If You Want to Help a Birth Mother

In my local adoption community, I am seen as a success story. Not as any kind of hero or role model, but as a success. I placed my baby for adoption after a brief stint single parenting. I went through the messy grieving process and came out of it a better person. Four years later I have a career of sorts, an apartment, a car, and mental health. I am doing well. I have a good relationship with the child I placed and with her family. I've got 99 problems, but adoption ain't one.

I know way too many birth moms who can't say the same. I have seen open adoptions - and birth mothers - fall apart spectacularly. I am more acutely aware than ever that I hit the jackpot as far as adoption is concerned. I wish everyone could be so lucky. 


I think this is why, in the last three months, I've been asked for advice by adoption caseworkers and their ilk. They all want to know the same thing: why did things work out well for me, and how can they ensure similar successes for the birth moms they work with?

I wish I knew. I am hesitant to give advice because every situation, every adoption is its own little planet. Every person is different and every adoption is different and things can change so quickly. I've never wanted to set myself up as an example of what to do or how to be. That makes me very uncomfortable, particularly when in adoption, two people can do exactly the same thing and end up with vastly different results.

I've tried to explain this, but still I'm asked, "What can we do to help birth mothers?"

I'm expected to have some exclusive insight as a birth mother. But all I can think of is how right after placement, there was almost no help on earth for me - not that there was none offered, but that nothing worked. The only thing that made me happy was seeing my baby girl and how well she was doing. I lived for her and for those moments. Other than that, there was too much going on to be helped by any single entity or program. I had too many different issues.

That's the real gist of it, isn't it? There are always too many things going on in a birth mother's life. We can talk all we want about how there ought to be support and programs to help women who have just placed a child for adoption deal with that issue. And I'm not saying those things aren't important. But what we're forgetting is that so often, an unplanned pregnancy isn't the overarching problem. It's a symptom. When a woman is facing an unplanned pregnancy in the kind of situation where she's considering and choosing adoption, the pregnancy isn't her problem. If you want to help a birth mom, you have to realize that.

Not that there's ever one single underlying issue. There are dozens. Low self-esteem, co-dependence, abuse, depression, anxiety, daddy issues … sometimes it's a combination. But part of what makes placement so gut-wrenching is that you've got the grief of placing a child layered on top of these other issues that were never treated. In my personal experience, if you want to help a birth mom, you have to help restore her sense of self-worth. 

I'm not saying that every single birth mom has made horrible life choices or gotten herself into a bad situation. But the vast majority of those I have met (and I include myself in this number) ended up pregnant because a lot of other things were going on. My pregnancy was a symptom of a much larger problem.

I've always hated the term "crisis pregnancy" because it sounds like some sort of emergency or disaster. My pregnancy wasn't like that. The fact is that it saved my life. I was self-destructing spectacularly before I got pregnant. Roo saved my life. If I hadn't gotten pregnant, there would have been a crisis situation. If you want to help a birth mother, don't look at her pregnancy as a crisis. Look at it as an opportunity to make positive changes in her life.

So, adoption professionals, here's my advice to you. If you want to help a birth mother, stop looking at her as a birth mother. Look at her as a person. She had problems before placement and she's going to have them after. There is no one-size-fits-all help for her. Don't put her in a box. You can do better than that. She deserves better than that.

What's Your Excuse?

Oh, Internet. I can't leave you alone for one minute, can I?

I went to New York City last weekend and when I got back, everyone online was raising a stink about a photograph.

I'm not going to post it here because reasons, but if you have spent any time on a computer in the past week you have probably seen it. It's a photograph of a mother with her three small boys. The mother is wearing a body-baring sports bra and booty shorts, so we can admire her impeccable abs. The caption at the top of the photo reads "What's your excuse?"

"What's my excuse for what?" I thought, because I enjoy being deliberately obtuse. But obviously, this woman is asking what my excuse is for not having a body like hers.

There are a lot of things I'd like to say to the world about pregnancy and childbirth and a woman's body. But Beauty Redefined says it better than I could, so I'll let you go there. The world isn't very kind to women who don't bounce back from a pregnancy with the speed and precision of a celebrity. You know what makes it even worse? Not having a baby to show for it.

I think that even though society has these expectations of new mothers, we're willing to make allowances for a woman if she's pushing a newborn around in a stroller. "Her midsection is doughy," Society says, "but she did have a baby a few months ago." When I went to the store with Roo, my baby belly was excused. I had proof that there was a purpose to how I looked.

After placement? I was just another fat girl. No one could tell that my body had done something amazing in growing a human from scratch. No one could tell that I emotionally gutted myself to give that tiny human a wonderful life. And it didn't matter - in the eyes of the world, I wasn't a birth mother or a woman or a child of God. I was just fat.

I don't like that word, by the way. Fat. I don't like the way it's defined today and I don't like the way that it's used. My sister-in-law doesn't allow her children to say it. They're allowed to speak in terms of healthy and less healthy, but never fat, and they understand that you can't tell if someone is healthy just by looking at them.

I've struggled with my weight and with disordered eating for 2/3 of my life. When I was 19 years old, I finally got skinny. I had flat abs and slim legs and I fit the societal definition of health because I could wear a certain jeans size. It's worth noting that at that point in time I still wanted to lose 10 pounds, because according to the Body Mass Index I was overweight. But, hey, I was skinny - my body looked a lot like What's Your Excuse Lady's, right down to the washboard abs, so I must have been fit, right?

Wrong. I had hypertension, my cholesterol and triglycerides were atrocious, I was sleeping 3-4 hours a night, I was a mental health disaster, and I got winded if I tried to run from the front door to the sidewalk. My physical appearance gave the impression of health, but I was as unhealthy as it was possible to be without a fatal disease.

I looked good, and I was constantly given compliments on my appearance. But my looks didn't tell the whole story.

What's Your Excuse Lady is probably much more physically fit than I was at my thinnest. Or, you know, maybe she isn't. Because all I know about her is that she looks fit. What's Your Excuse Lady might find my body repulsive, and wonder why it looks this way. I'm single and childless - why am I not working out an hour each day?

For the record, here are my abs as of three weeks ago:

Please note the myriad stretch marks. I am very proud of them. Roo gave them to me. When I see them, I think of her and how much I love her. You may also notice a few odd little horizontal white scars. Those are from the surgery to remove my gallbladder. Because when I was skinny and by all appearances healthy, I had gallstones. (When my gallbladder was inspected post-surgery, they lost count at 15 gallstones.)

These are my abs, and I am, at the age of 30 years minus a week, the healthiest I have ever been in my life. I probably can't convince you with the picture above, but it's true. I can do 10 pushups with perfect form. I can hold a full squat for a solid minute. I can do a 20-minute ab workout without a struggle. I can run - not super fast, but I can do it. My cholesterol is on the low end of normal. My triglycerides are perfect. My blood pressure? 93/50. I am happy and mentally healthy and, by the way, I weigh 155 pounds.

So, what's my excuse?

My excuse is that I think there are at least 600 things in this world that are more important than flat abs. My excuse is that "have a perfect body" isn't anywhere on my list of priorities - health, yes, "hot," no. My excuse is that I am so much more than what I look like. My excuse is that I would rather live a full and interesting life and have a doughy belly than spend 365 hours a year at the gym. My excuse is that I have value and worth beyond my physical appearance.

My excuse is that I am capable of doing things, not just being being looked at. My excuse is that I am strong, and strong doesn't have a single look, nor should it, nor should we expect it to. My excuse is that I earned this stomach, stretch marks and scars and all, and I love it. My excuse is that I am happy with who I am, regardless of the fact that no one covets my abs.

My excuse is a precious, perfectly imperfect little four-year-old girl named Roo who is going to take her cues about health and worth and womanhood from the influential women in her life. She is blessed with an intelligent, clever, and media-savvy mother to guide her, and I am so glad! I can't talk M up enough. If I ever grow up I want to be just like her.

I don't know how big of an influence I will end up having on Roo and the woman that she becomes, but I refuse to take any risks. I refuse to sacrifice any part of myself at the altar of "hot," because I don't want Roo to think it's something I place any value on.

I know that her parents will teach her well, as they already have. But if she ever looks to me as an example or a role model or even just as a genetic roadmap, I want her to see a woman whose imperfections give her strength. I want her to see a woman who is more concerned with making the world beautiful than she is with making herself beautiful.

My excuse is that I don't want the person I love most in the world to ever have to feel she needs to make excuses for the way that she looks. She is more than her body. She is precious to me because of who she is, not because of her looks.

I have made a lot of excuses today, but you know what? I don't need them. There are only a handful of things you can tell about me by looking at me, and none of them are important.

The Wrong Question

I have been the worst blogger this year. I remember when I used to have time and energy and ideas for blogging and anymore I'm just tired. I love my job - well, parts of my job - but I am not now nor will I ever be a morning person. Getting up at 6:30 isn't particularly fun in the summer, but it's worse in the winter when it's cold (I hate the cold) and the sun hasn't even bothered to rise yet. I don't think I should have to get up before the sun. It's much bigger and much more important than I am. And then the lazy good-for-nothing sun can't even wait for me to get home from work before disappearing again. The winter feels dark and cold and endless and when people come to the circulation desk and mention that it's warmed up outside, I want to grab them by the shirt collar and beg, "Please, tell me what the sun feels like!"

I am not now nor will I ever be a winter person.

I digress.

If you liked A Series of Unfortunate Events, you will probably like the newest series of books by Lemony Snicket, which is called All the Wrong Questions. I don't always read juvenile fiction, but I've had a short attention span lately and 272 pages sounded just about right. Anyway. I had not planned on mentioning children's books on this blog, but this evening I heard a young woman talk about single parenting and adoption, and I thought, she is asking all the wrong questions.

