A Note to Birth Mothers, Adoptive Mothers, and Grieving Mothers on Mother’s Day

 

The first year my husband and I were together, he asked me what I wanted to do to celebrate Mother’s Day. He didn’t wait, though, to ask until the morning of—he asked two weeks ahead of time. He knew about my son, Michael, placed for adoption at birth six years before, and knew I struggled with complex feelings of loss and regret.

His request changed my perspective on holidays, especially Mother’s Day.

First, the fact that he approached the holiday from a place of ‘celebration’ threw me for a loop. Celebrate? What the? Since I’d placed my son for adoption, Mother’s Day had always generated ‘negative’ emotions. But he gently coaxed me out, stating even though my son was absent I was still a mother and always would be, and it was a beautiful thing. He encouraged me to embrace both the joys and sorrows, urging me to acknowledge my motherhood and all it entailed. Maybe go for a walk or take a bubble bath: something simple but designed to recognize this incredibly important part of who I am.

Secondly, by asking ahead of time, I was able to assess where I was in my healing and gave me time to think about what might allow me to embrace whatever feelings I was experiencing. He made it clear, early on, that he would allow for solitude to an extent, but wouldn’t leave me alone. He didn’t press me to talk but was present and available should I decide to share.

I have spent more Mother’s Days than I can count gently weeping while he held my hand.

Over the years, with practice and his support, I grew bolder, eventually attending Mother’s Day brunches. I learned to share that I had a son, and eventually to accept ‘Happy Mother’s Day’ wishes without the need to bolt to the restroom to ugly cry.

So, if you are a birth mother, or a mother who is grieving the loss of her child for any reason, this Mother’s Day I encourage you to make a plan. Don’t let the day sneak up on you. Ask people who love you to help. If this year you are feeling particularly vulnerable, decide where you will feel safest: at home, snuggled up with a book, and a cup of tea? Or on a hike with a close friend? Let those around you know you’re not sure how you will feel on Mother’s Day, but you need someone there to just ‘be’ with you. Or maybe you’re ready to proclaim your motherhood to the world, in which case I applaud you! Go to brunch, wear a corsage, tell the world about your amazing child.

No matter what you choose, communicate your intentions with someone.

My husband has always been my staunchest supporter as a birth mom and never shamed me. And has never taken Mother’s Day, or any special occasion, lightly. He approaches them with kindness, respect, and with a sense of hopefulness I’ve never quite been able to share, until now.

And, if you are an adoptive mother, remember that your joy began with another woman’s loss. If you think she might be open to it, find a way to acknowledge her loss and her motherhood. It is something that she will always have, despite the absence of her child.

In Pursuit of Publication

I am a rule follower. I have always been a rule follower. But I am also independent, resilient, and stubborn. I like to do new things and expand my knowledge. So, in the summer of 2019, I set out to write a book.

Drafting the book was an adventure. A jumbled journey of ups and downs; pride and despair. I fought self-doubt and imposter syndrome. And still do. But I am now to the next stage of the process: pursuing publication.

There are three paths I am considering: traditional-, hybrid-, and self-publishing. Each path has pros and cons, and I have much to learn. It is both frightening and exhilarating.

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If I want to go the traditional route, which is the Holy Grail for most writers, I must get an agent. The agent is the first in a series of gatekeepers within the realm of publishing. They are hired to put my needs and desires as an author first, and to promote my work through an intricate courting process to big-time publishers, who only accept agented submissions. I’m sure you know some of them by name: HarperCollins; Penguin Random House; Simon & Schuster. But—and this is a big but—the agent must choose me as a client. Therefore, I have sent passionate letters to multiple agents in hopes of enticing them to love me.

Have you ever gone about ‘looking for love?’ Yeah, kind of…... counterintuitive.

