Holidays

    As I reflect on the holiday I just wrapped up and look forward to the one ahead, I realized that no matter who you are, holidays are a bigger source of stress the older you get. However, as a Birth Mother, I realize that holidays can be harder for specific reasons, for those touched by adoption. I have found that unfailingly, there will always be a family member or acquaintance around that just doesn't get it. By that I mean, there will be someone who asks ignorant or insensitive questions. Always. And I don't blame them for it, specifically, but it does lend some stress to those of us experiencing grief.
     There are those who just ask the stupid questions, such as "So how is that baby? Oh that's right, you didn't want her" (which hasn't happened to me, for the record), or "Will they let you talk to her, when she's older?" or "So how did that work, again?". Those aren't the worst, but it can be exhausting after a while. A bad one was someone talking about how "Marriage is FIRST, and then you kids can starting having babies." Whoops.
    And then there are those who pretend that I didn't sign away my rights to the child and they still have a relationship with her. My mother is a good example of this. My mom was a source of stress to me in of herself, but the baby didn't help. She really likes to think that she will be allowed to have a relationship with the baby someday, which is as far from reality as it gets. When I see her I am inundated with questions and comments and requests to see pictures, which is okay, I suppose, but I have a hard time remembering she is technically the child's grandmother. I guess after the judge granted official guardianship to my aunt and uncle when I was 17, I officially wrote her off in my head, too. But that's another story for a different day. It just is an awkward situation to find yourself in, being asked by relatives who don't actually care enough to know what it is really like.
     After the relatives, there is your own self to deal with. And the relatives closest expressing how much they wish things were different, too. It's hard to see the grandmother of the child you chose to give up talk about how much she wished she were closer with the baby.  Honestly it made me realize how glad I am that all my grandparents are already with Jesus. I fear how my own grandmother would have reacted to such a situation. And my grandfather. Yikes, thinking about it gives me chills. I don't think I could handle the passive-aggressive guilt trips or questions or being snubbed by them. I know it's odd to be grateful that loved ones are dead, but it's out of my own selfish fear of their opinions of me changing.
    I think that itself is why seeing my family that is still alive is so scary to me: their opinions of me. I'm the youngest in the family, and the first dumb enough to get pregnant. Even though I chose to do "an admirable thing" as everyone tells me I did, I am sure they think differently of me, how could they not? I hope they think better of me in the wake of the adoption, but I doubt they really pay much attention.  I really fear what they think of me, as everyone does, really. These people have a lot of embarrassing stories on me, and I just hope they think well of me enough not to spread them to the world. you know? Is that secretly the goal of getting along with relatives? I mean I love them and all, but really, I was an idiot kid.
     I love my family. They are...well, my family. The one God gave me. They helped shape who I am, and always guarantee an interesting, if not somewhat stressful holiday meal. Though there are lots of areas of hurt for all of us, laughter is ensured at the table when we gather around it, and that was what I was really grateful for this year: laughter. It is such a great healer. Though it's been a long year, with lots of stressful moments, I always have a weapon to combat that stress, be it a giggle, a snort, or an awful, ugly guffaw. Honestly, I think laughter might be one of God's greatest gifts. At least, it's the one that gets me through the holidays.

Beautiful Things

       God is so funny sometimes. He is always so ready and willing to answer your fears and doubts, if you'd just be willing to open your eyes. Over the past few weeks, I've been somewhat mourning my dreams of being an actress, of performing and making beautiful things. It has been a bit painful, too, seeing as that dream consumed me for most of my high school years. And, well, I'm surrounded by people who perform. Constantly, people in my life are getting to showcase their gifts and be recognized for how they've grown and learned. I used to be that way. But now that I am a History Major, no one really asks about how I'm doing, or even what I'm doing or learning about, and let me tell you, I'm doing some pretty neat stuff. However, I know people don't want to see me perform a history lesson or showcase my knowledge of Roman Slavery or something.

     Honestly, I'm just vain enough to miss the lights, the makeup, the costumes, the immortal words I would spend months of my life cultivating into something for people to see. And I miss the praise and recognition of my talent. I'm vain enough to think I was pretty good. Also, there is something so therapeutic about stepping out of yourself for a while and putting on someone else's shoes. Don't get me wrong, I am not shutting the door on acting all together. I hope to be involved in a community theatre or something when I can, and I'm still minoring in theatre, but right now my life is just not going in that direction.

   Last week on our way back to school, I was finally expressing my fears to Ethan, that I am no longer making anything beautiful with my life, and God was really quick to answer me on that one. As soon as I finished telling him this, I got an email from another birth mother who had found this blog and thanked me for what I had written. BAM! As I cried into my chicken nuggets at McDonald's, I knew that God was with me on this one. It's nice to know that writing down my feelings in a somewhat public forum counts as a beautiful thing. However, that doesn't mean that I don't want to take this a step further. I would really like to be able to write a book, or several, or just keep my eyes peeled for opportunities to talk not only to other birth mothers, but other women of God as well. I'd like to find a bigger platform to speak from. In the mean time, I'm grateful to live in a time where I can express myself here, on a blog. No matter how small I think it is, it means the world to me if it just helps a single person on their walk with God. Lord knows how much this blog has helped me.