 Let me begin by saying that I respect the choice so many women make to single parent. It wasn't for me, and it wasn't for Roo, but I can't make that decision or that call for anyone else. I can't advocate adoption in every single situation because I don't think it's for everyone. I don't want to step on the toes of any single mothers. I do want to say that it's not something I'd choose.

I'm going to interrupt myself for a moment to address a comment I got on my last post. I'd reference it more specifically but my computer is being dumb so I'll paraphrase. The commenter, a single mother, urged me not to deny myself the pleasure of motherhood just because I'm single. I totally get where she's coming from, and having parented Roo for the time that I did, I know that being a mom is pretty rad. But I would much rather deny myself motherhood than I would deny any children of mine a father simply because I want to be a mom. You are of course free to disagree with me, but that's a decision I've made and I'm sticking with it.

I had never before met the single mother I heard from today and I don't know if I'll see her again. I respect the decision she made for herself and her baby. I don't know why she made the decision she did and I don't need to. It's none of my business. Someone asked her if she ever thought about adoption, and her answer is where the title of this post comes from.

"I do wonder, what would my life be like if I had placed him? Because [single parenting] is so hard."

Sometimes someone's words sort of float around in my brain for a while before I can formulate a response. This was not one of those times. I knew almost instantly what I wanted to say to her, and I had to bite the insides of my lips to keep my mouth closed. It would have been extremely rude for me to say, "Pardon me, but as far as adoption is concerned, you are asking the wrong question." So I was polite and said nothing.

The right question is, "What would my son's life be like if I had placed him?" And the answer consists of every reason I placed Roo for adoption.

I asked myself the wrong question for my entire pregnancy and the first seven weeks of Roo's life. When I considered my own future, I could never even entertain the idea of adoption. I would be sad and empty and broken. I'd have nothing. It took me a while to scrape up the nerve to ask the right question - what would Roo's life be like? - and when I did I had my answer. 

Adoption is the only truly selfless thing I've done in my life. But it was selfless. I made the choice I did because I knew what adoption would do for Roo, and I loved her too much to keep that future from her.

It hurts my heart a little when I hear women talking about adoption in terms of what it can do for them and how it will affect their lives. I think it gives birth mothers a bad name. We're not all like that. Some women might ask the wrong question and place for the wrong reason (or not place at all, for the wrong reason, and parenthetically I do believe there are plenty of good reasons for not placing). But I know plenty of pretty amazing women who asked the right question and placed for the right reason.

 Adoption isn't for everyone. Single parenting isn't for everyone. But I think that the question, "What will my child's life be like?" is a question for everyone, and it should be asked early and often.

Openness and Contracts

My dad was almost never sick, but when he was in his late twenties, he was sidelined by a bout of pneumonia. If I had been allowed to choose what I have in common with my father, pneumonia would not have been on my list.

A few weeks ago I thought I had the flu, which depressed me because I have never had the flu, and I didn't want to break my 28-year streak. The urgent care doctor told me that he didn't think it was the flu, because his office gets a memo from Maricopa County any time there's an outbreak of something like that. I wanted to tell him that I get those memos, too, because I actually work for Maricopa County, but I was having trouble breathing. The doctor suggested a chest x-ray (I can cross that off my bucket list), and forty minutes later (I apparently wasn't suffering enough for them to hurry) I had something new in common with my dad. There was a colony of intrepid little pneumoniae in my left lung. But I am much better now, and on the bright side, I managed to lose 4% of my body weight in a week. Achievement unlocked! I bought new jeans to celebrate.

And that concludes The Happiest Sad's version of What I Did for My Summer Vacation (the abridged version, anyway. The full version includes a lot of Doctor Who). Back to business. And by "business," I mean, "expressing an opinion that is going to make me a handful of angry enemies." It's been a while since I've done that, hasn't it? I think it's time.

A few days ago, the Salt Lake Tribune ran an article about open adoption. Specifically, the article addressed the idea of a legally enforceable openness contract between the birth parents and the adoptive parents. It's an interesting read, although in typical internet fashion, most of the comments will make you weep for humanity.

Many of the people I colloquially refer to as my "adoption peeps" have taken to blogs and Facebook to opine. They're making a lot of good points. But I wouldn't be me if I didn't have my own little opinion about things. So here's what I think about this issue as it pertains to me.*

The argument on the birth mom side makes sense: an openness contract gives a birth mom peace of mind. It also gives adoptive couples a push to be completely honest about how much openness they're comfortable with in an adoption, which can save a birth mom from the heartbreak of an "open" adoption that suddenly closes. Such an agreement would be periodically re-evaluated to suit the changing needs of all sides of the adoption triad.

I understand that, I really do. And I don't have a problem with an enforceable openness contract if both the birth parents and the adoptive parents want it. But I think such an agreement should be optional, not mandatory, and I would not have taken that option had it been presented to me.

I want to make it abundantly clear that this is just my opinion about my individual situation. There are likely countless adoptions where an openness contract would have been beneficial. Mine just isn't one of them, and I want to explain why. 

I realize I'm not the best person to talk about the problems that can arise in an open adoption, because although my relationship with P and M has been imperfect, we've been able to work through the problems that have come come up. I am acutely aware that the openness I've got is what many would consider a best-case scenario. Our level of openness has changed from time to time, but there has always been communication and love and respect. I know that there are plenty of birth moms who placed with couples that later reneged on the openness they agreed to at placement. I've never felt their particular pain, and I am grateful that I've never had to. I've never been there. I can see where a contract would have benefited them. But I don't think it would have benefited me.

In my case, an enforceable openness contract would have made me suspicious of any contact I got from P and M. The openness I have now means the whole world to me, because it comes from love rather than legal obligation. If there were a contract, I would always wonder - did I get a picture and an update because P and M wanted me to have it, or because they felt like they had to give it to me? At the time that I placed, part of me - the part of me that never got over being bullied in grade school - was always slightly suspicious of people who regarded me with any affection. I think that if my openness were a matter of legality, I would feel like a burden to P and M. I would never quite have trusted that they loved me, or that they really wanted an open adoption. I would be grateful for contractual openness, but I would worry that it wasn't freely given.

Relationships are about people, not paper. I would have been uncomfortable with a piece of paper dictating the terms of one of the most important relationships in my life. Part of being an adult is learning to work through problems rather than hiding behind a legal document. (I refer to adoptive couples as well as birth moms. I know of at least as many immature adoptive couples as I do immature birth moms.)

But (I can hear you saying) what about couples who promise openness and then disappear, leaving a birth mom heartbroken? It happens. Shouldn't there be some kind of legal safeguard for the sake of the birth mom?

I'm going to say no, and despise me if you will (I can take it). Because adoption isn't about the birth mom. The choice I made to place Roo for adoption was the first decision I ever made in my life that had absolutely nothing to do with me. It had everything to do with her. I placed with the hope of an open adoption, but I also placed knowing that openness wasn't guaranteed and that it might not be forever. I had to be okay with that.

I reminded myself of this dozens of times in the two weeks between meeting P and M and placing Roo, and I am glad I did. I had to know that I was making the right choice. If I had faltered at the thought of a closed adoption, I think I'd always wonder if I really, truly made the right choice for Roo. But each time I thought, they could close the adoption at any time, my next thought was and if they do I will learn to live with it, because this is the right choice for Roo.

My conviction had to be about what Roo was going to get out of adoption, not about what I would get from it. My choice for her wasn't open adoption. It was simply adoption. Openness was a happy by-product, not the end goal.

The thing is, I trust P and M to make choices for Roo that are in her best interest. If I didn't trust them to do that, I wouldn't have trusted them enough to place her with them. I will admit that in the beginning, openness was very much about me and my needs. I feel kind of bad about that in retrospect. The most important person in Roo's adoption is Roo. Every decision about openness that is made should be made in her best interest.

The Tribune article about openness contracts says:

"In Utah, courts have ruled that adoptive parents can [close an adoption] because after the adoption is finalized, the adoptive parents are the sole and absolute judges of what’s in the best interest of the adoptee."

Adoptive parents are real parents. I don't use modifiers when I talk about P and M. They're simply her mom and dad. Roo's welfare is completely up to them. They are the sole and absolute judges of what's best for her, and that's how it should be. They know her a lot better than I do. If there ever came a time when openness wasn't good for Roo, I would expect them to close the adoption, because Roo comes first. I'm sure I'd be wrecked for a while if they closed things, but I trust them completely, and I trust that if they closed things, it would be because it was best for Roo, and that they would communicate that to me with love and respect. I would do my best to weather that storm. I've been through worse.

But that's just me with my happy little open adoption. I reckon if Roo's adoption had closed abruptly and without reason, I'd be singing a different tune. (But, trust me, you don't want to hear me sing any kind of tune.) I think an openness contract should absolutely be offered as an option. But I wouldn't have wanted one, and I wouldn't take one now.

I do think the idea of a legally enforceable openness contract has merit. But I also don't think it's for everyone. Adoption isn't for everyone. It's a choice that some people make. I think that openness should also be a choice. 

I recognize that I'm probably oversimplifying a lot. I'm in a really good place with adoption right now precisely because of the openness I've had. It's easy enough for me to say that I'd have gotten to this point even with a closed adoption, but I don't know for sure.

So let me say this about that: I think that couples who want to adopt should think long and hard about what they're really willing to do as far as openness, and they need to make this decision before a child is placed with them. I think that a verbal agreement should be honored, because that's part of being a compassionate human being. If a couple agrees to a certain level of openness and they realize after placement that it's not working for them, they should have the decency and maturity to discuss it with the birth mom like grown-ups instead of cutting her off without a word.

