As Time Goes By

It's been a little over three years since I discovered I was pregnant with my third child.  Zion has grown so big.  His parents have faithfully sent photos via email and we've gone to visit with them about once or twice a year. It is always difficult for me to visit them.  James finds it refreshing - like a confirmation that we made the right choice.  To see all five of his children together, each thriving and happy.

I don't disagree with the sentiment - but still a piece of me can't help but be sad.  It's disappointing.  I'd hoped that it would be like visiting friends, but instead it feels a little awkward and surreal.  Not for lack of trying on anyone's part... but perhaps it is the trying that makes it so 'off'.

Zion's parents have told us they're starting the process to adopt another child. Selfishly, I thought "Why? Why isn't Zion enough? How will having another birth family change the way they treat us? Will they still send us pictures? Still want to visit? What if the new mom is great and it really is like visiting with friends? Will they hold it against me? What if the new mom is awful and a little crazy?"  I have a friend who gave her first child up for adoption and she hasn't heard from the parents since the child was two.  Because they adopted a new baby and the birth mother became a stalker and kept coming by/calling asking for her baby back. The parents became afraid and cutoff communication with both birth families.  It's all understandable. And life as a working mom is hard enough without planning two reunions with people who aren't even your real family.

The logical, realistic person (the person I was before this whole experience) thinks it's great. Zion will have a sibling and that's a fantastic experience.  And his parents are great parents -- why shouldn't they help some other girl and her baby have the best possible chance at life?  And maybe it's a testament to us - perhaps they felt that our experience has been so great they'd be happy to do it again.

Anyway, the purpose of this blog/diary was to shed some light on what life after adoption is like as a birth mom.  It's been rough.  At times, it's been soul-shakingly hard.  But ultimately, given the circumstances, I'm glad I made this choice in place of the alternatives.  Obviously, I wish I was in the place to raise Zion myself, but it wasn't meant to be. And it gave a whole new family the opportunity to love and share.  And I survived.

Epic Fail

Today I feel like a failure just going through the motions.  There's a voice inside me that keeps saying, 'You gave that beautiful baby boy up so that you could be a good mom to your children; but you're not. And no matter how hard you try you may never 'catch up'.  You may never be a good mom.  Maybe you should give up now while they're little and still have a little respect for you.  Before you're 50 and your own child tells you that they don't miss you.  That in your darkest hour, you are just a selfish pain in the ass. Do it now, you coward.'


And then a quieter voice says 'They love you. They need you. Even if you are a mess.  Do you want to risk fucking them up for life because you were too weak? Use this opportunity.  Learn from it. Stop going to McDonalds. Stop smoking. Stop buying new clothes from Target, and start saving. Start paying off your debt.  Start over.'  And I know that voice is Jim.  He's drilled those things into me over and over again.  And he would be so pissed, so disappointed, so frustrated to hear my thoughts.

But I don't know how to move past this...feeling that I'm failing. That I'm disappointing everyone...

Grief: Somedays it Feels Like a Terminal Diagnosis

"The really crappy thing, the very worst part of grief is that you can’t control it. The very worst part is that the minute you think you’re past it, it starts all over again. And always, every time, it takes your breath away..." -Grey's Anatomy

I've been doing so well; on the surface.  At work - I've never felt so needed, so valuable, even if my managers don't acknowlege it or see it.  At school - My professor actually pulled me aside to say how impressed she's been; considering I'd just had a c-section.  My kids are crazy about me (most days).  Jim keeps telling me how I'm a good person, a good mom.

But my house? My car? They're disgusting.  A literal disaster zone. My fridge has one gallon of milk, a package of pre-cooked pasta, a 6-pack of Dora yogurt, and a lone beer.  My bedroom doesn't have one square foot of cleared space, let alone clean.  Except the five foot by three foot space on my queen bed where I spend my non-working hours.  Even my headboard, and the other half of my bed are covered in newspapers I haven't read, fruit snack wrappers and empty Diet Coke bottles.  I'm ashamed. For myself, for my kids to live in such squalor.  Yet, it's all I can do to run a load of laundry (all the way - through the washer AND the dryer) in one 24 hour period.  

I have not slept since 7:30 Am yesterday.  It's 1 PM. It's been 30 hours and I haven't nodded off even once.  I haven't eaten anything other than a few chewy granola bars and 2 cups of coffee.  My head hurts so bad, it brings tears to my eyes and steals my breath sometimes.  I know I need to sleep. And eat. But I can't. I don't want to. 