Birthday

        So today is my little one's birthday. It is such a surreal experience. I found myself unable to sleep last night, haunted by ghosts of labor pain and that old enemy, grief. Birth parents are warned constantly that birthdays, Christmas, mother's day, all those sorts of holidays are going to be hard. And yes, they are (I had a pretty rough Mother's Day), but they're also sort of relieving. I'm honestly a little proud that she is a year old. Perhaps it's because I look so much better now than I did. Maybe it's because I've lasted a whole year with this in my life. It is a bit of a milestone, I suppose. It could be that I am proud that I was able to ensure a life that lasted so long, in that weird base instinct sort of way. Historically, if a child made it past their first year. their mortality rate would get better.
        In a strange way, I now realize how much I wish we celebrated mothers on birthdays. I feel like they deserve some recognition. I mean, they did all the work, all the birthday kid did was get born! I labored for so long. Where is my cake? Seriously! People really need to start remembering mothers (and birth mothers) on birthdays. Thank them for working so hard to get them here! They deserve more appreciation. "Hey, thanks for giving birth to me and then cleaning my excrement for several years so I could live this long." How hard is that? I don't have the best relationship with my mother, but that woman was on bed rest with me for seven months. Seven months! She worked so hard to get me here! And then on my birthday she would run around and make sure that I was the one who had a good day, as with all the other mothers in the world. They deserve cake, too!
      Okay, birthday, back to that. I found myself sad that I won't be able to kiss my girl today, give her cake at exactly 7:32 this evening, and celebrate with that family over the life of this girl. But logically, it's not my place to be there. Her parents celebrate with her. They're the ones who cultivate her traditions and celebrations. I would feel out of place if I were there, in that private celebration of God's blessings. I should celebrate on my own. I would skip class and rest if I could. Spend my day in a bubble bath relaxing and giving thanks while I read and eat to my heart's content.
     I am so grateful that she has been here for a whole year. It's so amazing to me that time has flown by so quickly. I find myself looking forward to when she is even older, running around, talking a million miles a minute, knowing exactly who I am. At the same time, I am sad. But of course I am. It's been a year. I am no longer in charge. I left a hospital empty-handed a year ago. And that is still hard to swallow from time to time. And it will never stop being hard. That is just how it works. However, God, is that awesome signature style of His, has prepared me for this my whole life. I am supposed to feel sad. I am supposed to mourn. I am supposed to not be able to sleep and be haunted by sad thoughts. Especially at regular intervals such as Holidays. He does this because He knows that as soon as I am aware of this, I call him to my side to cradle me like the child I am, in the dark as I have a little cry, a perfect mixture of happy and sad. I will never be able to stop singing His praise, but that was sort of the point, wasn't it?  I find myself constantly mentioning the adoption, how it has changed me, the instrumental part God played in it, and I realized recently that this is it: my ministry. I feel uncomfortable talking about God with people, but when it comes to the adoption, I could ramble on for days. I mean, I even blog about it! And then give the address to people who seem interested! It is such a strange thing, this ministry that has bloomed over the past year. I love it with all my heart, though. I am so grateful that I got an easy way to minister to those around me. I don't have to draw on anything but my own experiences. How wonderful is that? I guess what I am getting at is happy birthday to my Ministry for God, as well as my girl. Such a blessed year. Quoting what we said constantly during my pregnancy and immediately after: "Hallelujah. God is so Good."