If a couple needs a legally enforceable agreement to tell them to be decent and kind and respectful to the woman who gave birth to their child and then broke her own heart to give that child the best life possible, open adoption or no, then they have no business adopting.




*Me, not you. You (whoever you are) have a different adoption situation than I do, so your opinion will vary and rightly so. I'm not going to presume how to tell you to think or feel about this. I won't judge you for whatever opinion you have about this and I ask that you extend me the same courtesy.

Birth Mother's Day

I didn't know this until a few years ago, but the day before Mother's Day is Birth Mother's Day. I'm guessing Hallmark is unaware of the potential marketing implications inherent in such a holiday, because I have never seen a Birth Mother's Day card in a store display.

I think I've probably blogged before about Birth Mother's Day. The risk in having a blog with such a narrow focus is that I'm bound to repeat myself every so often. So please forgive me if this post feels redundant. But I keep hearing more and more about Birth Mother's Day, and I feel the need to opine.

I don't celebrate Birth Mother's Day.

It's not because of any feelings of sadness or bitterness or unresolved issues surrounding placement. It's not because the more time that passes, the less connected I feel to the adoption world. It's not because of any kind of modesty on my part.

I don't celebrate Birth Mother's Day because I don't need to. You know what holiday I do celebrate? Mother's Day.

I am not a mother in the traditional sense of the word. I am not parenting a child. No one calls me "mom" and when people ask me if I have any children, I respond with a carefully crafted "None of my own."

But my current lack of maternity doesn't change a few basic facts, and those facts are all reason enough in my mind to celebrate Mother's Day. Fact 1: I conceived* and carried and delivered a baby. I celebrated my first Mother's Day three years ago a few months before Roo was born, because the tiny feet digging into my ribcage (and sometimes my kidneys) meant I was already a mom. I was, at that time, only a mother in the biological sense of the word, but that was enough for me.

Every birth mother was a mother plain and simple before she signed paperwork.

Fact 2: For the nine weeks between Roo's birth and the day I placed her, I was her mother. I'm not her mother anymore, but that doesn't take away the weeks in which I was. I celebrate Mother's Day in part because of those precious months I spent loving and caring for the baby that was mine. I'm not a mother, but I was a mother. I always will have been a mother. Nothing can erase that.

Fact 3: I am not Roo's mama, but I still have a mother's love for her, and I always will. I think anyone with a mother's love for a child should celebrate Mother's Day.

I appreciate the thought of Birth Mother's Day. But I don't need it. I don't need a separate holiday that indirectly suggests I'm not celebrating Mother's Day because I chose adoption. The choice I made to place Roo was made as her mother. I can't separate my love for Roo like that. I celebrate Mother's Day as a former mother, as a birth mother, and as a woman with a mother's love in her heart.

I will not be offended in the least if you wish me a happy Birth Mother's Day. I'll be happy you thought of me, because even though I celebrate Mother's Day I know most people won't think of me on that day. I love hearing from adoption friends on Birth Mother's Day. Roo's parents have been so good to let me know they're thinking of me on past Birth Mother's Days (they are awesome like that) and it means the world to me. But please know that my heart doesn't need a different day.

I'll be celebrating on Sunday.



*For the record, I think just the first of those qualifies for motherhood. A miscarriage or stillbirth doesn't take away the hope and excitement and love that a woman felt for the child she carried. She's still a mother in my book.

Right

I haven't ranted in a while. I think it's time :)

I want to state at the outset that this a really stupid, ridiculous thing to be bothered by. I am acutely aware of that. In the grand scheme of things, this matters very little if at all. But I'm going to complain anyway, because I'm Jill, and that's what I do.

In the past 3 years I have heard a lot of opinions about adoption and parenting and the choice that I made. The things that I hear tend to fall into three categories. There are the nice, appropriate comments that people make; there are the stupid, inappropriate things comments that people make; and there are the ostensibly nice comments that people make that seem nice and that come from a good place but that actually kind of bug me, especially when I think a lot about them. (I know this is going to be kind of a shock, but I am the sort of person who overthinks things.)

Last week I heard something from the third category. It's something I've heard before and it's always bothered me a smidge, but I tended to put it in the second category based on the people who said it. But this time it was said by someone I love and respect, and I think that's why it bothered me.

I was telling her about how proud I am of the choice I made, and how happy I am with it. And she said to me, “Well, of course you're proud. You did the right thing.”

I know that I did the right thing. If I hadn't been one million percent sure adoption was the right thing, I wouldn't have done it. When I talk about adoption, I often say the words, “I know I did the right thing for Roo.” So why does it bug me when someone agrees with me?

It bothers me because it's a judgment. It's a judgment of my behavior by someone who has no stake in the choice or the consequences; someone who has no right to choose or to judge my situation. I know that I did the right thing. But it's not for anyone else to tell me I chose right. Because it was my choice to make. “Right” was my judgment call.

Adoption was the right choice for Roo. I know that. But I feel like when people tell me, “You did the right thing,” they're really telling me that they judge women who don't choose adoption. If my choice was right, not placing must be wrong. They're telling me, “If you hadn't placed Roo, I would think you made a poor choice.”

But you know what? I don't think that adoption is just this big Band-Aid that covers every situation and fits every person. I may have thought so before I got pregnant, but I sure as heck don't think so now. It's so easy to look at a situation from the outside and think that adoption is obviously the best choice. But it doesn't matter if you think it's the right choice. What matters is the opinion of the one doing the choosing.

When I was pregnant, pretty much every person I talked to (including my family) told me that adoption was the right choice and that parenting would be a mistake. It was pretty awkward when I parented, because I knew that no one thought I was doing what was right; they felt I had made the wrong choice. Whether my choice was right or wrong isn't the issue here. The issue is that everyone else thought it was for them to decide what was right for my baby.

I know that people mean well. I figure that when people tell me I made the right choice they think they're complimenting me. But there are so many other words that they could use – brave, selfless, mature, heroic, incredible. I don't feel super comfortable with any of those except maybe “selfless.” I mean, it's not like I pulled a family of five out of a burning building. But “right” … it's beyond uncomfortable. It raises my hackles and puts me in a defensive position.

I know I chose right. And I want you to know that I know I chose right. But I don't want you to decide that I chose right. Does that make sense?

I didn't say any of this to my friend. I'm hoping that her conviction that I chose right grew out of seeing my own conviction in my choice. I'm hoping that she has seen for herself why I know my choice was right. It would hurt my heart if she thought it was her place to decide whether I did the right thing. It's no one's place but mine.

Enough

I try to avoid a lot of the adoption-debate drama on the internet. I don't make a habit of reading blogs that are angry and use words like “always” and “never” and whose authors tear apart people who disagree with them.

I also try to avoid being the sort of person who stirs the pot. I don't think the pot needs stirring, and even if it did, I don't think that's my job. I don't write this blog to educate the world or to convince anyone of anything. I get woefully unfocused at times but I really do want this blog to be for Roo. I want her to be able to read it when she's older and to understand things.

But it's impossible to avoid meanies all the time, and I have read my share of anti-adoption propaganda written by self-described first mothers. One thing that seems to come up a lot on this sort of blog is the word “enough.” Apparently many disenfranchised first mothers were told by adoption agencies that they weren't good enough or old enough or rich enough or whatever enough to parent their children. They were ostensibly guilted into placement. This is wrong on so many levels!

I am not going to get into that today. But I do want to address this idea of “enough” and how it fits in with placing Roo.

I have been told by those who disagree with my idea of an adoption that my agency lied to me, that I am all my baby needed, that I am good enough and smart enough and doggone it people like me. But my agency, as it happens, never once told me I wasn't good enough to parent Roo. They never said that she deserved better than me. It never got personal in that way.

I was Roo's mother for nine weeks. I know that I was enough. I know that I was a good mother, that I took the very best care of her, that I could do it – no matter what, I could find a way to provide for her. But none of those things were factors in my choice. I didn't place her because I thought I was a bad mother or that I couldn't do it or that I couldn't take care of her. None of those things made my decision for me.

I don't believe for a second that Roo deserved better than me, because I was certainly enough.

I didn't place her because I wasn't enough. I placed her because I couldn't give her enough. Do you see the difference? It's not that she deserved better than me. It's that she deserved better than I could give her. The former is about me. The latter is about her.

I was a good mother. I took excellent care of my tiny girl. And I love her so much! Nothing in the world puts a smile on my face faster than Roo. I love her so much that I gave her the things I knew she deserved – an eternal family; a stable, happy home; parents who are utterly devoted to each other. (Please note that none of those things have to do with wealth.)

I couldn't give those things to her as her mother. So I gave them to her by giving her parents who could.

I was enough. I am still enough! But adoption wasn't about me. I'm glad that I knew that then and that I know it now. I am grateful that no one tried to convince me that placement was an admission of my failure as a mother. What an awful thing to live with! I'm glad that's not my burden to bear (I have enough, thank you).

I am sorry that there are some birth mothers out there who are burdened with that idea. But I am also sorry that some of them want to convince expectant mothers that they needn't even consider adoption because “you are enough!” It's not about being enough or having enough. It's about giving enough, and it's not personal. Adoption is no failure, it's not about giving up. It's about giving more.

Adoption wasn't about my lack; it was about her gain. I placed Roo because I was enough – mature enough, considerate enough, loving enough. I was enough – I am enough – and because of that, Roo has enough.

And that's enough about that.

Out

I outed myself at church* a few weeks ago.