Hybrid-publishing is like ‘a la cart’ for writers in a single location. They have teams of professionals in all areas needed to publish a well-constructed and marketable book, but with the author footing the bill. Hybrids differ from vanity presses. A hybrid press has a submission and acceptance process, cares about the author’s success and the quality of the book. A vanity press will take any work presented and throw it - as is - between two covers, without any quality control, if the author has the capital to front the book.

The self-publishing route requires or allows, depending on your perspective, the author to do everything themselves. Essentially, they hire independent contractors: an editor, proofreader, typesetter, cover designer, formatter, to name a few, then submits the work to a publisher facilitator, like Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or Apple Press.

In all cases, the author is responsible for marketing, or at least a portion of it.

Ah, marketing, the bane of many an author’s existence. (Yes, I am purposefully using clichés.) That will be another post entirely.

So, as you can see—if you’ve read this far—it’s quite a decision. And process.

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When I completed my manuscript, I immediately began sending out query letters to agents, because that’s what I was supposed to do. I am utilizing the tools specifically designed to assist me in my search, like QueryTracker, but so far, I have not enticed the attention of an agent.

Yet.

When I do, if I do, I will certainly post about it here. But during this process, I have rewritten or edited my query letter dozens of times. I participated in #PITMAD and began sending queries to small, independent publishers who do not require agented submissions. I wrote a respectable synopsis and am knee-deep in completing a proposal. Again, the rule follower toeing the line.

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Why, pray-tell, am I telling you all of this? Because part of acquiring the attention of an agent and publisher is being active on social media and engaging readers.

And yes, as I have made clear, I am a rule follower.

Beyond that, having readers is the only way I will succeed in my latest adventure.

And that’s you.

I need you.

So please, subscribe to this blog to receive email alerts about new posts. And read them. Then leave a comment telling me what you think. Tell me if you can relate. Or just tell me how your day is going.

As for me, I am heading back to the querying trenches.

Choosing Adoptive Parents

 

When I became pregnant at twenty-one years old, I assumed I would have the baby and become a parent. Despite having a less than reliable boyfriend, despite poverty, addiction, and lack of knowledge, I would become a mom. My older sister had done it. My younger cousin too. In fact, a look at my extended family revealed that most of my similarly aged female relatives had become single parents. So, when the baby-daddy bailed, I figured: I got this.

But, through three months of counseling during my second and third trimester, I took a deep dive into my past, present, and potential future and realized, with horror and self-loathing, that the deck was stacked against me. Sure, I could have a baby and fumble through being a parent, but would that be fair? Fair to my child? Fair to me?

In the end, I chose to place my son for adoption. But looking back, had ‘open adoption’ not been available, I would have instead opted to parent. Having the ability to exert influence over who would be selected made all the difference. At the time I felt powerless, so when the counselor said I could pick the parents, I latched onto it with desperation and hope. Finally, something I could control. And a way for me to shift my focus away from fear for the future to the potential of a better life for my child.

I allowed myself to fantasize about what the perfect family would look like. Visions of sprawling homes in wealthy neighborhoods, international travel, private schools. All things I’d seen on TV but never experienced in real life. From those dreams, a list of qualifications emerged: mid-thirties, stay-at-home mom, affluence, to name a few. And from this fantasy list, the adoption agency presented me a stack of folders showcasing the lives of couples longing for a child.

But how does one go about choosing a stranger to take over THE MOST IMPORTANT job in the world?

In the end, it came down to a gut feeling.

David’s letter, the only one hand-written, seemed to have been composed specifically for me. In it, he presented a kind and caring attitude, displayed vulnerability, and addressed every topic of importance. In later years, I would even wonder if he’d seen my list before composing his letter, so spot-on were his words.

I now know he wasn’t perfect. Regardless, I am grateful. Grateful David was searching for a child at the same time I was struggling with the knowledge that I was incapable of raising one. Grateful he succeeded in raising a boy to become a gentle man. And especially grateful for his willingness to share my journey through grief of his loss a second time.