Photographs

    I have been quietly struggling lately. It is not a struggle for a birth mother(though, that plays into it), it is a struggle for a person from a broken home. When we first were trying to decide if we wanted to give the baby to the family we did, we of course got the usual book about them, but we also got a baby book for their son. It was written to him, from the point of view of his parents, and it was about how God got him to them. Ethan also brought me one for our girl when he went to see them over the summer. I had been wanting to make her one from Ethan and I's point of view from the very beginning, and God handed me that opportunity with a free Shutterfly book that Ethan won through McDonald's Monopoly. Seriously, it was God. I didn't even have to pay for shipping with that monopoly piece. I was so excited.
       I made it for her, it was full of pictures of Ethan and I, and it tried to explain just how much we love her. As I made it though, I became more and more aware of the photographs I encountered. And I came to a realization that broke my heart: there is not a house in the world with my pictures hanging in it. I do not have any school pictures tucked away in anyone's wallet. I have no grandparents to proudly say "that's my granddaughter, isn't she beautiful?" to the other octogenarians around them. Nothing. I might as well be invisible to people outside my family, because there is no photographic trace of me anywhere in my life. I first noticed this right after the baby was born and within days, Ethan's mother had pictures printed of everyone holding the baby. Everyone but me. Even my sister was featured. At first we all laughed, 'how did that happen?' 'you should be grateful, you didn't exactly look your best' and all that. But then I started look around more. Nowhere in my Aunt and Uncle's house am I featured. This doesn't really bug me, there aren't many pictures in the house at all, but it still caught my notice. And in Ethan's house, everyone got new pictures printed and featured, even the one I worked so hard to bring into this world. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't expect Ethan's family to proudly feature me in any of their photographs. I am not part of the family. No matter how much we pretend. I am not married to Ethan, I don't wear his name, and I have no right to think I should be in any pictures. That is not what bugged me. What irked me is that I once again, do not have that. My mother's house, to my knowledge, doesn't bear my face anywhere. My father is gone. His side of the family is far off in California and has never met me, much less felt the need to display my likeness anywhere. And all of my grandparents are gone. I never took senior pictures. There is no one to show me off. And that is kind of hard to swallow. Everyone has pictures somewhere they're embarrassed of, that some relation loves whipping out at every opportunity. Me, I have a singular precious box of pictures from my childhood. And that is about it.
        Now, I know God gave me this path for a reason, that he gives me strength at every turn, but that doesn't mean that I am perfect. That I don't sit around and wallow in how much this life has hurt once in a while. Because I do, more often than I care to admit. The reason this is so important to me is that photographs are so important in the American culture. People display the people they love, and care about, to remind themselves to love and care about those people. They are hung to commemorate achievements, celebrate great times, and to mourn the loss of others. They're special. Even people who are dirt poor payed to have photographs in the depression. It was important to them. And as the history major that I am sifts through the photographs of yesterday, I can't help but to remember how small the chances are that a photograph of me will survive to tomorrow. That I will be quickly forgotten, because I don't even exist in material culture today.
      I am grateful to God that my girl will never know that twinge of pain that is like a knife to her heart. Her picture was hanging in her house before she was even born. I am so grateful that they take the time to have family pictures taken and printed and disbursed among their loved ones. My family only had it together enough to have one picture taken of all four of us, and I was just a baby.
     I guess the point I am trying to make is this: take photographs. Print them. Label them. Display them proudly. Do this for everyone you love and care about. Because as someone who has experienced so much pain, throwing invisibility on top of it all isn't really the best way to assure someone they care. I was ignored so much as a child, I have so many trust issues, and I find it hard to believe people actually care about me. I am always sure they like me as a means to get what they want. Lately I have been hearing the evil whispers in my ears that it was all because of what my uterus held. And this poison has been filling my heart with hurt and anguish. I know this is not true, and I know that God made my story so much bigger than having a baby and giving her up. But sometimes, a little reassurance is nice, you know? Take pictures. Write on the back of them. Tell historians what was happening to whom and when and how old they were. Allow your loved ones to live on in archives of tomorrow. But most of all, put them on display. Be proud to show off your people and their accomplishments and their youth and beauty. I find myself praying this morning that at least God in heaven has a picture of me somewhere. That he is gesturing to my loved ones that are with him, and saying (instead of 'look at what she has done') "Just wait till you see what I've got for her next. I am so very proud of her."  I am grateful that at least I never have to doubt His love for me. And, that, above all else, is what brings me comfort in this pain.

A Trip to Texas!

             Over the long weekend, Ethan and I got to take a trip to see my favorite family. I must say, it was so wonderful! After the long drive we had, it was so nice to walk into a home where I felt so welcomed and loved. After many hugs, the son was so excited to have people to play with. And trust me, I was excited to play with him again! He is so fun, sweet, and smart!
          I was amazed at how non-emotional the weekend was. No tears were shed, no pain was had by any of us (except for a couple of sleepy kids once in a while). I was so genuinely happy to see the family as a whole, not just the one I happened to give birth to. She is a giant! I could not believe how big and smart she is! Although she is not talking quite yet, she has a lot to say. She also zips all over the house, crawling as fast as she can. And she had been able to hold onto something and stand herself up for a while, but she is not walking just yet. It is only a matter of time, I am sure.
      As a special treat, the family took us to their favorite seafood place in Galveston. It was pretty tasty, and definitely the freshest fish I've ever had. After that, we took a little walk on the beach, an extra special treat just for me, since they knew how much I desperately love the ocean. Now, I know it was technically the gulf, and I know it was not the prettiest beach that has ever been, but I still treasured it. I have only gotten to see the ocean four times now and I relish in it every time I can. As we walked along, I picked up a perfect little shell to mark the occasion.

I love this seashell. It is so perfect and small. And it really represents the time we had with the family. It was small, entirely too short, but it was perfect. I would not trade it for anything, even if I was totally swamped and exhausted this week. I am so grateful to God for the gift of that family, for their presence in my life.
       After the beach, we went around the historic parts of Galveston, which I of course loved. We went to an old fashioned confectionery and ice cream parlor. So fun! One of my favorite parts of the weekend was when we had breakfast together the morning Ethan and I had to leave. We had pumpkin coffee cake with it and the little one tried some. She loved it so much! It made me laugh because my biggest craving while I was pregnant was pumpkin. I wanted it all the time. I was sure that since I wanted it so much while I was pregnant, the baby would not like pumpkin at all once she was born. I was wrong!
      After we departed, we stopped for a lovely dinner at Ethan's Aunt's house. It was so fun! And I got to play with some sweet doggies, which I always enjoy.
      I am so grateful for my trip to Texas. Even if the drivers there really tried to kill me and Ethan! It was so nice to see people that are so constantly on my mind and my heart. I really hope they come to treasure the visits as much as I do someday. Or at least realize how very much they mean to me. I love them. I love Ethan. And I love God for the gifts he has given me. I am so blessed to live in a time where Open Adoption exists. I do not know what I would do if I had lost my daughter completely, instead of gaining a family I love.  I cannot imagine the pain that comes with. I am so blessed. 