I'd been feeling this itch for weeks that I needed to speak up about adoption in my ward. I'd let several opportunities pass by because I didn't know how people would take what I had to say. Finally, the first Sunday of the month, I got up to share my testimony. Normally when I get up, I have an idea of what I want to say. If I don't focus my thoughts ahead of time, I end up tripping on my words and stuttering and it's pretty thoroughly embarrassing. But that day, all I could think was, I need to get up. I need to speak.

I feel like someone in the congregation needed to know that I'm a birth mom. I don't know who and I don't know why, but now they know. I don't remember everything I said, but I know that I talked about how much God loves us, and how our greatest heartaches can bring us our greatest blessings, and then the words flew out of my mouth - "Two years ago I placed a child for adoption."

You want people to sit up and take notice? Announce to a group of ostensibly abstinent people, a group to which you belong, that you once got into a little bit of trouble. One girl actually did literally sit up. I had to smother a laugh.

I like to think that I managed a decent segue from my blurt back into God's love, but I don't remember. All I know is that it's out, and I'm out, and my goodness, but it's a relief! I wish I'd said something sooner. It wasn't as scary as I thought.

Here's the thing - I'm not ashamed of being a birth mom. I think that having Roo and placing her are the absolute best things I've ever done and that I'll ever do. I am proud of the choice I made, and I am ridiculously proud of my little girl.

Keeping silent about my story - not speaking up when I've wanted to in the past - feels like an act motivated by shame, and that's not how I feel. I mean, I do try to choose my words carefully, and I certainly don't introduce myself to people by telling them I'm a birth mother. My adoption story, mine and Roo's, is a precious burden - it's the most sacred thing I have ever been a part of, and I want to do it justice, to explain things the right way when it feels like the proper course of action. But whatever my reasons for keeping things to myself, my silence can be interpreted as shame.

I'm done letting people think I'm ashamed of these things that I've done. If people decide to take my story wrong, to focus on my mistakes instead of the good, then that's their choice. But they're not going to misunderstand my love for Roo or the choice that I made. I am speaking up because I love her.



*Some of the words in this post might be confusing to my readers unfamiliar with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. So I've included relevant links in a few words to help explain what I'm talking about. Move the mouse around to find them :)

Up and Away

First of all, I want to thank the awesome peeps who commented on my last post. I got a lot of really good feedback, and I feel like slightly less of a brat than I did before. I'm going to try to be more patient ... and also more direct.

And now for something completely different. (Happy birthday, Monty Python!)

I think I mentioned a few weeks ago that I've been feeling the urge to tell more people about my being a birth mother. I'm not sure why, but the itch is there. It's a little bit annoying, to be honest. I mean, I don't think I will ever be so blasé about adoption as to throw it out there when I first meet someone. When someone says, "Tell me about yourself," I never say, "Well, for openers, I'm a birth mother." My experience with adoption was and is much too significant, much too important to be mentioned in the same breath as an introduction.

But when it feels right, I've been speaking up more and more. There's always this brief moment of panic where I wonder, what will they think of me? But more often than not, the reaction I get is, "Wow!"

I don't know if it's because people are genuinely impressed or because they don't know what else to say. I'm content to believe that it's the former.

Still, every now and then, I'll hear that phrase so loathed by every birth mother of my acquaintance: "I could never do that." It doesn't matter how the person means it, it's still cringe-inducing. But you know what makes it worse? When people specify what "that" is - "Oh, I could never give my baby away."

You know what? I could never give my baby away, either.

I promise I'm not being deliberately obtuse. I know what people mean when they say "give up" or "give away." But I didn't give Roo up, or away. I placed her. I will very nearly always correct someone who says "give up" or "give away." I don't even think about it most of the time. If it's a situation where someone else is talking and I'm supposed to be listening, I'll catch myself interrupting with "placed" every time the other person says "gave up." I can't help it.

Usually when I correct people, they'll brush my correction aside. "Same thing," they'll say. But ladies and gents, it is absolutely NOT the same thing. There is a difference between placing, giving up and giving away, and I can tell you right now that only one of them applies to adoption as I've experienced it.

In case you weren't aware, I like words. I like learning them and what they mean and I like using them correctly. I adored semantics before I even knew what that particular word meant. Can we talk about words here for a minute?

Even before I ever thought about adoption, the word "placed" always brought to mind care and deliberation - it's a verb one would apply to the action taken on something that is precious and important. I might drop my purse, I might set down a book, but something of value, a piece of fine china, for instance, is carefully placed on the table or in a cabinet. I toss my mail on the counter, but I place my jewelry on my nightstand. When I place something, I don't let go prematurely. I make sure that it's just where I want it before I loosen my grip - I make sure my target is stable. I slide my water pitcher into the refrigerator, but I place my full glass of water on the table. I take care. Placement is always done deliberately. When I care about an object, I don't let it go. I place it.

"Gave up," on the other hand, suggests something that should be the object of less care. People give up things that are bad for them - their vices. You might give up smoking. You might give up sugar for Lent. You might give up drinking soda. There are other uses for "gave up" though. People will give up on a sports team that isn't going to win (maybe next year, Dodgers). If something is too hard, what do you do? You give up. You quit. Giving up is quitting. I don't know about anyone else, but I sure didn't choose adoption because I wanted to quit being a mother. "Gave up" is a poor, mean way to describe the impossible choice a birthmother makes. Saying a birthmother "gave up" her child makes it sound like she was a drug user who couldn't kick the habit, or a selfish person who didn't want to bother with parenting.

I didn't give up my baby. You know what else? I sure as heck didn't give her away.

Have you ever wandered through the cosmetics section of a department store? There are signs everywhere for free lip gloss, bonus eyeshadow compacts and miniature bottles of perfume that can be yours with a purchase of $40 or more. Do you know what those little freebies are? They're giveaways. The samples of medicine or cereal or granola bars that come packaged with your Sunday paper? (I don't know if they do those other places, but in Phoenix sometimes you get NyQuil or Frosted Flakes with your newspaper.) Those are giveaways, too. Giveaways are cheap. They cost the giver either very little or nothing at all. Of course, you usually have to pay for those one way or another - your $40 purchase, or a newspaper subscription. If a giveaway is really free, it's usually given in the hopes that it will entice you to spend money - the giver stands to gain from his or her generosity.

That doesn't sound much like adoption to me, either.

But, hey, I'm talking about giveaways as a single word. I've forgotten semantics. What people have said is that I gave my baby away. Really? Gave away? Well, if I ever decide to replace my couch, I'll give away this one. I won't sell it, because it's not really worth anything. I'll put an ad on Craigslist and give my couch to the first person to contact me. People give things away because the things are no longer wanted, no longer needed, and have no value. If it's worth something, you sell it, you don't give it away.

Place, give up, give away. Which one of these three sounds the most appropriate given what you know of adoption from my blog? I love my little Roo. I always will. I wanted her. I needed her. She has infinite worth. She is dear and precious and very much loved. Because I love her more than I ever thought one person could love another person, I placed her. I took deliberate care. I didn't give her up or away, and I never, ever could, not in a million years.

So, please, don't tell me that either of those is the "same thing" as placement. They are worlds apart. I know which one I did and why. If I correct you, it's because I want you to know too.

In Which Jill Feels the Need to Disagree

(or: I Hope You Like the Word "Mistake" Because I'm Going to Use it a Lot in This Post)

There's a birth mom blog out there that I read every now and then. I know some people who love this blog but I'm not one of them. I don't mean that in the sense that there's anything wrong with this blog or the woman who writes it, because it definitely fills a need. It's just not a good fit for me.

The blog author has a number of opinions I don't share. Which is fine! There are those who need and appreciate her perspective. I just don't happen to be one of them. But I do read now and then because the psych-major part of me finds it terribly fascinating how two women can experience the same thing (placement) in such different ways, and come away from it having learned different things and with such different perspectives.

Anyway.

I've never felt the need to comment before - well, maybe once, but when I was about to, I saw that someone else had commented with the sentiment I was going to express (and they put it better than I could have), so I left it alone. But a couple of weeks ago, I read something that rubbed me the wrong way. I want to address it here.

I don't make a habit of addressing other people's words on my own blog. Normally I would respond to something I don't agree with in the comments of what I will call, for lack of a better word, the offending post. I do my best to disagree agreeably. I did just that - I left a comment on the post in question. The blog author moderates comments, however, so my response didn't show up right away.

I waited a few days. And a few more days, and a few more. When two weeks had passed, it occurred to me that the blog author might not be willing to post a comment that disagreed with her. Maybe she felt I missed the point of the post (which is entirely possible, as I tend to be a bit thick-headed at times, and the part I took issue with wasn't the main point of the post). Maybe she thinks I'm an awful person for saying what I did. I don't know. All I know is my comment was rejected. I can live with that.

So I'm going to disagree here on my own blog, because although I may be biased I think my disagreement is important. My point is important. It may not be important to this other blogger, or to any of you, but it is important to me, and this is my blog, so here goes.

I'm not going to quote exactly, because if you didn't read the original post I don't want you to go Googling it to figure out who wrote it. I don't know this birth mom personally so I don't want to judge her or her situation and I certainly don't want to see her or her blog attacked based on my opinion. But I'm really, really bothered by some of the words she used.

The gist of what she said was that we (birth moms) owe a debt of gratitude to adoptive couples for "cleaning up our mistake."

Um, excuse me? My mistake?

I am grateful to P and M for a great many things, but not once has it ever occurred to me to see their adoption of Roo as "cleaning up my mistake." Just the thought of using that kind of language to describe it makes me angry.