Ten Strategies To Cope Without Your Child During the Holidays

The holidays haven’t been the same since my son died seven years ago. By holidays, I mean Christmas. But every anniversary or celebration is different now. It’s just that Christmas is one of the hardest.

When he was little, I wondered about tiny details: how did they style his hair or what did their Christmas tree look like. Were there piles of presents? Did they wear matching woolen sweaters? I imagined Norman Rockwell-esque scenes staged against a backdrop of hand-strung popcorn garland and neighborhood caroling. A couple of months later an update would arrive with photographs to fill in those details.

But the first winter after he died, I struggled to reconcile the fact that I was a birth mother who’d never spent a holiday with her child and a grieving parent who would never see her child again. I snapped back and forth between lost opportunities and our stolen future. I was angry. I was sad. I was lost. I wanted a way to connect to him but didn’t know how.

I thought about his adoptive family and hoped they were faring better than I was, but then jealousy sidled its ugly nose into the mix, leaving a snotty trail of bitter tears and self-loathing in its wake. They’d had years with him, and I had none.

What could I do? How could I escape the torment in my soul?

I scoured the internet for resources and tools to ease my pain. Some helped, some didn’t, but I used what worked and tucked away the lessons for later use.

Since then, I’ve refined my list and I’d like to share it with you. One grieving parent to another.

It doesn’t matter the reason for your child’s absence: if you’re a birth parent with little or no contact or a grieving parent navigating the new reality that your child will never come home. Nor does it matter if this is your first holiday without your child or your twentieth. If you are grieving, I am sorry. But, maybe, something on my list will help you.

1.      Give yourself a break. Grieving takes a mental, physical, and spiritual toll. If you can, find ways to nurture yourself. Take a long bubble bath or a nap or go outside for a walk. If you have other children, and are able to, get a sitter and have some ‘me time.’

2.      Take care of your physical health. Eat right, drink lots of water and get enough sleep. But don’t deny yourself small pleasures either. In moderation, a piece of home-made fudge, a glass of eggnog, or a hot toddy can bring a bit of joy to a solemn moment.

3.      Don’t let others dictate how you should feel or act. If you don’t want to celebrate or participate in certain activities, let your loved ones know you need a little space and ask for their support.

4.      If you are prone to anxiety attacks, have a plan. Call a support person who can remind you to breathe and talk you through to the other side. And spend time with people who understand, avoid those who don’t. You deserve support and understanding.

5.      Give yourself permission to indulge in old photos, letters, or videos of your child, and go ahead and cry.

6.      Perhaps you aren’t feeling particularly emotional. That’s okay too. There will be times in your grieving cycle when you feel dull and listless, which is perfectly normal.

7.      For some, talking about their child is a relief, but for others, it may be too painful. Trust your gut but know that the more you talk about your grief the easier it is to bear.

8.      Donate to a charity, or better yet volunteer. The physical act of volunteering takes your mind off your own grief, boosts mental well-being and happiness, and is a meaningful way to honor your child.

9.      Journal, paint, write a poem, crochet, play an instrument or sing a song. In essence, find a creative outlet for your swirling, chaotic, beautiful, and sometimes overwhelming emotions.

10.  Count your blessings. Begin each day by listing ten things for which you are grateful. Even the smallest things count. Research suggests that just the process of searching for positive aspects produces health benefits and a greater sense of well-being.

I lost my son shortly after reunion before we had a chance to build a relationship, and I still struggle to find peace. These are tangible steps that have helped me navigate Christmas, and maybe they will help you too.

Your heart may be broken, but it will go on beating, even if sometimes you may not want it to. And I know it’s hard, but please know you are not alone.

Adoption: The Long View

When I placed Michael for adoption over thirty years ago, I was fortunate that my adoption agency provided after-placement care. I realize now how rare that was. Unfortunately, I did not avail myself of all they had to offer.

In recent years, I have recognized a lack of support and aftercare for first mothers and fathers is one of many glaring problems with the adoption industry.

