What Still Hurts

Last week I got to be on a panel at an adoption conference. Two other birth mothers and I answered questions from new birth moms and expectant parents, and I think it went really well.

One of the questions we got was whether placement still hurt years later.  I said no, and it was the truth. It hurt a lot for quite a while but that's in the past. But lately I have been thinking about the circumstances that led me to choose adoption, and I realized that that's where the pain comes in. That's what still hurts.

I may write about all of these circumstances in the future but today I'm going to focus on the one that tapped me on the shoulder yesterday and said, "Hey, I know you were happy a second ago, so I just wanted to remind you that you should probably fall into a bout of tears and self-loathing."

Yesterday was H's birthday.

There's no point in remembering an ex's birthday, but I always remember dates, whether I need to or not. I'm sure that I have been vaguely aware in past years of H's birthday, in the same way that I am vaguely aware of minor holidays like Arbor Day or the start of Brumalia.* But I never thought much about it, and I doubt that I would have thought much about it if I hadn't been trying to do a favor for a friend.

Saying I was doing a favor for a friend makes it sound like I was being generous and thoughtful but the fact is this favor included scouring Pinterest for a picture that in the end I didn't even find. What I found instead made me think of H, and I cried.

What I found was this. More pictures and the full story can be found on the photographer's website here. Go ahead and look, I'll wait.

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Good? Okay.

Anyway. The four pictures from the pin broke my heart. I thought back to my time in the hospital four years ago. It's nothing I would have wanted photographed. It's nothing I want to remember.

I've always wanted to be a mother. I know that's probably appallingly unambitious in today's modern, post-feminist society but it's the truth. In my younger years I used to imagine what my life would be like when I brought my first child into the world. The reality was so far from what I'd imagined, it was devastating. I cried through most of my time in the hospital and very little of my tears were due to physical pain. I cried because this wasn't how I wanted to begin my motherhood. This wasn't how any baby ought to be welcomed into the world.

I had imagined a devoted husband holding my hand, telling me I was doing great. I had imagined both of my parents in the waiting room, talking about the day that I was born. I imagined my brothers and sister anxiously waiting for my parents to call so they could tell their children about a brand-new cousin. I imagined dozens of people - friends, family, church members - all excited about the birth of my child.

Instead, it was just me and my mother. She cried a lot, too. The fluorescent lights in the hospital buzzed in and out and at times the room I was laboring in seemed so dark that I fought my contractions, unwilling to deliver a baby in a place so devoid of light and joy.

I am grateful that my mother was there with me. But her emotions got the better of her. She tried not to cry in front of me but there was nowhere for her to go. "This isn't right," she sobbed at one point. "You should have a husband and he should be here with you. You shouldn't be alone."

I needed her to be strong for me, but she hardly had enough strength for herself. I didn't blame her. I blamed myself.

You may be wondering where H was during all of this. I have no idea. The last time we had communicated I had been planning on placing my baby for adoption and although I had vacillated between placement and parenting since then, I knew better than to bother H with my ambivalence. He had been very clear that if I chose adoption he would be out of the picture.

It wouldn't have been any better with him there at the hospital. He wasn't my husband. He didn't want this child. He didn't love me. I don't think he ever did. And I felt ... oh, so many things. But mostly I felt as though I had given him too much of myself already, trusted him with too much of who I was. There didn't seem to be anything left of my identity that he hadn't colored. I wanted to labor without him, to try to find myself somehow in the beautiful, terrible pain of giving life.

I have learned over the years to not dwell on dark days. I take from them what they have to give me and I leave them behind me where they belong. But every now and then something will take me back down the rabbit hole of my past. Every now and then I get a reminder that once I gave my whole soul to a man with the most beautiful, sad brown eyes, and that he didn't want it. We created life together and it still wasn't enough. I wasn't enough. There was nothing on earth I could do to make him care, to make him love me.

Oh, don't mistake me, please. I don't need him to love me now and I don't need him to have ever loved me. I was foolish then; I still believed in fairy tales. I'm smarter now. I know better. It just stings, the remembering does. The thinking. The wondering.