I made a lot of mistakes, but Roo isn't one of them. Getting pregnant with her might not have been my intention, but I don't see it as a mistake. Conceiving her, carrying her, giving birth to her, taking care of her until I found her family, and placing her for adoption are collectively the best thing I have ever done. I love Roo more than anything. But she's not just my tummy baby or P and M's daughter. Roo is a precious, cherished, beloved daughter of God.

The one thing Roo is NOT is a mess to be cleaned up. She's not a "mess," or any kind of mistake, and I didn't place her to clean anything up, to fix anything or to hide anything. I placed her because I love her and I knew that adoption was what was best for her.

I also can't imagine that P and M saw adoption as a way of cleaning up my personal "mistake" - they barely knew me, why would they do me that kind of favor if that phrasing (cleaning up a mess) were accurate? The adoption of their little girl wasn't a dreaded inconvenience or a hassle or a personal favor. It was something they'd prayed for, something they wanted very, very badly.

I am grateful to P and M - for the great parents they are to their children, for the good examples they are to me, for their love and prayers and support and openness, for a million other things. But I've never looked at things as if I owe them something for taking a "mistake" off my hands. Nor do I think they owe me anything. I think we're square. They owe Roo unconditional love and care and support and a happy childhood and all the other things parents owe their children. I owe it to Roo to make myself a better person for having had her. But that's where any sense of debt ends.

The fact that this birthmother referred to her placed child as a mess to be cleaned up hurts my heart. Badly. She's certainly allowed to feel that way if she wants to, but I'm allowed to feel the opposite. I would hate for someone who doesn't know about adoption to stumble on a post with that kind of language and get the wrong idea about why a woman might place her child for adoption. I would hate for someone to read that and think that birthmothers see their placed children as mistakes, as things to be ashamed of, to be hidden or cleaned up.

Shame is the last thing I'll ever feel about Roo, no matter how she turns out. I am proud of her and the decision I made for her. I was recently given a new assignment in church, in a position of leadership with the women of my congregation. I mentioned this to an acquaintance of mine who is just learning about adoption, and I said, sort of jokingly, that I couldn't wait until an opportunity arose to tell the women of my ward that I had a baby. This acquaintance, C, jumped in quickly.

"Oh, you shouldn't feel like you have to tell anyone. No one needs to know," she said.

"I don't have to tell anyone," I said, "but I want to. I'm not ashamed of Roo. I like to tell people about her."

C seemed unconvinced. I am convinced. I'm not proud of a lot of the decisions I made three years ago. But having Roo isn't among them. She's nothing to be swept under the rug. She's nothing to be ashamed of or hidden.

I love Roo! She's my little friend. I think she's the most wonderful and amazing person in the world. It is precisely because I love her so much and because I think so much of her that I placed her. It had nothing to do with me or my past or my future. It was all about Roo.

"Real" - a Rant

I don't know if anyone else does this, but quite often I'll hear someone say something and it will take an hour or two for my brain to process exactly what they said. If I'm lucky, it won't be a big deal, but sometimes it's the sort of thing where I think, hours later, "This is what I should have said."

I had just such a moment this past week. A woman with whom I am becoming acquainted was talking about adoption. I don't know if she reads this blog, but I hope so, because I want her to know what I should have said on Wednesday.

I had mentioned that Roo looks like P and M. It's not particularly important to me that she looks like them, but the fact is that she does, and that's what I said. This woman - I'll call her C - said, "Isn't it funny how that happens sometimes?"

"It is," I agreed.

"I know a family who adopted kids who look just like them. You look at their family and you can't even tell which ones are their real kids."

I heard the words, but I didn't process them properly. If I had, I never would have let them slide like that. I never would have let the conversation continue from there. But I did. And I hate it. I had a prime opportunity to correct a misconception, and I didn't. I want to do it now, as I should have done it Wednesday.


C, I know what you meant to say. I know that when you said "real" you meant biological. But here's the thing - you didn't say biological. You said real. Adopted children are real children. Roo is 100% real, and 100% really P and M's daughter. She is their real child.

You're new to the adoption world, C, so I don't blame you for using incorrect language - most people do. But I want to correct it, because if you're going to be coming to my birth mom group to support your friend, if you're going to be around people who are so intimately acquainted with adoption, you're going to have to change your vocabulary.

All adopted children are real. They are real children. Being adopted doesn't mean they're not their parents' real children. Ask any parent who has adopted - their kids are their kids, all of them, no matter what.

If Roo isn't her parents' real child, what is she - Pinocchio? Psh. Roo isn't going to grow up wishing on a star that someday she'll be real. She is her parents' real child. She was from the moment they first held her. I think they would agree.

Maybe I'm belaboring the point here, but I want to make it abundantly clear. Adopted children are their parents' real children. I don't believe for a second that P and M (or any adoptive parents, for that matter) consider their children to be anything but their real kids.

Blood doesn't make a family. Love makes a family. It makes them real.

Really.

"Quick Niles, pull up the ladder, she's found our clubhouse!"

Last night I thought of that quote from the TV show Frasier. It felt appropriate, given the circumstances.

I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later. I've had this blog for nearly a year now. I should be surprised it didn't happen sooner. But it didn't happen sooner, and I was lulled into a false sense of security. I felt like my blog was one of the last safe little corners of the Internet.

But last night, it happened - the meanies found my clubhouse. And they had a lot to say. Thank goodness for comment moderation!

So far, I have published only one of the comments I got - the commenter disagreed very agreeably, which I appreciate. I have no problem with that sort of not-so-mean meanie. But the others weren't as nice. For some reason, I can't bring myself to delete their comments on my moderation page. I can't read them all the way through - I feel angry and sick halfway through - and yet I can't bring myself to delete them. I could publish then, I suppose, and leave follow-up comments trying to refute their nastiness and explain my position. But I've seen that done on other blogs, and it never works. The angrier a person is, the less likely they are to react with anything other than more anger.

I understand that. I understand the psychology of that kind of behavior, anyway. And I know that there are meanies out there (I've discussed them at length on this very blog), and that for many women, many years ago, adoption was a bad thing.

I know all that, but that doesn't mean I want any of it anywhere near my blog. There's enough anger and bile and filth out there (I'm looking at you, Ms. I'm-going-to-liberally-sprinkle-every-comment-with-the-F-word). I can't stop any of that. But I'm sure as heck not going to give it so much as a pixel on my blog. I'm not going to entertain or encourage or even try to understand that kind of rage and hatred. It has no place here. None.

The invasion of the meanies brought to the front of my mind something that's been floating around for a while now - what is the purpose of this blog?

When I started it last year, I wrote it for P and M and for Roo when she gets bigger and can read and understand. And I wrote it for me, so I'd have a record of this significant time in my life. It honestly never occurred to me that anyone else would want to read it. My mother, maybe. Close friends, if I ever made any. Family, perhaps. But I didn't write it for any of them. It wasn't their blog. It was Roo's.

My, how things have changed! I had 89 followers when I checked this morning, and thanks to Google Analytics I know that I have plenty of regular readers beyond those who follow. It's kind of amazing. And overwhelming. And sometimes creepy and weird. I've had moments of, "Who are all you people and why are you reading my blog?"

When I first started to get blog followers, I panicked. I considered making my blog private. But I also got these amazing, kind, meaningful e-mails from people who were touched by my story and who thanked me for being willing to share. So I kept my blog public.

But as time passes, and I tell more and more, I still question that decision. I've seen people on other adoption blogs gloss over parts of their stories because they (rightly) feel that the stories have almost a sacred quality, and they don't want to cheapen them or tell them to just anyone. And I think, am I doing that? Have I cheapened Roo's beautiful story by sharing too much? Do I share too much?

I think, maybe I should stop with the story parts. Maybe I should make it not about Roo at all and more about me and things after placement. Maybe I should start a new, private blog for the Roo stuff so I can keep it special, just for her. And I have, but I worry that maybe the damage, if that's the right word, has been done. I think I'll always worry that I've said too much, things I can't take back.

Blah. My brain is a jumble of this sort of thought at the moment. I wish the jumble would settle a bit so I could sift through the rubble and try to arrive at some sort of decision or conclusion. My mother told me that my blog is important, that it has helped people and changed their minds and hearts, and that Roo will appreciate it when she's older. I'm not sure what I think.

What I do know is I don't want meanies hanging around here. I'm not saying that adoption is absolutely always a wonderful thing. But this blog isn't just about any old adoption. It is about Roo's adoption, which was a wonderful thing. Call it denial or stupidity on my part if you want, but I'd rather not hear about adoptions gone wrong. I'd rather not know why the meanies are meanies. Knowing why they're angry isn't going to make me a better, happier person. It's not going to change how I feel about the adoptions closest to my heart. I'd rather just stay away.

And I'd rather they stayed away from me, too. Nothing and no one in this world will ever convince me that placing Roo wasn't the best thing I could have done for her. Nope, sorry. No talking me out of that one. And this blog is still, at heart, a blog for Roo. So there.

So consider this my official notice. I'm posting a sign outside my treehouse. No meanies allowed! I'm not going to share or spread your anger, and I'm not going to change my mind. Play nice here or find a meanie treehouse to play in.

Cold Risotto Redux

Confession time: I'm a nosy sort of person by nature. Not nosy, maybe, because that sounds disrespectful. Let's say I'm curious. I think part of it is that I'm the youngest in my family and I always felt like everyone else knew something I didn't. I still feel that way at times. I was the rare teenager who hated missing a day of school, because I was always afraid that on the day I stayed home, they'd announce something important, and I'd miss out.

I digress.

I was recently featured on the BirthMom Buds blog, which was a thrill for me. I found that, in the weeks following placement, when I was feeling down I could always find an inspiring quote or song on BirthMom Buds. Anyway. Every so often I'll click over to the post I'm in and see if anyone's commented - not because I think anyone should, necessarily, just out of curiosity. Has anyone found me comment-worthy?