I want someone to lay next to me and hold me... but there's too much other stuff going on.  Everyone else has forgotten. Has moved on.  I thought I had too.  But here I am.... wishing I was dead.  I suspect this is not the progress everyone else anticipates from me.

Week 7...Like It Was Yesterday

We had our first post-hospital meeting with Zion and his parents.  It was great. It was awkward. Too short. Too long.  I wanted to hold him forever.  I keep saying it, but it continues to be true, my sense of time has been all messed up.  I know that according to the calendar he's 6 weeks old, but when I held him, it was like he was 4 days old.

His baby head smelled just like I'd remembered.  I almost cried right then, when I first held him I was okay, but then I got my face near his, and suddenly I was back at the hospital, in the middle of the night, holding him and dreading the morning.

I'm so tired. It seems I won't ever stop crying.  Everybody expects me to be okay by now, well, maybe everybody but our counselor. I should be doing well in school, at work, at being a friend, at being a mommy to my other two.  And I feel like such a failure some days.  Like I'm trying to pull myself out of quicksand; some times I make a little progress, I almost catch my breath, feel the sun on my face and smile the smile of someone blissfully unaware of what's ahead. But then it sucks me in again, it's cold and lonely, and my throat closes up.  And sometimes I just want to give up and let it take me all the way down. Let it bury me, let me cry until my tears choke me. Let me sleep. Let the laundry pile up, and the dishes wait. Let me fail at school and lose my job.  I just want to be alone with my pain.

I don't know how to win this.  Or just break-even.

Week 5: The End of the End

Yesterday we officially terminated our parental rights.  As of 10/07/2010, 9:00 AM we were no longer the legal guardians of Zion. There's no turning back.  He will never call me Mommy.  He will never wake me early in the morning to watch cartoons or open Christmas presents.  I will not go to Parent-Teacher conferences. It's done.

We survived the hearing better than I expected.  Though I had a lump in my throat from the moment we saw the attorney outside the courtroom until four hours after I got home, I managed not to out and out sob on the stand.  My voice cracked a few times as I answered the questions on the stand.  A few tears slipped out and the judge passed me a box of Kleenex as I recited the answers I'd practiced the last 10 months (why I felt this was best for Zion, etc).  And I did not trip on my way down or forget which hand to hold up for the oath.

Jim shed a few tears as the judge officially declared him the father of Zion and then moments later agreed to terminate our parental rights for the purposes of adoption, and commended us for our 'unselfish' decision.  The words blew over me like a breathy whisper in a stagnant desert like heat.  I heard them, recognized their kindness, but it did little for the stifling, suffocating pain in my chest.

Zion's parents had sent a card for each James and I as well as a gift of a bracelet for myself.  Three silver bracelets connected by a single heart.  I'm confident in our decision, but it doesn't ease the feeling of 'if only'.  I wonder if anything ever will.

Week 4: You are my Sunshine

This week has been an emotional roller coaster, for sure. I thought I was doing better. I thought I was ready to start 'reorganizing' my life.  And then on Wednesday, I stopped by Jim's to pick up some WIC checks, and pulled into the driveway at the same time as his neighbors.  I knew she'd been pregnant this summer, but they hadn't told anyone until like July. Imagine my surprise when she stepped out of the car as slim as the day I met her.  Then her husband got the baby out of the backseat and insisted on showing her to me. Which I thought I'd be okay with. I've seen dozens of babies while I'm out shopping and contrary to the literature my agent supplied me with, I had not had so much as lump in the throat.


But I made the mistake of asking when she was born. Sept 1.  Just two days after Zion.  Lump in the throat.  I congratulated them and then went inside, collected the WIC checks and went grocery shopping for both Jim's household and mine. I returned and he had some work to do on my laptop.  So I waited.  I thought I would explode.  He asked what was wrong and after several times, I told him.  We went outside for a smoke and then as I left he gave me a hug. And I sobbed tearless sobs.  I collected myself and went home. But once in the car I cried. And cried. I pulled over and cried some more.

The next few days were okay. I told myself I'd have time to get it all off my chest and cry some more at our counseling appointment on Friday.  Friday morning our agent called to say that she had to do an emergency home evaluation for a baby that had been born the night before.  And I cried some more.

Yesterday in the car with the kids we played their playlist of kid's songs and You Are My Sunshine came on.  And I fought the tears as it played:
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
You make me happy when skies are grey.
You'll never know dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away.
The other night, dear, while I was sleeping
I dreamt I held you in my arms.
When I awoke dear, I was mistaken
So I hung my head and I cried.