H was my first boyfriend. H was my only boyfriend. No one wanted me before and no one has wanted me since. If I didn't have eight years of therapy to lean on these facts would break me. Even with the therapy it's easy, when my defenses are down, to imagine that no one will ever want me. It's easy to imagine that my choice is between loneliness and cats. Out of everything emotionally wrenching thing that has happened to me since I found out I was pregnant, that's what still hurts.

Thank you for slogging through these emotions with me. I promise my next post will be happier and include a picture of my Tom Selleck birthday cake.



*Oh, don't pretend you don't remember the start of Brumalia. I can't be the only one ... well, I guess I can. Never mind.

FAQ: What About H?

Today I am going to answer a question that I have been getting a lot lately from people I know when I have been talking to them about adoption. It's a series of questions actually, and they're all about Roo's birth father, H.

I've mentioned him before and I used to mention him a lot, particularly in years past when I was still angry at him and wanted to hurt him for hurting me. I don't think I've mentioned him in quite a while, and I only really talk about him in therapy every so often, so newer readers of this blog and more recent acquaintances may not know much about him.

Parenthetically, if you're dying to know more about him and you're emotionally buoyant you can go back and read the posts tagged "boyfriend" but for today, all you need to know is that we met on MySpace in 2008 and that he is to this day the only man who has ever told me I was beautiful. (I don't know if he meant it or if he had just been single for longer than he liked. I suspect the latter.)

I digress.

Q (and Q, and Q, and Q, and Q): Do you ever hear from H? What does H think about the adoption? Does H get to see Roo? Do you want him to? Do you hate H?

A: I'm going to answer the last question first, because it's important, and I want to make it very clear: I do not hate H, and I never did. I used to be angry with him, and I used to want to hurt him because he hurt me and punish him for breaking my heart and leaving me alone and pregnant.

But I have an excellent therapist, and I have reached the point where 99% of the bad feelings are gone. I'm going to allow myself 1% because when I'm having a really bad day I sometimes still stew about how I had a baby with a guy and even that wasn't enough to make him stay, and what does that say about me? I must be completely unlovable.

Hey, we all have those days, right?

Right?

Just me?

Anyway. I have actually had many moments wherein I simply felt grateful to H for giving me Roo, because she is the best thing that ever happened to me. It occurred to me the other day (Father's Day, in fact) that I am terribly grateful for every single one of H's character flaws. Because if he hadn't been exactly the man he was four years ago, I wouldn't have placed Roo for adoption, and that would have been a shame.

I have never thanked him personally, because I haven't actually seen him in person since 2008 and we have not communicated since right after Roo was born. This does not surprise me or hurt me at all; he told me when I was pregnant that if I chose adoption he would essentially disappear.

I don't know how he feels about the adoption. I don't know if it's something that he ever thinks about. To the best of my knowledge he has never met Roo or had any contact with her parents. Do I want him to? I'm going to play politician and give a non-answer. I want what's best for Roo, and I trust P and M to make that choice. If the time comes when they feel that a relationship with H is in Roo's best interest, I will support that.* She's their child and it's their decision to make, not mine.

I don't know where H is now or what he's doing. I told that to a friend the other day and he said, "Isn't it weird? Someone can be such a big part of your life for a while and have such an impact on you, and then you don't see them again for the rest of your life."

It is weird. It is weird to think that I had a baby with this man, H, and he's no part of my life and never will be again. It's weird that our genes are forever merged in Roo, but that our lives are so separate. It's weird, but it's okay.

I used to think that I needed to confront him to find closure, which terrified me, but I was wrong. I've made my peace with him, and I hope that he's made his peace with me.




*I'll confess to the odd sporadic desire for H to meet Roo, but it's a selfish one. I sometimes think that if H ever thinks of Roo or adoption, it might be with anger or bitterness towards me and how things turned out. In my more fanciful moments I think that it would be nice if he could see her - see what a fantastic little person she is, how smart she is, how happy she is, how beautiful. It would be nice if he could see what a good thing came of our relationship and out of adoption. I think it might be beneficial. But beneficial to him and tangentially to me, not necessarily to Roo at this point. I'm glad it's not my call to make.