There was nothing for a while and I was fine with that, because if no one had anything to say that at least meant no one had anything mean to say. But I clicked over a few minutes ago, and there was a comment. It was left by an anonymous person, of course. I've noticed that when people have unkind or unpleasant things to say on the internet they very rarely take credit for them. This person took exception to me saying that Roo was meant to be with the family she has. Anonymous said that if she was meant to be theirs, they would have conceived her.

I thought that was pretty mean. Does this person think that people with fertility problems aren't meant to be parents? Rude! Some of the best parents I know didn't conceive their children. I tried not to let it bother me, because I don't particularly care what Anonymous believes - I KNOW that God meant for Roo to be with P and M, and no amount of anonymous nay-saying will ever convince me otherwise. I tried not to let it bother me, because Anonymous went on to say that she (?) was traumatized upon being told that she was adopted. Cold risotto: served. And maybe I'd be likewise crabby if my risotto has been cold, too.

But I find myself bothered just the same. Part of it has to do with me mistakenly clicking over to the blog of one of the anti-adoption meanies I took to task here. I do wish people would label their blogrolls a bit more accurately. I expected a birth mother blog and instead I ended up on the blog of a woman who quote-unquote lost a child to adoption. And it wasn't enough for her to opine thusly. She had a few comments from people who tried to tell her that although her experience wasn't a good one, theirs had been. And this meanie called these people some of the filthiest, most vulgar names imaginable and verbally ripped them to shreds. I've read some anti-adoption stuff before, but this was the most evil and hate-filled. I felt physically ill after about thirty seconds.

You know what bothers me? It bothers me that these people have taken something like adoption - something that is, for me, an act of pure love on both sides - and turned it into something nasty and vile. I feel like it taints the proverbial waters. I feel dirty just having read such filth. I hate that I could ever be put on a blogroll with such people, grouped together with them under the nebulous heading of "first mother blogs." (A term I hate, by the way. I'm a birth mother, thankyouverymuch, none of this "first" or "natural" nonsense for me.) I hate the thought of people like that reading my blog and thinking mean, evil thoughts about me or Roo or her family. I feel sick just thinking about it.

And what breaks my heart even more is to see that these meanies are giving advice to adoptive parents who, meaning well, ask questions with the ostensible hope that their childrens' birth moms won't end up as bitter and hate-filled as the blog authors.

I read one such question and answer, and the answer made me very, very angry. So angry, in fact, that I had to stop myself from leaving a comment refuting every selfish, hurtful point made in the answer. I thought that maybe I'd have a new feature on my blog where I re-answer such questions from a sane, healthy perspective.

For example, I can't imagine that I will ever once feel hot daggers in my heart when Roo calls her mother "Mommy" even once, much less every single time for the rest of my life. Quite the opposite, at my last visit when I asked Roo where Mama was and she pointed at her smiling mama, my heart felt full.

Adoption is not an "ongoing loss" for me. P and M are not "the winner[s] in all of this." We all won - we all love Roo. I certainly don't feel like a loser. How could I? I did something amazing and it changed all of our lives for the better. Placing Roo is probably the one decision in my life so far that I will never, ever regret. The most peace I've ever felt is that moment when I traded my will for God's and accepted that Roo needed to be somewhere else.

I hate the thought of some well-intentioned, concerned adoptive mother being paranoid about talking to her child's birth mom because of the words of such angry, bitter people. I just hope that the question-askers asked the same questions of less livid birth mothers, too. I think our answers are much more reassuring and much less scary.

I've said my bit before about what I think of the Cold Risotto Susans out there, but the problem is that I can't change them, I can't shut them up, and I can't make them go away. I try to ignore them but it can be hard when they seem to come up more and more. They make me angry, and they make me sad. I just wish I knew what to do about them those times I can't ignore them.

How do you, dear readers, handle the angry Susans you run up against?

The Ugly Truth

Note: I've been sitting on this post for a while now because I wasn't sure if I really wanted to say all this once I got it out of my system by typing it out. But I'm busy here in the land of Bono, and I figured this would be a good post for y'all to chew on while I get myself situated and work out some kind of schedule. I haven't proofread it in over a month, so I can't vouch for its total quality but I do recall being mostly happy with it last time I read through it. So, here goes. No rotten fruit, please.




A preface: I’m probably going to sound like a hypocrite here. I am not always sweetness and light in my blog, and I don’t doubt that I have said unkind things or passed judgment on others. I won’t try to defend myself here – there’s no excuse for unkindness, and all I can say is that obedience is a process, and that I’m grateful for a God who allows me to repent of my mistakes. Every day when I wake up I choose what kind of person I am going to be. I only hope that it’s apparent in my writing that I am choosing to be a kinder, gentler, more mature version of myself – a truer disciple of Christ than I was the day before. I plan to take all of my own advice given below.

That said, I offer the following observations that have, of late, left me feeling unsettled.

Lately, on a number of blogs, I’ve seen a lot of nastiness and defensiveness and judgment. It’s been done with a certain self-righteous, sanctimonious attitude. “I’m just being honest,” many bloggers will say. “If you don’t like it, tough crap.”

I’m not going to argue with that. There’s nothing I can do about sentiments I disagree with. And I’m certainly not going to argue the honesty point. These bloggers are certainly being honest. But what I take issue with is the fact that nastiness and rudeness is being excused because it’s given under the guise of honesty. We are commanded to be honest in our dealings with our fellow men, certainly. But we are not commanded to be nasty, to hurt feelings, to call names, to find fault, or to assign blame. Quite the opposite, in fact – the aim of being honest is to avoid hurt feelings and nastiness and defensiveness. There’s something called tact, and something else called kindness, and I think that both can be just as important as honesty.

As a teenager, I was wisely counseled to consider the following before repeating a morsel of gossip:
1. Is it kind?
2. Is it true?
3. Is it necessary?

I think it’s worth noting that the first criterion is not honesty. It’s kindness. The truth can hurt, and in some cases can even scar the recipient. I also appreciate that the third item is necessity. I love this quote from Elder Dallin H. Oaks: “The fact that something is true is not always a justification for communicating it.” (source)

I know that I’d do well to remember that, myself! Believe me, the irony of today’s post isn’t lost on me – I’m criticizing others for being critical. I hope it’s clear that I’m not writing this for the sake of being critical. I’m writing as a concerned citizen. I don’t think people realize how damaging their words can be. Even words said sarcastically or in jest can do lasting harm. I can remember very clearly almost every cruel thing that has ever been said to me. My youngest brother made a thoughtless comment about my eating habits when I was nine years old, and I have never forgotten exactly what he said, or how I felt when he said it.

We live in a society where it’s cute and funny to be mean or sarcastic. Rudeness and cruelty masquerade as comedy in the media. Jokes are never made for the sake of humor itself but are rather made at the expense of someone else. Critical words are what constitute comedy on television, and not just in shows for grown-ups. More than once, my jaw has dropped at the subtle nastiness (again, disguised as honesty) in some of the shows my 7-year-old niece watches. Even in programs for very young children, there is a bully or a villain. Cruelty is employed as a literary device to further plot and character development. I worry about what messages my little nieces and nephews are getting from the shows they watch. I take comfort in knowing that they have good parents to teach them correct principles regardless of what is shown on TV.

I’m deviating from my main point a bit here, but as long as I am, allow me to give another quote that I love, this one from N. Eldon Tanner: “The tongue is the most dangerous, destructive, and deadly weapon available to man.” (source) The saying “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me” always puzzled me as a child. Sticks and stones gave only glancing blows. Words hurt me much worse than any physical attack. And words say as much about the speaker as they do about what’s spoken. Indulge me a moment, I’ve found another quote. John S. Tanner said, “We are judged by our words every day. Nothing reveals us so intimately as how we use our divine gift of speech. Are we mean, crude, irreverent, thoughtless, smug, self-righteous, pompous? Our tongues will tell. Our language, too, reveals much about our integrity, honesty, kindness, goodness, humility, and decency. Language reveals character.” (source)

Anyway, back to honesty.

I hope I don’t sound like I’m advocating sophistry. Honesty is vital. It is crucial, and sadly lacking in so much of the world. It is precious. I think that’s what gets me so riled up – people are abusing it, and using it to excuse poor behavior, rudeness, cruelty, and a sense of personal superiority. To that, I offer this humble plea: please don’t. If you want to rant or whine or complain or dig your claws into someone, go ahead. That’s your right; you have agency. But please, please, please don’t do so under the guise of honesty. Don’t pretend that you’re doing what you do or saying what you say because you “want to” or “need to be honest.” Because you do need to be honest! You need to be honest about your motives and your mood and your purpose and your point.

I won’t pretend to speak for anyone else, but I appreciate it when people are open about those things. I know what I’m getting into. I know to expect a little bile, a little vitriol, a little moodiness. I always feel like I’ve been assaulted when I read something that begins with “I need to be honest about something” and ends with a scathing criticism. I've tried to state outright if I'm simply ranting or complaining, and I will certainly endeavor to do so in the future as well.

So, gentle reader, be honest if you must, but leave honesty as an excuse out of it. Please?

Birth Mother's Day

Today, the day before Mother's Day, is Birth Mother's Day. I'm not sure how I feel about that. My feelings about it are a bit jumbled, but I'll try to explain anyway. If you're offended by something I have to say, please know that it's not intentional. I'm trying to express my feelings here, not hurt other people's.