Tonight, we're at a cabin in the Upper Peninsula for a family reunion and Noah slept in the living room.  I heard him sucking on his nuk and instantly the lump returned.  It sounded so much like a newborn sucking on their nuk.

Zion is officially one month old. And I miss him so much some days it feels I'll never stop wishing he was here with me.

Week 3: Carrying On

I can't explain how time has moved. There's no way to explain how long it feels like. I keep re-counting on the calendar because it truly feels like it's been a month and a half.   I can't believe it.

I haven't cried in a long time.  Probably since my last counseling appointment.  I'm not sure if this is a sign of pushing it down?  Or if it's because I'm at a different stage now.  I've tried to keep the house picked up for my kids.  I've been trying to get them and myself outside at least once a day. 

Still, I find my patience is lacking, not just with my two toddlers, but with their father, with my aunt, my cousins, and students in my classes.  I barely can hide my snap anger and frustration over the tiniest things.  I cannot motivate myself to do my homework. I can barely motivate myself to go to class.

I don't eat more than once a day.  The process is certainly slow. But I feel like, in terms of actually thinking about it, I'm progressing.  Time will tell I suppose...

Week 2; Where Time Stands Still

It has been a little less than two weeks since Owen was born. Just nine days since we left the hospital in a rush of  tears and raw pain.  ... It feels like it's been a year.  Some days I feel 'normal' I follow my friends on Facebook, commenting and "LOL"ing, watching SNL, cooking real meals.  Some days I can barely bring myself to make a tv dinner and instead lay in bed, half-comatose, blindly watching old episodes of Friends.  And others, I feel okay, and then out of nowhere, I think of his head on my chest.  I think of all that I will miss.  And I cry until my throat is sore and my eyes are red. And even then a lump of tears resides in my throat until I think I might actually choke to death on it.

We met the attorney and set a date for the court.  It is in about a month.  It seems so far away.  And not far enough.  I received a list of questions I'll be asked in court.  Things like, 'How many men did you sleep with during the conception period?'  and 'Do you understand what you're giving up legally by terminating your parental rights? Please explain.'. I'm terrified.  And given that I barely held myself from crying in the meeting, I'm certain to bawl in court. 

I've been working on Zion's scrapbook with his family tree.  Our adoption specialist delivered a blow I foolishly did not prepare myself for; Zion will not call us Mommy or Daddy, but rather by our first names.  I don't know why that did not occur to me.  Of course he won't.  And the logical portion of me says it would be unfair to ask his adoptive parents to give us that special title. It's theirs. That's what adoption is. But it hurts.

We've also scheduled our first post-birth meeting with Zion and his parents for a week after our court date.  Part of me fears it's too soon and I won't be able to keep myself composed.  But most of me is disappointed it's so far away.  I don't know how I'll survive the next month, at this rate.  If two weeks feels like a year, then a month will feel like an eternity.

One Week Passed

One week ago today I gave birth to my third baby.  My physical pain has diminished significantly, and I'm awake much more often now. Which makes for much more time to reflect on everything and my feelings.  Leaving me more time to cry.  Tonight is my first night home in my apartment - having spent the last 4 nights at my aunt's.  It's lonely.  And empty. 

I have trouble thinking of anything to say or do... I just think of baby Zion and how cuddly he is, and his little cry, and the whimpers and grunts he makes in his sleep.  The way it felt to hold him against my chest while he slept.  And it seems the world is out to remind me that I don't have a newborn to cuddle.  Target is having their Baby Sale (they kindly sent me an email).  Yesterday was his due date (my mommyboard sent me an email congratulating me).  The Friends reruns are of Rachel having a baby.  The Office reruns are of Pam having a baby. 

I wish I could have kept him.  I know I can't, but I wish life could have been different.  It's just not fair.  This was not the way my life was supposed to go. 

Far Away Home

Yesterday we said goodbye to Zion and left the hospital.  Jim brought his mother up to meet the baby, and then we spent about an hour just he and I in our room, in a comfortable but emotion filled silence.  Zion slept throughout most of it.  I got to feed him for the last time, and Jim changed his diaper.  Then our adoption agent arrived and the end began.

