays or family togetherness. My son was not quite six months old. I decided, at the very last minute, to go to a new church as we had just moved, three months prior, to the city in which my Husband work(s)ed. I dressed in something that camoflauged my still-present postpartum belly. I dressed the little dude in an outfit that matched a bib that said “I Love My Mom.” And I went. I sat next to another firefighter’s wife. And I stood when they asked the Mother’s to stand.

But I was there without my husband. And at the time, I had very, very long hair. And I looked even younger than my twenty-five years. (It’s a blessing and a curse.) And I noticed the glances. I felt them to my core. I heard what they weren’t saying. “Where is her husband?” Was some of it imagined? I’m sure. But after a discussion with the then-Pastor a few months later, I also know that some of it was legitimate. I spent that Mother’s Day angry at the fact that I was finally married and people were still passing judgment on me for having a child.

As a side note, it was likely that was the very weekend I got pregnant with the baby we lost in June of 2006.

Last year, on my fifth Mother’s Day, I was deep in the throes of morning sickness with the child that would become my second son. And, oh, I had never experienced morning sickness like that with any previous pregnancy. I couldn’t smell coffee, eggs or my Husband’s deodorant. But, I got dressed, in the same dress that I wore the year prior to hide my belly, hoping that this year it would show off the bump that was already growing despite the fact that I wasn’t all that pregnant. My Mom showed up and sat with my Husband who was lucky enough to have the day off. And I sang a solo at church. Then? Our District Superintendent told the congregation that they were moving our Pastor to a new church. I spent the day feeling crushed as that Pastor had been encouraging and supportive of my journey as a mother in all my many ways. He had been there through our miscarriage and I was angry he was being moved.

And that brings us to this year. How do I feel? What is going on in my life?

I’m sure that with the hindsight I’ll have by this time next year, I’ll have something more eloquent to say. But right now, I can’t tell you all that much other than I’m working (hard) on my healing. I’ve done a lot of work in the past year, especially as my anxiety hit an all time high while I was in my first trimester with LittleBrother. I’m making my way through this sticky, swampy mess of postpartum depression. I may still have to go on medication and I’m trying to be okay with that idea. I’m enjoying my boys even though the older one peed on my lap yesterday. (No, really.) I’m still writing (short) letters to the Munchkin every month because I know that it’s my job, as the adult, to cultivate and maintain a relationship however wide the distance.

I’ve made a lot of progress over the years. Nothing has gone as I have planned. And perhaps that is the point. Maybe I should quit planning. People have noticed, just in the past year, that my demeanor has changed. I’ve become less vehement about certain things. I’m more prone to think about my words, place myself in another’s shoes, before I spout off. Sure. There are still people I don’t like or issues that rile me up… but I’m feeling somewhat more peaceful as of late.

I miss my daughter. There’s no two ways around that one. It hurts. It sucks. And sometimes I still get mad. But instead of snapping at my Husband or taking it out on innocent parties, I’m learning to channel those emotions into some private writing. I’ve also learned that time in a flower garden is time well spent. Those things don’t take away the pain but they allow me to process that pain and find ways to cope that are healthy and productive.

Six years into mothering you would think that I’d know what I’m doing. But I’m just flying by the seat of my pants. And that, perhaps, is what makes me feel most like a mother. Because I know that the rest of you are just doing the same.

Happy Mother’s Day. Happy weekend. I’m off to enjoy the sunshine, the boys, the husband and probably make a phone call at some point in time. Blessings abound in my life and I cherish each one.