Shameless

        I am generally a shameless lady. This can offend people at times, but I find it to be a gift from God. Why should I be ashamed? What am I going to accomplish with that? Shame has always baffled me, though. I mean, I have struggled with shame, but it is different. The shame is almost never for myself. I would feel ashamed of my mother more than anything else, usually. But one day, I just let it go. What do I care if others think I should feel bad for things that I do or that happen to me? It is a waste of time, usually. People have told me how impressed they were at me for going to church while I was pregnant. I was terrified at first, but not because of shame. I was worried I was going to have to get ugly with someone if anything was said. Of course, after the baby came, things were said and I did feel shame. But it wasn't for me and my situation. It was for the woman who said it.
      I think my lack of shame stems from this: to me, shame is of the devil. It, like offense, is yet another thing that brings us away from God. Feeling badly over things you've been forgiven for, that have already happened, is taking you away from what Jesus is trying to show you now. It is another way the world gets in between us. And it's a waste of time.  I thank God for this misunderstanding of this emotion. You won't find me, head down and sullen over events that are too late to change.  If you're a Birth Mother, please do not be ashamed. God chose you, because you are strong, to bless a family in desperate need. You are such a gift to these people. Do not hide from your church or from your friends and family, just because you are wearing the evidence of your sin. It is literally growing into the biggest blessing you could bestow on another family. And a willingness to talk about it will help you so much in the long run. People will understand your situation so much more, they will get a better look at the gift of adoption, and their respect for you will grow so much in the wake of your love for this child. I am not pretending it's easy, but wasting time on shame certainly won't help. And I thank God for His help in that.

Other Babies

          Naturally, as a birth mother, sometimes seeing other babies can be really hard on me. There is that base instinct of jealousy, of my body going "where is mine" that sometimes tries to take me over. It can be hard sometimes, I will admit that openly. But the worst part, the absolute most frustrating part of seeing other children is the face of people who know what I am struggling with when I get close to a child. It is such a worried look of "oh sweetie, are you going to be able to handle this?" Of course I am! I would not take the kid or hold it or make faces if I could not handle it. I would not just fall apart and start crying or try to steal the kid. I am not crazy! And I am a functioning human being. Most of the time. If I were to have any issues I would simply exit the room and go be alone with my feelings and my prayers. I always ask God for peace if I am having a hard time seeing other children. Peace, because the trouble is not of the logical part of me, it is merely part of the grief.
        And I pray for my own future children. I am excited for that time, I won't lie. But I will wait until I am able to be financially responsible for them, I can assure you of that. I love children. They can drive me CRAZY at times, but I do like to be around them. I had the fun of babysitting for the church I worked at over the summer in the evenings and it was great. Ethan was also doing it, so we got to test our abilities as a team. We are very good. And very not ready for that responsibility yet. We would both be so tired after only a few hours. I can not imagine doing it 24/7 anytime soon. However, I do want kids. When I have more patience. I do find myself thanking God for the ability to dream of the family I will have. It is such a luxury that many couples struggle with. However, God always makes a way (I would know). It may not be all that I want to be remembered as, but I do want to be a mother someday, a proper one. And a wife. But that's a different story.

Trust

      The biggest lesson God taught me through all of this is to trust. It started with my parents. As a girl from an abusive and broken home, it was very hard for me to trust anyone, especially since I was sexually abused when I was sixteen by a guy whom I was acquainted with and my own mother called me a "lying little bitch" (one of her favorites) and said that she would testify against me if this was brought to court. This was a few months after literally trying to strangle me because I wasn't cleaning the kitchen fast enough for her. I came to school with a black eye and bite marks (yes, bite marks) and that's when my most beloved teacher got involved and reported the incident. Thankfully, that's when my parents came in. I had been living with my Aunt and Uncle off and on for a couple of years, but when this all came out, they decided it was time to take permanent guardianship of me. I am so incredibly grateful to them. I honestly do not know where I would be without those wonderful, graceful, loving people in my life. And the miracle is, I have trusted my aunt since the first day I met her, I was about four years old. In my life, I had never had a maternal figure who understood me as well as she does. I am so grateful to God that this woman is in my life, and in my family, because on the whole, she makes all of us better. As for my Uncle, he has always been the outstanding father figure in my life, being the first man to hold me and my own father going to jail when I was nine for unpaid child support and dying two years later. I can always trust him for a laugh or help when I need it, and I am so very grateful to him for that.