First, I've never been a huge fan of Mother's Day as it is. It seems like it is manufactured to guilt people into spending a LOT of money to compensate for treating their mothers poorly the other 364 days of the year. I try to do nice things for my mom all year 'round. I have a wonderful mother. But I like to celebrate that on her birthday. She does, too. Likewise, shouldn't a couple who have adopted treat their baby's birth mom well every day they get the chance? They shouldn't wait for one day a year to have to remember her.

Mother's Day also seems to be the sort of greeting-card holiday that makes women feel inadequate. Not every woman has children. There are plenty of women who would love dearly to be mothers, but for one reason or another it hasn't happened yet. Mother's Day for them is torture. It's society's way of saying, call us when you're a REAL woman and you're actually done something, then we'll give you flowers.

I didn't really celebrate Mother's Day last year, even though I was quite heavily pregnant because, as I may have mentioned, not one person on earth was the least bit excited that I was going to have a baby. Do you know how incredibly bad that sucks? What a nasty, cruelly unnecessary slight on my sweet baby! Just because my situation wasn't ideal, didn't mean it was right to take it out on the precious little girl in my womb. She should have been celebrated; anticipated as the sweet and wonderful little miracle that she was. I'd harbored secret hopes that my mother might, perhaps get me a mommy-to-be Mother's Day card. That hell would freeze over and H would think of me on Mother's Day. That someone, somewhere who loved me would say, "You are going to be a mother soon, and I am so happy for you!"

Insult, meet injury.

Birth Mother's Day, too, is another opportunity for some people to make a big stink about their birth moms, and what amazing and wonderful women they are, and how they are beautiful and wonderful and selfless. And they will go on-line and post pictures of visits and elaborate Birth Mother's Day gifts and talk about how they are all best friends, and they do all this because they LOVE their birth moms - of course they want to buy her and make her gifts. They love her.

Does that mean that if I don't get gifts and pictures and visits for Birth Mother's Day, that Roo's parents don't love me? That's bull. I KNOW they love me. I will never, ever doubt that. They don't need to buy me gifts to thank me for placing Roo with them. They needn't thank me at all - I did it for Roo, not for them. The best way they can thank me and show me love, they already do - they are the very best parents they can be. They love Roo more than anything. They take the very best care of her. They took her to the temple. They love her. What on earth could I ask more? As far as I'm concerned, I got my Mother's Day gift on December 12th.

(I hate it when people explain their level of openness with, "Well, of course it's that way. We love each other. Why wouldn't we?" It makes it sound like if you don't have that, you're loved less. Nothing could be further from the truth.)

And then ... okay, I know I'm not Roo's mama. I know that. But I grew her and birthed her and loved her - still love her - shouldn't that count for something? Shouldn't I get to celebrate Mother's Day for that? In that way, Birth Mother's Day serves as more of a reminder of what I'm not than a celebration of what I am.

People have wished me a happy Birth Mother's Day, and I am thankful to them for thinking of me. And yet I'm a little uncomfortable with Birth Mother's Day. It was sort of created so birth moms could get some recognition for their sacrifices. So they could have a day, too. Well, I'd rather have tomorrow, if it's all the same to you, and I didn't place Roo for any kind of recognition. I don't want this special day that's all about how I placed my baby for adoption. I am so much more than that decision! I am more than a birth mom.

And yet I am a birth mom. But I like to focus on the second of those words. A birth mom is still a mom. Why can't I celebrate Mother's Day? Does choosing adoption make me less of a mother? I think that choosing adoption makes me the very best mother I could have ever been.

I'm not sure how much sense I'm making here. Some, I hope. And, again, thank you to those who have wished me a happy Birth Mother's day. I appreciate being remembered. But I think, for what it's worth, I'm going to celebrate being Roo's birth mom on my schedule. Maybe tomorrow, maybe on her birthday. Maybe on some random, arbitrary day. Maybe never. Roo is the happiest of girls and she has the best of families. I think I'd rather celebrate her; celebrate them.

Happy (early) Mother's Day to Roo's mama. I love you so much, and I am so thankful that you are Roo's mommy. She is so very blessed to be your little girl!

How On Earth Do You Choose? A (Sort-Of) Guide

Before I begin, I would like to state for the record that for me, "choosing" was a moot point. I truly believe that I did not choose Roo's family. God chose them for her, and He simply helped me to find them. I did not choose. I found. That said, it wouldn't have been very prudent of me to say, "Okay, God, I need names." I did have to sort through profiles and have criteria of some sort. As such, I offer the following.

When I decided to meet a few couples, S suggested that I make a list of questions I wanted to ask them. I couldn't think of a single one. My mother helped me to come up with a few, based on things that were important to me. And that's what counts, I think - what's important to you? It's not a stupid question if it's important to you. In my case, the things I absolutely did not want were more plentiful than things I did want. I had a number of absolute deal-breakers. I knew I did not want a couple with pets (hello, allergies), or a couple who were politically liberal, or a couple who believed in spanking as a form of discipline. And my baby's parents had to appreciate that it was just me they were getting - I didn't have a ton of information about the birth father, and he wasn't going to be part of the openness I wanted.

The following are things to consider, whether they're really important or not. If nothing else, they’ll help you to know a couple better. Some of them might seem overly personal. But my feeling is, you’re potentially trusting these people to be the parents of your child. It’s important to be thorough. And they don't have to tell you anything they don't want to, so it can't hurt to ask.

You might not care about any of these things - that's good! I think it helps to know going into it what things are and aren't important. Not all of these things mattered to me; some did, and the rest I got from other birth moms I know.

-How long have they been married?
-Why did they choose adoption? Is it something they are both excited about or is it a second-best way of having a family?
-What are their political views? Do they vote with their party or do they vote on individual issues?
-How do they feel about spanking? What is their philosophy on discipline?
-Will they encourage their sons to serve missions? What about their daughters? Who will pay for it?
-Will the child know he or she is adopted?
-What will the child know and when?
-Will she be a stay-at-home-mom? Will the baby be in daycare or will relatives babysit?
-Yes, they have recommends, but do they regularly attend the temple?
-Are they willing to be open? What does openness mean to them?
-If your baby is biracial, how do they feel about that? Are they open to adopting outside their own race? Will they make sure the baby knows about and appreciates his or her heritage?
-Do they have any pets? Are they indoor or outdoor pets?
-How do they handle stress?
-Are they close to their families – immediate and extended?
-Do they have any plans to relocate in the next 10 years? (Visits are hard when they live on the other side of the country.)
-What family traditions did they grow up with that they want to continue with their own children?
-Do they hunt or fish?
-Who does most of the household chores? How are they divided up?
-Do they engage in any high-risk activities, like 4-wheeling or extreme sports?
-Have they had any experience with adoption before?
-Do they watch R-rated movies? (You’d be surprised)
-How do they “do” Christmas?
-Are they musical? Athletic? Literary? Witty? Ourdoorsy?
-Do they have a nursery ready? How prepared are they, right now, for a baby?
-What are their church callings? Do they enjoy them?
-What did each of them study in college?
-Did either of them serve missions?
-What kind of relationships do they have with their parents?
-If the baby is a girl, will they have her ears pierced?
-Do they like to travel? Inside the USA? Outside the USA?
-Do they have family (immediate or extended) nearby?
-How do they eat – are they vegetarian? Omnivores? Vegan? Gluten-free? Sugar-free? Organic? Do they ban refined sugar and high fructose corn syrup? How do they feel about tap water? About soda?
-Do they enjoy reading? Singing? Do they plan to read or sing to their children?
-Does their home have a pool? A Jacuzzi? Stairs? A basement? A fenced yard?
-Do they hold regular FHE already?
-Do they have any habits they wouldn’t encourage in a child?

And if you want to start off with a laugh, you can always ask how they feel about child beauty pageants. I (accidentally, and much to my embarrassment) led off with that question when I met P and M, and we got along just fine :o)

On the Soapbox Again

I try not to get into really polarizing issues here, but I find abortion to be so morally reprehensible, so vile, so cruel, I have to mention it. I can't be silent.

THIS just kills me. The whole article is a tragedy, really. This poor woman had her priorities so messed up. It hurts my brain just thinking about it.

But you know that kills me the most? This line here, where she says, "I knew, even before I rang Richard to tearfully break the news, that I couldn't have our baby. I didn't see how it would be possible to combine my studies with being a mother, and there was no way I could see myself being able to give a child up for adoption."

In other words, "Adoption would be too hard, so I think I'll kill my baby instead."

I swear, when I read that last sentence, I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. What utter selfishness! What arrogance! What cruelty! If it would be that hard to give a child up for adoption, wouldn't it be even harder to have that baby aborted? I just don't understand that.

And I know that nine weeks isn't considered late-term or anything, but it still makes me want to cry. At nine weeks, there's a heartbeat. There are fingers and toes. Organs and muscles are starting to function. Taste buds are developing.

Here's an embryo at nine weeks (I found this on Google Images, and I sincerely hope I'm not breaking any copyright laws; sorry if I am!):



And this woman, this poor, misguided, selfish woman, snuffed that out, because she couldn't see herself being able to give her baby up for adoption.

Oh. Em. Gee. My blood boils. That kind of egotism just stuns me. I'm at a loss to describe it adequately. Look, I know I get a bit gloom-and-doom here sometimes. Being a birth mom is tough! It hurts. It sucks. But is it worth it? Would I do it all over again? Absolutely. I would not trade it - or Roo - for anything on earth or in heaven. My pregnancy didn't exactly come at the perfect time for me. But not once did I think, gee, this timing sucks, sorry little embryo. End of the line for you. You're dead. I certainly never saw myself being able to place my baby for adoption. On the contrary, I thought that it would ruin me; break me. But I did it anyway, because I love her.