Fortunately, people are working to change the systems, both at a personal level, by supporting birth parents one-on-one, and at a systemic level, helping write legislation to promote ethical adoption practices.

To address the lack of understanding about the problems affecting the adoption industry, I would like to share this interview by Lori Holden with Ashley Mitchell, which gives the listener an inside view of the birth mother and adoptive mother experiences.

Lori is an adoptive mom, the author of The Open-Hearted Way to OpenAdoption: Helping Your Child Grow Up Whole, creator of lavenderluz.com, and the new podcast Adoption: The Long View.

Ashley is a birth mother, owner of Big Tough Girl, and founder of LifetimeHealing Foundation. She is a torchbearer in the quest to educate around birth mother trauma and the fight for ethical adoption practices. She also hosts the podcast twistedsisterhoodpodcast for birth mothers.

I first found these two women ten years ago when I was struggling to find my way after reunification with Michael. Both women offer valuable insights and tender comfort to every member of the adoption triad.

Take a listen.

Adoption, Child Loss, and a Quest to Heal the Mother Wound

I have not posted on my blog in quite a while, but over the past year, I have been writing diligently about Michael: the adoption, our reunion, his death, everything in between, and beyond. In fact, as of yesterday, I have completed the first draft of what I plan to publish as a memoir.

With my husband's support and encouragement, I have delved deep into my memories, reconstructing events and their emotional toll, laying bare what it was like to lose a child, twice, and, more importantly, how I've survived.

I will be using my blog to engage potential readers, keep them updated on the book's progress, and help hold me accountable to my schedule and goals.

May I present my working title and a three-sentence synopsis.

 

Lost Again:

Adoption, Child Loss, and a Quest to Heal the Mother Wound

 

Lost Again follows my grief journey for the loss of my son, first through adoption as an infant, then his sudden death twenty-three years later. It illustrates the universal truth that child loss, no matter how suffered, creates a chasm of despair, and forces a parent to question every choice they’ve ever made. This story travels a path from fear and uncertainty to self-awareness and acceptance.

Clown For A Day

For more than 10 years I have been dressing up as a clown for the 4^th of July.  I’ve skipped, hopped and cartwheeled my way up and down Broadway more times than I can count, handing out event fliers and flags during the biggest little parade you could ever see: so short, in fact, that after it goes by it turns around at the end of the street to return for a second pass.  And I’ve worn the same costume every year: a pretty, girly, brightly colored polka-dotted and alternately striped, big hoop-bottomed dress, with a bright orange wig, big fuzzy bunny slippers and a Barbie umbrella.  

Kids from 0-2, often afraid of clowns, like me because, aside from my bright red nose, I’m not scary at all.  The 3-6 year olds shyly ask about my bunny slippers or Barbie umbrella while posing for pictures next to me.  Those 6 and up think I’m silly and smile at my antics.  And the adults, well, let me just saythat I’ve had my photo taken with way more adults than children while clowning around Skagway. 

Dressing up as a clown has given me something nothing else in my life ever has: unfettered joy.  When I put that costume on I am immediately transformed.  I’m no longer afraid or self-conscious or judgmental.  I’m not worried about work or what other people think.  I can be silly and goofy.  And, for those of you who don’t know me, I am not, without this super suit, a silly or goofy person.

However, this past week, I ordered a new clown costume.  Here’s why.

Just prior to the parade is the annual Skagway News Run Around, a 5k race covering the distance from one end of town to the other.  They give out awards for the fastest runners in several categories, which I’ve yet to win.  They also give out one award for best costume, so it’s the only race I’ve ever won an award in!  Before the race I stand at the starting line over-exaggerating my pre-race routine. Long slow stretches with my hooped-skirt exposing my white ruffled bottom and high loping strides while warming up next to the “real runners.” Just before the start I nose my bunny-slippered foot as close to the starting line as possible while crouching in anticipation for the starting gun.  My efforts elicit laughter and smiles from spectators and participants alike.