        And then Ethan came along. Right after I got to a point where I said to myself "I'm a senior. I don't need a boy to muck up the works and distract me while I'm trying to get into college." He saw me in a play and we talked while we were striking the set after. Apparently, he couldn't sleep- I was keeping him up! Me! The funny thing is, we sat next to one another in our tenth grade chemistry class and never said a word to one another.God is just funny that way sometimes, I suppose. Anyway, we talked for a few weeks and our senior English teacher moved us next to one another. I am convinced she was doing some matchmaking. Then he asked me to lunch one day and surprised me with a rose and asked me to be his girlfriend. I was so overwhelmed and so surprised, I had no idea he even liked me! However, something in me told me very clearly to say yes to him, and I did. I was so surprised by him. His childhood is the polar opposite of mine- the oldest son from a loving, warm family. Quite honestly, he scared me to death. A few days after he asked me out, he took me to a coffee shop and asked me to tell him all of it. My whole story. He wanted to know about the abuse and the loneliness and how I found God through the after school ministry I volunteered at. He didn't judge me, or recoil at what I said. He just listened. And genuinely cared. And then he revealed his own struggles to me and how he fights them daily, too. In hindsight, it was amazing. Just amazing, this level of honesty. I had never experienced that with anyone else. Not even my family wanted to hear every gory detail, but this then boy did. However, in the moment, I was absolutely terrified. I broke up with him about a month after we started dating. It wasn't that I didn't like him, I liked him very much. It was that he scared me. I had never been pursued that way before. I also blame the tongues of snakes whispering in my ears to break up with him- some not very good friends who talked me into it. However, within a few short months, I stopped talking to those people and cleared my head and my heart and started being friends with Ethan. I grew to trust him so much. I was heartbroken when he asked another girl to go to prom with him and be his girlfriend. However, I had the perfect prom with all my acting friends. Very soon after prom the girl dumped Ethan, quite rudely I might add (perhaps I'm biased, however), and we were spending more and more time together. I was his first girlfriend. I'm not his only one, but I'm his first. And I'm praying his last. We got back together, but kept it quiet for a while, but I doubt anyone didn't know before we made it public. We took months and months just to kiss. It was so strange to me, as someone who under the influence of older teenagers, was taught how to kiss when I was just twelve years old. Kisses meant nothing to me by the time Ethan came along. Until I had to wait for them. They're so special to me now. Each and every one of them. Before I became pregnant, I had learned to trust Ethan with all my heart. Which was just the first step.
        When I did find out I was six months pregnant, it was God's turn to teach me how to trust. Before then, I was always such a worrier, worrying about money and bills and college and where I was going to end up and how I was going to get there, etc. I would have panic attacks over what I would wear to school, I was so stressed out all the time. Then, in the scariest situation I have ever been in, I naturally started praying. And it worked. I had to start trusting God to get me and Ethan and the baby exactly where He wanted us, and something inside me kind of awoke and went "seeing as God is the Divine Creator and Master of this universe, I'm pretty sure he can handle this one. " That sort of strange peace that He is in charge filled my life. I relaxed. I prayed. I enjoyed how lazy I got to be while I was so fat. And I trusted Him. And I still do. I know He will get me where I am meant to be and it will be in a way that I would never imagine on my own. Because He is better than whatever scenario runs through my little human head. I cannot wait to see what He has in store for Ethan and I, but in the mean time, I am going to enjoy myself in this newly found peace that has filled my life. It has been such a blessing of His to change my life this way. And really, who could argue with that?

Her Brother

Her Brother

I love her brother. So, so much. He was also adopted as a baby and he is almost three. He is the sweetest, big-hearted boy I have ever met. He is so smart and full of love and happiness. When we first met him and his parents, he had so much fun at the Science Museum we went to. He just kept zooming off this way and that, overwhelmed and awed at everything he was learning. When the time got closer for me to give birth, he would come kiss my swollen tummy and tell his sister how much he loved her. When he came to the hospital, he was calling her name down the halls, looking desperately for her. When we were blessed enough to visit them when she was about three months old, I spent most of my time playing with him. I would put his arms around my shoulders and pick him up on my back and run around the house like a plane and every time I set him down he would beg me "let's do that again!" So naturally, I would. At one point, I set him down on his bed and he grabbed my face and kissed me and said " I love you." Naturally, I melted into a giant puddle. I love that little boy so much! He is such an amazing brother and I could not have asked for more. I know in my heart that he is the one I can trust to protect her when they are in school and he will do it with the lion heart I know he has. I am so sad that his birth parents are not really involved in his life. But I am so grateful that his real parents love Ethan and I so much that we may get to know him, as well as our girl. We have, in a way, become his adopted birth parents, and that is the way we intend to treat him- equally with our girl. Any other way would be unfair, and rude. 

I was so surprised to hear from Ethan that he knows who I am. Apparently, when his mother asked who Ethan was, he said "Margie!" Apparently, we are the same person to him, which I am okay with. He also recognized me in a picture! I could not believe it. This sweet boy knows me, after meeting me only a few times! I feel so special. I am so grateful to God for that. I cannot wait until we get to see them again and this little boy can fill my heart with joy once again. And I thank God for him. For the adoptive parents, that they were blessed with this child. And for my own girl, that she will have the best big brother I could ever imagine. And I hope that his ability to remember me is a precursor to how that little girl will know me. 