This woman didn't want to be a mother yet, and so she had an abortion. Urgh! I hate how many people think that the solution to an unplanned pregnancy is either motherhood or abortion. How near-sighted, foolish, and selfish! There is a third option, and it is a wonderful thing. Adoption changes lives for the better - for everyone involved. It's beautiful. I'm so thankful for it!

Where's the Love?

A caveat: The following is whiny and juvenile. I wrote it a month ago and I've been sort of sitting on it. I'm in a much better place now than I was a month ago but I feel I made several valid points and I haven't posted in a few days, so I'm going to post this anyway. Feel free to disregard it.

*steps up on soapbox*

I try not to make assumptions. I really try. I like to consider myself a fairly logical person, and I almost always have a reason for what I think about something. I don't rush to judge. I collect evidence and, like Chuck Norris, I wait.

So although this may sound absurd, please keep in mind that I am not just imagining things when I say that I've come to this conclusion: other birth moms hate me.

No, seriously! They do. They absolutely do.

There are exceptions, of course. I know two or three birth moms who seem to think, for one reason or another, that I am a pretty cool person (and I love you ladies dearly). But they are in the overwhelming minority. I estimate that at least 75% of the time, when I encounter other birth moms, I'm met with cool indifference, if not outright disinterest and snobbery.

My local LDSFS office has a birth mom support group, and I've struggled to fit in there from the first meeting I attended. Two or three birth moms dominated every conversation and I struggled to get a word in edgewise. When I did manage to say a few words, one of two things would happen; either I'd get blank stares like I'd been speaking Portuguese, or someone else would immediately cut in to talk about their problems instead.

There was also this tremendous pressure to choose adoption, which I resented. Every week, the other girls wanted to know if I'd chosen a couple yet. And when I'd looked at a few, everyone critiqued my choices. When I decided I might single parent, no one in group had anything to do with me. Contact cut off, and I didn't get any phone calls or e-mail or anything. No one came to see me in the hospital. No one cared.

I started going back to group a few weeks after I placed Roo, and I hoped that since I was a birth mom now, things would be different. S had promised me that things were different. They weren't. Two or three women dominated the conversation, and I disappeared. Rarely was I asked any kind of questions about how I was doing, and no one wanted to hear about anything I'd been up to.

The last few times I went I got some weird vibes from some of the birth moms there. Two of them stopped talking and stared at me when I came in. I think we all know what that means. These women are all Facebook friends of mine, and they are all aware of my blog. No one ever comments on my blog, or my pictures of Roo, or anything I say or do. They all comment on each other's things, but most of them seem to have decided that they hate me and once again, I've been cut off.

I won't lie to you. It hurts. It hurts bad. This is the one place I'm supposed to be able to go and feel like I belong, like people can relate to me, and like I can talk about things. Instead, I haven't gone in a month, and I don't think anyone misses me.

I've reached out to birth moms on-line, too. The thing to do these days as a birth mom is to have a blog, it seems. I've perused their blogs, I've commented on multiple posts, I've even sent supportive e-mail. And I've gotten bupkis in return.

It's not like I'm communicating with them because I want attention or some kind of response or that I think I should be on everyone's blogroll. I didn't have any grand expectations of becoming best friends with any of the birth moms I encountered on-line. But doesn't it sort of seem like common courtesy to say "hi" or "thanks" or something like that?

Sometimes I wonder if I come across as a little too confident or self-aware in my blog. This is going to sound really bratty, but I can't help that I write well! It's not like I sit around trying to find big words to use. I write like I speak. And you know what? I am super insecure. I need a little reassurance sometimes. I need to feel like I belong somewhere, like I have something in common with SOMEONE else on earth besides converting oxygen into carbon dioxide.

I adore all the adoptive moms who have contacted me. I really, really do. They have given me so much comfort and strength, and I don't know what I'd do without all the nice e-mail I get. But it would be nice to get just a little word here and there from some of my fellow birth moms, too. To know that I'm doing something right, that what I've said has some deeper meaning, that it's relatable, that it's ... blah. I don't know. That I am a good person, that I have value. That I'm not just blowing hot air. That I'm worthy of the love and attention they give to each other.

I'll step off my soapbox now. It's lonely up here, and I'm lonely enough as it is.

Further Jealous Whining

I have a new niece today. I'm sure she's darling. My sister's other two children were nothing short of adorable at birth, managing to avoid that squishy newborn look. My sister sounds good - a lot more clear-headed and coherent than I did after my c-section. I'm afraid I sounded horribly awkward on the phone. I don't know what I said. I hope my congratulations sounded sincere. I am happy for her, really.

And yet, I find myself being selfish again. I find myself comparing today to the day that Roo was born. I think, it must be nice to have people just be happy for you after you've had a baby. It must be nice for people to just be excited and delighted. I got worry. I got people praying that I would decide to let someone else take my baby home from the hospital.

I hate that. I hate that almost no one was excited for me. I hate that so few people were simply, purely happy that I had a baby. I hate ... oh, I hate feeling this way. I hate that I can't just be happy. I hate being so selfish and juvenile and petty. But it's nigh impossible for me not to compare today with that day eight months ago, and find people's reactions to the latter sadly lacking. I think, even though people thought I was making a mistake, couldn't they at least have been happy that this beautiful, perfect, delightful little girl came into the world?

I love how purely and utterly happy Roo's family was and is to have her. She was nothing short of a miracle for them - desperately wanted, daily prayed for, and unconditionally loved. Roo deserves that. But I think she deserved that all along, and I wish I'd felt that for her when she was born. I'm glad to know that she was prayed for even then. I'm sure than P and M prayed daily for their baby to find them. They wanted her even before they knew about her. Of course, I did, too. I just ... I'm losing my train of thought.

I'm jealous, I think, is what it comes down to. I'm jealous at how much happier my new niece's birthday is than Roo's was. I wish that people could have put their opinions and prejudices aside and just been happy for Roo to be born, regardless of the circumstances. She deserved better. And so did I.

The Saddest Happy

My sister is expecting her third child. And when I say expecting, I mean, she's going to have a c-section in about eight hours. She's having a little girl. I'm excited for her. Really, I am.

Sort of.

Mostly I am depressed as all-get-out. I'm almost too depressed to muster up even the slightest bit of enthusiasm for my sister. This little one is something of a miracle baby, since my sister had been told previously that she wasn't going to be able to have any more children. So, I mean, it's great and all. I'm happy for her.

And sad for myself. Because I am selfish, and I wish it was me. I miss my baby Roo. I've cried buckets today. Roo is just so perfect. So pretty and sweet. I love her more than words can express. I wish she were mine. It seems so unfair that she's not.

I hate playing the "life's not fair" card. I KNOW life isn't fair. I'm not stupid. I don't expect life to be fair. But at the same time, does life not being fair mean it has to be complete and utter tripe? Does it have to be UNfair? Why can't one tiny little thing ever work out in my favor?

Roo is a perfect mix of me and H. She got the best of both of us. For some reason I thought earlier about what it would be like if H and I had stayed together. I could see clearly in my mind a family picture of the three of us, Roo in the middle, her features a dainty little amalgam of the parents on either side of her.

I wanted to smack myself for even thinking of it. For thinking, even for a second, that H and I could have ever enjoyed any sort of quaint little domesticity. For thinking so selfishly. Roo deserves so much more than to have two complete screw ups as parents.

I wish I did deserve her. I wish I was enough for her, could have been enough somehow. I wish I could believe that someday I will deserve a husband and a baby, that I will be good enough, that people will tell me I'll make a great mother instead of telling me I have no right to be a mother.

I wish it was me having a c-section tomorrow, with my husband by my side and two beautiful children at home with their grandparents. I wish I could just be happy for my sister. I should be happy for her. I AM happy for her. It's just not a very happy happy. It's a sad happy. I'm getting remarkably good at those. And just as remarkably tired of them.

I hate that all I can think of right now is the insensitive and judgmental things my sister said to me when I was pregnant. I hate that I'm counting down until her baby is nine weeks old, and that what I want badly to do is to call her up that day and say, "Now, could you even consider for a second giving your baby to someone else? Do you have the strength to do that? I did. Don't you ever dare to judge me again."

Is it awful that I've been thinking that for days? That I've been tempted to throw her words back at her? About how I was being selfish and how if I really, really thought about it, I'd see that my baby deserved better. Try choking that one down when you're weeks away from your due date. Try not being bitter when you love your baby more than anyone or anything in the world, and your own sister tells you that, basically, this baby would be better off with any parents in the world but you.

Urg. I hate it when I get all crabby and emotional like this. But you know what else I hate? I hate how most of my family has this attitude like, "Oh, well, you know you did the right thing," and no one seems for a second to be able to empathize, to be able to think, holy crap, Jill did this impossible thing, this amazing thing, and she is such a strong, incredible person. I get that people think I did the right thing (and think that I was stubborn and screwed up before) and they're happy - for Roo, since of course no one is particularly concerned for my welfare - but just once I'd like my sister or youngest brother (both of whom have children) to say, my gosh. How on earth did you do it? How did you survive? I can't even imagine making such a sacrifice. You must love Roo so much. I am so sorry you've had to go through that. I am so sorry I can't be there with you, that you've gone through this alone. I love you.

I find myself at a loss. I am trying so freaking hard to be happy for my sister. I sat for over an hour in the temple Saturday night, trying to make peace with the situation. I found none. I felt God's love, as I always do in the temple, but I didn't get any answers to the questions on my mind - how on earth do I get over myself when I'm the only company I have? How do I put my hurt aside to find joy in someone else's blessings?

I wish I knew. I wish I didn't miss my baby so much. But I don't, and I do. And there's nothing I can do about it.