In 2013 it was during this pre-race performance that Tom approached, face stormy and stride purposeful.  He gently but firmly grabbed my arm and said “Let’s go.”  He said he had something to tell me, just not right there.  So I started walking with him, back towards the house, a mere two blocks away, thinking something bad must have happened at work.  His stride was brisk, his countenance stoic, and I’m thinking it’s got to be really bad.  As we walk just around the corner I see my friend and colleague walking briskly towards me too.  In a panic I turn to look at my husband who, realizing he can’t wait any longer, says “Michael passed.”

And as I crumble to the ground, unable to breathe, I float away.  And what I see as I hover above is a sad, horrible picture of a woman who has just lost her child, again, dressed in a pretty, girly, brightly colored polka-dotted and alternately striped, big hoop-bottom clown costume, with a bright orange wig, big fuzzy bunny slippers and a Barbie umbrella.  And this image is burned in my brain, and no matter what I do I can’t seem to shake it. 

I’ve tried. 

The past two years during the months leading up to the 4^th, I have cringed at the thought of having to don that costume.  In the end I convinced myself to put it on and parade down Broadway.  I cartwheeled and skipped and took photos with kids and adults alike, but behind those enormous sunglasses with the big red nose, I’ve hidden tears and sadness.  I smiled at times too, but I still couldn’t get that image out of my head.

So, I’m retiring the clown costume.  I finally decided it’s just easier to put it away, if that’s the image that keeps coming back.  I’m doing it to ease the pain but I’m also doing it because I know he would have loved that I’m a clown.  He would have loved the joy and smiles brought to so many people, not the least of all myself.  I even like to think that one day, had he lived, he would have joined me in skipping, hopping and cartwheeling down the street.  And that’s what I want to come to mind when I become a clown for the day… and I want to find my way back to that fearlessness and silliness and unfettered joy.

Regret

I said it, for the first time, out loud, in conversation.  A conversation about my son.

REGRET.

I hate that word.  HATE.  It creates a thunderstorm in my body.  Pressure builds behind my eyes, inside my head, my throat, my gut.  And I want to throw it up, but it just sits there and churns and boils and it feeds on itself.  In my mind it is the single most horrible thing I can feel.  It’s worse than anger and sadness and jealously.  And fear.  I can accept, and even embrace, being angry and sad.  And although I find jealously and fear a bit more difficult, those too I can acknowledge with grudging acceptance.  But not regret.  Because regret, in my mind, means I was wrong.  It means I made the wrong choice.  And, oh, how I hate being wrong.  And worse yet, the fact that it has appeared here, in this space I have always so adamantly maintained was a place where it did not belong…

So, what do I regret?

I regret not reaching out to him more.

I regret not sending him letters every single chance I had.

I regret not pushing for more contact after we were reunited.

I regret not trying harder.

Then, in the midst of writing this this, I decided to look up the actual definition.  Rather eye opening.

From Merriam-Webster.com:

·     Regret: to feel sad or sorry about (something that you did or did not do): to have regrets about (something)

-used formally and in writing to express sad feelings about something that is disappointing or unpleasant.

This is so very much better than my definition.  This definition does not limit regret to wrong vs right, one thing over the other.  It does not enforce a dichotomy.  Instead it allows for an inclusiveness I have been lacking.  It enables me to say something I have NEVER uttered before:

I regret placing my son for adoption. 

And under this new-found definition I can regret placing him for adoption while still maintaining it was the right choice.  Because I desperately need to continue to believe it was the right choice.

Outside-the-box

It’s really hard to develop an intimate relationship with someone after they’re gone.  And as a birthmother, even one with a strong sense of self-esteem, I can’t help but question my “right” to want this relationship.  I have to pointedly talk myself through, again and again, the entire decision making process. 

I have to do this all the time, lately it's been almost daily.

And it’s tiring, by the way.