The Paradox

There is such a paradox that comes with being a birth parent, and at times, it is we who struggle the most with it. The paradox is this: the child is mine, but I will never be hers. She is my daughter, but I will never be her mother. To her, I will be Margie, her birth mother. Never 'mom'. That will not be me. And that's a hard thing to wrap one's brain around. I would go to the ends of the Earth for the health and happiness of that little girl, and I feel at times that I already have, but she will never be able to understand that. It is such a foreign and unknown relationship, and at times, it terrifies me to have it. She is so young now, but as she ages, will she like me and Ethan? Will she thank us? Will she hate us? Will she even care who we are? I know her parents will do everything they can to make sure that her and her brother know us, but will that help? It is so scary to simply not know how she will feel about me when I love her with so very much of my heart. I pray to God that we will have a healthy relationship. That she care about us. That she may know our other children when that time comes. And I pray that God help Ethan and I understand this, and that we may do our part the way we are supposed to.

Consideration

           As I look back and process those few days I had in the hospital, I notice something that I wish I hadn't done. I wish I wouldn't have been so considerate. Don't get me wrong, I was very glad that everyone who came to see us all in the hospital got to meet her, but in my drugged and exhausted state, I often felt incredibly overwhelmed. I mean, it was all day, 10 a.m. to 9:30 at night or later, there were people traipsing in and out and I had to play pass the baby over and over again. And I wasn't brave enough to say, "no thank you, I would rather I got to hold her now." Or, "I really think you have had enough time with her, may I have her so we can nap?" I do not know why I didn't. But I didn't. I let her go to everyone but me. Sometimes I ask God why I had to have a c-section. The pain medications I was on really left so much of that infinitesimally tiny time I had with her so foggy. And it makes me so sad. Of course, I'm sure even if I didn't need the pain medications, my hormones would have fogged my brain. But that concept just is so saddening to me. That no matter what, I was never meant to be mentally clear in the time I had her. I would have done so much more. It makes me so grateful that her parents gave us an extra night with her. It was really just because I was having a rough time recuperating,  and I'm sure that could be in part  because I didn't get much of a chance to rest. I think one of my favorite times in the hospital was when it was just the baby, her mother, and I. Ethan got cabin fever and wanted to go out with his family, so I called Rachel and asked her to come be with us. It was so peaceful and comforting to me to spend time with these two wonderful beings just as they started their lives with one another. I learned so much just watching all of the other mothers who came take care of that little one. And I am very grateful for that.

If there is one thing I can encourage any birth mother to do it is this: take your time. I don't care if any one's feelings are hurt, if some relative that really won't have a relationship with the child wants to take up the only time you have got for them to be yours, do not let them. As long as you are still in the hospital, you are still in charge. It's your party. As for the adoptive parents, see them with the child. God will give you the comfort of seeing them and show you how wonderful this situation can be if you look outside yourself and start looking at the blessings God has showered you with. They will understand if you need a little more time with the child. I assure you.

As for me, I think next time we will have a waiting line for people who want to see us. I can't handle ten people at once again. So if you're planning on showing up, in the years from now when that will happen, be prepared to take a number.

I am so grateful that I had so many people to care and who wanted to see the child. Even if I was overwhelmed and drugged and tied to a bed in the most exhausted state I have ever been in. Even if I am sad I wasn't more forceful. God reminds me that I still have a relationship with that little girl. That I will see her again. Because that is just how blessed I am and how loving and wondrous open adoption can be. And I thank God so much for that.

My body

I think one of the scarier things looming over my pregnant, hormonal brain was my appearance. As I ballooned more and more I got so terrified I would never look the same again. That I would never get the weight off. That the baby weight would cling to me like my sadness and every one would who met me would still see what I had just gone through. I know it's vane of me, but I won't pretend that pride isn't my biggest fault. I was an acting student at the time: I had to look good. And Ethan being the sweet, wonderful, sympathetic man he is, and my partner in crime, he gained almost as much weight as I did. It was hard for both of us after the excuse was gone. We started going to the gym and tried to eat better, but progress was slow, at least at first. I cheated; I dropped quite a lot of weight as soon as we left the hospital, but Ethan had to struggle with it. It was so admirable of him, though. A few months ago he started counting his calories and trying to make a change in his life. When I asked him why, he said, "because I want to look good enough to deserve you." Wow. I love that man. It pushed me (slowly, I'll admit) to start counting my own calories and trying to get more active. And I must say, I am so glad that I did. I am so much happier with the way I look than I did at the beginning of the summer. Now, I'm not saying I'm happy because I look hot or sexy or skinny. I am happy because I feel good. Because I fit into the size I want. Because I look good enough to deserve Ethan. And because I look the way I picture myself in my head. It's a wonderful feeling. Immediately after having my girl, I was at about 150 pounds. Now I'm at a very comfortable 120. It feels so great! However, I'm not saying I am the same as I was before. I have changed, and I can't ever go back, but I am not ashamed of my stretch marks like I was (that does NOT mean I will ever show them off) or the scars I bear. I am different. But that's okay. I was so scared I would never feel beautiful again, and I still have days that I don't. But it takes one look from that man who loves me to reassure me that I really, truly am a beautiful creation of God. And really, what more could I ask for?

