Birth mother | Letters to Little Man

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Have No Fear, Love Is Here…Right?

As you know, I started these letters for many reasons, most of them for you. I want you to know how you got to where you are. I want you to know how many lives you’ve touched just by being you. I want to be able to document the things I learn about you as I learn them, so that one day you can look back and appreciate your childhood self the way the rest of us do. Mostly I want you to know how loved you are.

But I’m going to make a confession: even though the letters are for you – from me to you – they’re actually for me too. Because even though it’s good for you to know that I love you, it’s almost better for me to know that you know that I love you.

As I told you yesterday, The B’s would never dream of the day when they would let you forget how much I love you. I know that if some how, some way, any doubt of that entered your mind, they would correct it in an instant. But before I found them and really got to know them, that was probably my biggest adoption concern as a birth mother: that if you grew up away from me, you would never know how much I loved you. Or even worse, you would assume that since I “gave you up,” I didn’t love you.

I think that is a universal birth mother fear – that if we’re not around, there won’t be anyone else around to remind you that we honestly did what we thought was absolutely best for you in the long run. That it was because of love that we chose adoption, not in spite of it, or due to our lack of it. We want our children to think the best of us and sometimes we feel that if we’re not with you 24/7 to encourage that, no one else will.

It’s one of the weird conundrums of adoption – I feel that, as your mother, our love for one another should be innate. But since I went through with adoption – even though it was a decision made lovingly – sometimes I feel like my love is something that I need to prove to you. My love for you is guaranteed, but since I’m not raising you, your love for me doesn’t have to be – sometimes, I feel like your love is something I will need to earn.

I honestly used to think that I was a selfish person for choosing adoption. That if I had just been a little more selfless, I could have sacrificed more – “manned up” a bit – and kept you as my own. A little therapy and constant support from friends and family cured me of that relatively fast, but it doesn’t keep the thought from creeping up every now and then. It’s a strange paradigm to try to describe.

I actually came up with the idea for these letters way back then, when the adoption first took place, but I wasn’t as healed then as I feel now. I wanted to be able to sort through my feelings before I started telling them to you because I wanted our relationship to be a source of clarity for you, not confusion. And also, funny enough (the people who know me will laugh at this), I was actually afraid I would run out of things to say.

As it turns out, my letters to you almost write themselves. I start off with a little thought or a funny story about you and suddenly, I’ve written hundreds of words – paragraphs filled with stories I want you to know, stories I love; feelings I have for you and your family, a thousand memories, a million and a half things I want you to hear. Writing to you isn’t a job, it isn’t work – it’s freeing. Every time I write one, I feel a little lighter. And even though you’re no where close to being able to read them, I feel closer to you and The B’s every time I finish one.

It’s yet another way you have brought love, peace and meaning to my life.

My fears of you not knowing that I am madly in love with you have been long assuaged. I am sure you will grow up knowing that I love you because The B’s wouldn’t have it any other way, and because I am going to come around as often as humanly possible to tell you so myself. And some day later on, you will have these letters to tell you how loved you are, too. But even so, you should know that even if I don’t have to, I am going to spend the rest of my life proving it to you anyways.

Tags: Birth mother, fear, letters, Love

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Categories Things to Know

The Worst Ten Days and the Best Nineteen Months

25 Feb

Every state has different policies when it comes to adoption. You were born in North Carolina, and they have a policy called the “revocation period.” It states that from the day the birth mother signs the adoption papers, she has seven business days to change her mind. In my case, I had ten days because I signed papers on a Saturday, and they couldn’t go into effect until Monday.

That policy was torture. Those were the worst 10 days of my life.

For those 10 days, you stayed with what the agency called an “interim care mother” – basically, a foster-mother who cares for infants during that seven-day period if the adoptive family chooses that option. The B’s wanted you to be a surprise for Sports Man and having dealt with a few failed adoptions themselves, they wanted to make sure everything was official before introducing you to your new brother.

It was a smart idea.

I spent those ten days making the world’s most comprehensive pro and con lists. I spent them looking over my finances with my mom and dad to see if I could afford to keep you. I ran every scenario through my head a million times – what I would do if I took you back, what I would do if I went through with the adoption, how The B’s would handle both scenarios. I saw a therapist. I talked it over with my parents every single day, getting their input – they never told me what to do because they knew it could only be my decision, but they were a wonderful sounding board. I went back and forth every single day of those 10 days. I didn’t think of anything else but you, trying to find a way that I could keep you and still give you everything I knew The B’s would give you.

It was agonizing. I know the policy is in place for good reason. All girls deserve a chance to change their minds, and I completely understand why they would. I almost did. I almost changed my mind every day. I would wake up and feel confident about adoption and go to bed that night, determined to bring you home to me. Two different scenarios, two different decisions constantly pulling me in two different directions. It’s difficult to describe, but I imagine if I were to be ripped in half, it would feel something like that. I knew that if I went through with adoption, you would be like a sort of phantom limb – an essential part of a person, felt even in its absence. Something so real, so necessary that you’re sure it’s there until you look down and realize it’s not. Having to deal with that disappointment over and over again…I wasn’t entirely sure I could handle that.

But in the end, it wasn’t about me. I wasn’t about what I would go through, or what being without you would do to me. It was about you and what was best for you. Grandma M asked me during one of those days what specifically I thought I needed to be good enough to keep you. I jokingly answered, “To be 10 years older, in a stable relationship with a college degree and high-paying job.” But it wasn’t a joke, really. I wanted to be the kind of parent who could give you everything, who would be able to make sure you never had to worry, who could provide you with everything I thought you deserved. And eventually I realized that I could. By placing you with The B’s, I could give you everything, I could make sure you never had to worry, I could provide you with everything I thought you deserved. It was all right there, in their family.

People ask me all the time if I think I made the right decision, and my answer is an instantaneous “yes.” I don’t even have to think about it, probably because I did enough thinking in those 10 days to last a lifetime. You – your life – was not a snap judgment. It was not an easy choice, or an instant decision. You deserved the best and I wanted to make sure you got it. And now, I truly believe you have it.

Actually, I think we both have it. The past 19 months have certainly been proof of that. And every time I see you with The B’s – in a picture, in a video, in real life – makes all of that indecision feel small and far away. The love we all share has turned those ten days from a gaping wound to a small scar. And that’s the beauty in the breakdown, I suppose – that despite all of the pain and confusion, we actually managed to find the kind of love that not only heals broken hearts, but builds stronger ones.