 

Since he turned 18, and we were first reunited, I’ve tried to glean a sense of who my son is.  Early on social media was the main source of information, and since his death I’ve been fortunate to have access to his family and friends too.

Here’s what I’ve come away with: 

the image of a young man with a tendency to think-outside-the-box; 

not just an ability to do so, 

but an inclination to do so. 

The ability to think outside the box is prized and encouraged, while those who prefer to live life outside it can be viewed in less favorable light.  I imagine, as a result, that some people were not so sure he had it all together or perhaps thought that he was a bit “out there.”  But I also believe he had to have some of the BEST friends a person could ever ask for.  Friends who embraced his individuality and who encouraged his imagination, and even friends who took up residence outside the box with him from time to time.

There’s power in owning ones’ uniqueness, and I think it takes most of us a long time to figure that out (yep, still working on it over here), but I think he “got it” early.  I think he figured out that there’s a lot more space to move and “be” outside the box than in it, and he made the conscious decision to go there. 

Is this who he was?  How his mind worked?  I don’t know.  I may be just making things up.  Again, it’s really hard develop a relationship with someone once they’re gone.  But this image I’m developing of him, in my head, is beautiful.  And in my head, I can embrace him and hold him, and if he did indeed live and think outside the box, then I can believe he would embrace me back, without hesitation and without judgments.

 

Default Setting

The busy season is upon me, with spring and change in the air.  I seem to be spending almost as much time trying to pull my thoughts together as I am getting any work done, but at the end of the day I can see progress – thanks to well thought out to-do lists.
 

I’ve been incorporating meditation into my daily life, with over a solid month of 10 minutes or more per day.  I like it, and I like that I’m doing it.  Is it making a difference?  I don’t know, but I feel a bit less anxious, or more precisely, more at ease.   

But tonight, my mind and emotions are in a bit of a flux, and I’m feeling discontented.

There is such an ebb and flow to how I feel and think about my son, waves of intensity.  Some days I find myself walking by his picture and lightly touching the image, so grateful for the connections we had.  Other days I sit and doubt… everything.  The moments of gratefulness I embrace as much as I can, and the others, well, sometimes I give them airtime.  I’m trying to learn to hear the chorus of critics in my head without necessarily listening to them; learning to acknowledge the fears without letting them take control. 

When it comes to my son I never knew how to tell people that I wanted to talk about him.  That even though it usually made me cry I still wanted to and to find ways to acknowledge his existence.  Now, as I continue to learn how to share him, and I tell people I want to be open about him, I find myself resorting back to my old default when they do bring him up: clamming up and shutting down – it’s so frustrating!  I don’t want to do that anymore.

My oldest sister spoke of my son fairly often, more so after we were reunited.  She wanted to know if I’d heard from him or talked to him.  It’s one of the many things I’ve always loved about her – that she never seemed afraid to bring him up in conversation.  She always made me feel as though he was a normal part of my life, our lives, and she never once doubted he would find me one day.   

For that I am so very grateful.  

My oldest brother and his wife have their own very personal relationship with adoption: they adopted two beautiful boys.  When they began their adoption journey, we talked about my experience and what I looked for in perspective parents; I think they were hoping to get the inside story – I’m not sure I was ever really helpful, but I hope so.  Our conversations, no matter how seemingly insignificant, were precious to me.

The youngest siblings, my baby sister and baby brother, were only 9 and 11 when I had my son.  I can’t even tell you what they thought about all of it, what their feelings were.  We never talked about it then, and haven’t really since, but I hope to learn someday how they felt and what their experiences were, if they are willing.

My son expressed an interest in meeting them all; especially my brothers, since his adopted family was heavily populated with girls.  One of the few times all of us siblings were together we talked with anticipation and excitement about when and where and who would be there (we didn’t think it would be wise for all of us to be present - we were a bit afraid to overwhelm him with the full force of our combined craziness).   

We talked and laughed and dreamt about what it will be like… would be like...

We just never had the chance.