Grief

I fear that sometimes people think that I am perfectly fine with everything. That I have fully processed this loss and that I am healed with God's strength. And though sometimes, even I think that is the case, I still fall apart from time to time. It's when I am alone is the most dangerous for my rationality and happiness. That little Pandora's Box that follows me around will open up and consume me completely for a little while. Like today for instance. I am going to have to fight my grief until I make it to sleep tonight, because I know that Ethan and his family are headed to that sweet little house in Texas to dine and converse and be with the family that I wish I could see everyday. While I sit here, alone, wishing so much that I could see them, too. It's not that I'm sad I wasn't invited on their family vacation- frankly, I wouldn't want to go. It's that they all get to see her. And touch her. And kiss her. And them. And her brother. And I just experience pure, irrational grief over that idea. I don't know why it hurts me so much. And I know that they aren't going to see her just to hurt me. I know that this was the best time for them to see her. But the fact remains: it hurts me. Quite a lot, actually.

Never wanting to be a nuisance

I never want to be a nuisance. I hate feeling that I am in the way or that I am a bother to anyone. I think that in the long-run, however, this fear of being a burden hurts my relationships. I feel that sometimes I overdo it and therefore lose touch because I am too scared to annoy people. I do this with my own parents, my aunt and uncle. I always try to give them space, because I know how much they like being in one another's company, and I hate feeling like I'm in the way of their time together. However, this has, I think, alienated me somewhat from them, especially since I went to college and am never home anyway. In the same way, I almost never talk to the baby's mother. It's not that I don't want to talk to her, I do, very much, and quite often. But I don't want to get in the way. She has a baby and a son who is almost three to keep up with, for goodness sake! I just don't want to elbow my way in and make anyone feel uncomfortable with my presence, especially a relationship as delicate as the birth mother/ adoptive mother is. I just don't want to screw up, and in the end that prevents me from taking a chance at all.

The reality of the sadness

This is incredibly important to understand: I do not grieve because she lives with that family. I do not grieve because she isn't mine. I do not grieve because I regret giving her up. I grieve because the loss I've experienced is almost like having a child die. It's pure sadness. I am just sad. That is it. There is no hidden reason. I am sad. But then, I remember that God is there with me, holding me as I cry in the dark, and I remember that I will survive. That this sadness I feel has a huge silver lining. That I helped make my newest favorite family whole. And those tears of pain turn to joy as I try to pick myself up, close the lid of the box, and continue on until the next time the pain catches me. It's a daily battle. Don't get me wrong, when I smile and gush about how wonderful I feel and how much God has blessed me, I'm not lying. I honestly am happier than I ever have been before in my short time here on Earth. But that doesn't mean that magically my hormones will go away. Or that it won't sting from time to time when I see how much she has grown since the last picture I got. That is being human. I alone am not the strength in this equation. It is all God. All of it. And I am so grateful for it. I am grateful for the grief. I think it helps remind me how much I love that little girl and that family God has blessed. It helps me process her absence from my life. And it helps me turn to God in my sadness and have Him fill my heart with the peace and comfort that gets me through my days. It hurts to grieve. But no matter what anyone says to me, I always feel better on the other side. Because I love them. and her. And Ethan. And most of all, God and what he has done for me. Because it's so much better than anything I ever expected.

A Blessing In Disguise

His Family

Before we found out I was pregnant, Ethan's family and I had been starting to get closer. I spent quite a lot of my summer over at their house. That's why I was so heartbroken when the truth came out. Not because of me, but his mother. I just knew it would never be the same, she would never welcome me in her home again, that she would resent me and try to talk him out of loving me at every chance she got. But she didn't. Instead, she came to me and asked my forgiveness for things she had said to others out of anger. She wouldn't accept my casual brushing it aside, my claims that it was only natural that she hate me and that she should say whatever she wanted about me. She was determined; she wanted my forgiveness. And then, through the grace of God, she asked me if she could start discipling me. Me! The girl, who from my point of view, had ruined all her hopes for her son, had ruined her relationship with her first grandchild, and the girl who had given her the most grief she had ever suffered in twenty-three years of marriage. She wanted to get to know me through Christ. To teach me with her knowledge of the Word, my weakest part of my relationship with Christ! This woman, who loves me as Jesus would ask her, took the time to cultivate our relationship with one another. I am so shocked, even now, at that kind of forgiveness. And I am so grateful. To have this sort of friendly relationship with someone who I would really like to be my mother-in-law is so incredibly rare, and I am so blessed enough to have it. And it helped me realize that this family isn't perfect. They, too, have dysfunction. The difference is that they go to one another and are honest about their issues and they take the time to care about one another. And I hope to model my own family after them. As for the rest of the family, my time with them has strengthened all of our relationships. Though there is still some tension here and there, I'm glad to say how much I love and care for these people, who nary a year ago I thought would curse my name at every opportunity. I'm not sure how much they really like me, but I'll bet they care about me, too. Which, frankly, is a miracle in itself. So I thank God for this baby that shook the foundation of his family. It brought us closer than I ever thought we would be, and it has brought another family to watch out for me. A family who really and truly attempts to love God with every action they take and every situation they face. A family who will last the ages. And a family I can admire and love with every dinner we have around that fabled dinner table.

