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.

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.

 

Cherish Everything

Lately, I’ve been able to think about him without crying, even talk about him without crying.

Well, sometimes…

It amazes me: the tears seem to be self-replicating.  They just never seem to run out.  However, they are less insistent.  Less like a waterfall, more like a softly rolling river.  At times I find myself floating along, carried by the current, at other times I rest in an eddy, seemingly content to be idle.  I have come to the point, finally, where I’m less likely to judge my feelings and instead just acknowledge, accept and sit with them. 

It’s a good place to be.

I’ve been thinking more about what I’m missing and less of what I missed.

Neither holds any joy, however.   

So, I try to turn my attention to what I did have: to the memory of seeing his face for the first time, and his perfect little features; his ruddy cheeks, tiny fingers and downy hair.  And to the memory of his face again, after 19 years, and having it feel like it was the first time.  How it felt to have his grown-up, man-like frame engulf me in a hug.  His eyes, his beautiful eyes that looked so like my own.  I look lovingly at the pictures from our one precious face-to-face meeting.  Him and I, arm in arm, with smiling faces and glowing eyes.  I’m so grateful to have them, so grateful.

Here’s an odd confession: I’ve actually come to value the flush of my face and the heaviness in my chest that happens immediately before the tears start to flow, because, in reality, I want to cherish everything I can that has anything to do him whatsoever.