The three of us talked for a few minutes about our scheduled counseling appointments and court dates (in our state, to terminate parental rights, you actually have to stand before a judge and testify, etc).  The adoptive parents came in shortly after that and bags were double-checked, final pictures were taken, the nurse was called to remove our security bracelets and check Zion's car seat.  As the nurses inspected his car seat and made arrangements regarding his hospital name bracelet, I realized I had to go before them.  I had Jim grab my bag, I hurriedly hugged the mom and dad, said goodbye to Zion and rushed out into the hall before I dissolved into sobs in front of everyone.  I wish I'd had the courage and strength to stay and say the things I wanted to say.  Like, "Please take good care of him for us." and "Thank you for watching over him" and "I know you'll be great."  But all I got out was "Have a safe trip," like they were just leaving on vacation, instead of taking a gift from God and a piece of my soul.

Jim drove me to my aunt's in silence.  I managed to shed only a few tears in the car.  Once at my aunt's we unloaded my belongings and loaded up our other two children into his car.  They'll be staying with him while I recuperate from the c-section.  They drove off and left me here to start the healing.

I slept through most of day one.  Today is day two, and it has been decidedly more difficult.  I miss him so much.  My brain keeps playing scenes of Zion in my head.  I dream wild dreams, like a pastor telling Jim and I that parents who give away their children have no place in heaven; or my older sister coming over with a new baby boy and asking me to babysit him for her.  Sometimes, I think I smell his newborn baby smell on my shirt, but then when I try to smell it, it's gone.  Still I'm afraid to wash my shirt, I don't want to lose that phantom scent.  Even my painfully engorged breasts seem to serve as a way for my brain to remind me that these days are supposed to be spent differently.  

I leave the t.v. on all the time.  It's in the silence that I think of him the most and then I can't stop crying.  I sleep a lot too, but that may be in large part due to the painkillers I'm on for the c-section.
I don't know how long this will go on, but I'm just living to get to next week.  Monday night my aunt will bring me back to my apartment and Tuesday I have my first counseling session and it's weird to look forward to that, but I do. 

I have no doubt that we've done the right thing for Zion, and chosen the perfect parents for him.  But it does little to ease the ache that fills every bone, every muscle in my body, little to dissolve the huge knot of tears that lives in my throat, little to clear the fog that surrounds my brain.  I miss my baby.

Preparing to Let Go

I'm writing this blog, not because I feel that the world is dying to know about my mundane life, but as a tool to help me through what is sure to be one of the hardest things I'll live through in my life.  And perhaps it will help someone else going through the same thing to know that they're not alone.  Or no one may ever read it.  But that's okay.  It's not for the world. It's for me.


I'm 27 years old, and a mother of two beautiful children named Emma (2.5 years) and Noah (1.5 years).  Yesterday I gave birth to my third child, whom I will call Zion.  His father and I decided early in this pregnancy that we could not in good conscience keep Zion.  In addition to our two toddlers, he also has two children from a previous marriage.  We decided on adoption just a couple weeks after finding out that I was pregnant.

Everyone asks why we decided to go this route, especially since we are generally healthy and relatively well balanced people who already have children.  The answer is that we certainly could keep Zion and be happy; with assistance from the government and hard work, we could financially survive.  But to do so, we both feel would be selfish on our parts.  It would be unfair to all five children, to our families, and to the taxpayers.

I have a dream for all my children, and that dream is that they are able to participate in as many extracurricular activities as they'd like without being limited because I can't afford the equipment or costumes, etc. That we can take family vacations, or make spur of the moment purchases - like needed shoes in the middle of the school year or a new toy just because.  But also that I can spend time with each of my children helping them to develop into the best people they can.  That I can go to recitals and games and cheer them on. Help them learn the difference between healthy relationships, and poor ones. 

Right now, if their father and I work hard, finish our college courses, and get careers in our respective fields, we won't be rich.  We probably won't even be middle class.  But we might be able to provide the things I mentioned above.  Right now, if we dedicate ourselves to make the time, we can ensure that each child has the one-on-one time that they deserve and need to flourish in every aspect of their lives.  I don't think we could say the same thing if we kept Zion.

So. Here we are.  After months of researching and looking for parents for our baby, after much heartache and many hard decisions, our baby has arrived.  We're at the hospital, and he sleeps in a bassinet next to me.  The adoptive parents are sleeping in a hospital room one floor up.  And tomorrow is our last day together.  In a little over 24 hours we'll be packing our things, and he'll go home with them.  It's time to start facing reality and look at a future where I leave in a car with no infant car seat, no soft cuddly baby next to me, no diaper bag on my shoulder.  I'll leave with no baby in my belly or my arms.  I'm scared to face that reality.  Afraid I'll fail at it.