Her Family

The Worries I Had for God

I was so fearful in the beginning of this process. I had no trust for what God had in mind for me. I was so scared, especially after talking to my boyfriend's parents about it. They were furious. I honestly didn't expect to be welcome in their house anymore. They were such a perfect family before I besmirched their image with a bastard child from their only son. His father was an Elder at church, his mother a huge leader in the women's ministry. And I thought they hoped I would only be a phase in their son's life. Me, the damaged goods from a broken and abusive home, wild and free from restraint. The fearless, wild-haired girl who couldn't be talked into dressing or acting like the demure church mouse of a girl I was sure they had in mind. Their immediate reaction: talk to the pastor of the church. Then we had a meeting. Ethan's sisters were kicked out of the house and we sat down so I could show them the murky sonogram of the fruit of sin growing inside me. His mother wanted to keep her for herself, but I never would have gone for that. They presented us with options (as if they were in charge-much to my disdain); 1)immediate marriage and dropping out and raising this girl, or 2) adoption. I told them of the family I already knew was hoping to adopt another child and how I felt that this is where we were meant to go. But I, too, was scared. What if they didn't want me to know the child? What if I didn't like their parenting? What if they spoiled her and she grew to be a terrible person? What if I didn't like the couple themselves? What would I do?

God's plans are always beyond our wildest dreams

I was so nervous when we finally met them. I had spoken to her once on the phone and the adoption agent had already met with us and gone through the initial paperwork and then discussed with us the psychological repercussions of what we were planning to do. They wanted to spend most of the day with us. I was so excited. And they brought their son, a two year old whom they had also adopted. And as we went about our fun day of breakfast and a museum and dinner together, I began to understand that God had his hands on this situation, fully. I loved them. They are such wonderful, loving, intelligent people who care so much for the children they thought they couldn't have. And I love them. I wish sometimes I lived closer to them. Not to see my girl, but to have lunch with her once in a while. To invite them to dinner from time to time. She really is such a wonderful and inspiring woman, whom I know loves those children just as much as a person can. When I was in labor, she stood on one side of me, my love on the other, and she said to me that she was so sorry I was going through all this pain. It was unfathomable to me. This woman, who had been through fertility treatments and miscarriages and years of waiting for God's intended man to find her, and she was sorry that I was in the pain of labor? I told her how glad I was that I could do it for her. And I meant it. I am so grateful to God for the part I got to play in answering this couple's prayers. It is the most meaningful thing I have done with my life thus far, and it has changed me to the core of my being.

The "mistake"

The hardest part of this has been trying to get people to understand how much I don't regret what actions I took, or the situation that arose. People asked a few weeks after I had her if I had "learned my lesson yet". I was floored, and so offended. I do not regret entering that kind of relationship with the man I know God intended me to be with. I do not regret getting pregnant. And most of all, I have never, not for a moment, regretted giving her to that family. She was their's from the get-go. She was never intended to be all mine. And I think God gave me that understanding early on. And I am so incredibly grateful for that. This was all part of a plan much bigger than myself, or my sin. If the baby's mother had never met my aunt's parents, I wouldn't have known them. If my mother hadn't introduced my uncle to my aunt and if they had never gotten married, I wouldn't have lived with them in high school and loved God the way I do. If I hadn't been cast in every play I tried out for in high school, or if his sister hadn't been cast, we wouldn't have talked while tearing down the set that night and God wouldn't have kept him up thinking about me, we would never have even dated. There are so many little 'what-ifs' that could have changed this story, but God put them all together for a reason. And she is the reason; a perfect little bundle of laughs and smiles that melts the heart of all who meet her. And I thank God everyday for that. 

The Story

She was perfection. Eight pounds, five ounces. And after 21 brutal hours, and an emergency c-section, she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Even if the first words said to me regarding her were "Look at her head!" (from my sweet, goofy future husband). The night she was born, she didn't cry. She just looked at all of us. These three families crowded around, eagerly awaiting her presence. The moment she was held by one of us, the moment she won them over. I knew as soon as I saw her with them that I had not been led astray. This was God's plan, thirty years in the making. And as soon as I got the chance to finally have her to myself, the moment I realized that she was real. That it hadn't all been a dream. That the day in the doctor's office three short months before where I was told I was pregnant and that was the source of the pain in my stomach had really happened. And it was when he held her that I knew: I never wanted this man to leave my life. I wanted to wear his name for the rest of my life. And I sat back in that bed, slightly dazed from the morphine, and I started thanking God for this pain that I would live with for the rest of my life.