FAQ: Do I Want More Children?

November, if you haven't heard, is National Adoption Month - today, in fact, is National Adoption Day. In previous years I did a LOT of blogging to commemorate. Spoiler alert: that will not be happening this year. I am way too busy (those cat videos on YouTube aren't going to watch themselves). I've also been too busy to answer e-mail and my blog e-mail tends to be crazy anyway; if you've written to me in the past 6 months, don't give up hope, I will catch up eventually. I hope.

But I feel like I should do something for November, because I think adoption is really rad. So I'm going to steal - no, let's say, appropriate an idea from my friend Brittany. She's been answering frequently asked questions on her blog each week and I've decided to do the same. I already have a blog FAQbut it hasn't been updated in ages; I had a lot of anger issues when I wrote it and I think I'd probably explain things better if I were to re-write it and I think that I will eventually, but not right now. Wow, that was a beautiful run-on sentence, wasn't it? I think I might look into National Grammar Month; I need it.

Anyway. I have been asked other questions, by friends and acquaintances and by high school students who have been subjected to my story during their child-development classes. I want to answer some of them here. Today's question is courtesy of a teenager who apparently missed the phrase "I always wanted to be a mother" sprinkled liberally throughout my story.

Q: Do you want more kids some day?

A: Short answer, yes. Slightly longer answer, yes, absolutely, but I'd like to be married first.

I would not be me if I left it at that, would I? I love words too much.

I have always, always wanted to be a mother. I know that in today's modern world women are supposed to be ambitious and have their own careers and lives but I've never been that type-A. I think I'm unambitious out of self-preservation; I tend to take things to extremes and when something is important to me I give it 500%. Ambition would be the death of me. Being a wife and mother has always been enough of a goal in my mind. That's probably not the sort of thing a woman is supposed to confess to but there it is.

My pregnancy was a surprise but not an unwelcome one. It wasn't the way I'd planned on being a mother but I was disinclined to be picky. I wanted a baby and I was having a baby. Maybe it's because I know exactly why I made the decision I did, and because I know so many other birth mothers whose decisions were similarly selfless, but I am always surprised when someone assumes I placed Roo because I didn't want to be a mother. Placement had nothing to do with wanting to be a mother or not wanting to be a mother. It was about what was best for the little girl I love so much. It was a choice I made as a mother.

I very much want kids. I know that single women aren't supposed to say that because we come across as baby-hungry and people get these ideas that I instantly assess every date as a potential father, that I've picked out names for all my children, that I can't hear normal conversation over the sound of my own biological clock ticking. Judge me if you will, but I do want children. I would love to have children, and preferably before my fertility starts to nosedive. But I'm not going to do it by myself. If I don't get married, I'm not going to have more kids. I don't care how well-off I end up, how successful or happy or anything else. I will not be a single mother again. I wanted Roo to have two married parents who love each other. Why would I want anything less for any other children I might have?

There's a selfishness behind this determination as well. Here's another uncomfortable truth: my pregnancy was the absolute bloody loneliest time of my entire life. I don't think I've ever felt so alone and I hope I never do again. I hated going to doctor's appointments because I was frequently the only woman in the waiting room without a husband or boyfriend. I invited H to come with me at first but I stopped after a few months because it was obvious he was never going to. I would surreptitiously assess the relationships of the couples in the waiting room and, without exception, they seemed to love each other. It hurt. I'd stare at my hands and wonder what I had done wrong that the father of my child didn't even like me.

I will not go through that again.

I want children, but I don't -just- want children. I want more for my children than I can give them by myself. Which means that although I would dearly love to be a mother, it's probably not going to happen. I'm okay with that. Because I had Roo, and if she's all I ever get, she's enough.

I don't remember the exact date, but I know that it was near the end of March three years ago that I first met H. I was thinking about that a few nights ago. The weather was just the same as it was that night, ever-so-slightly cool, a gentle breeze, and a bright, almost-full moon. It was a beautiful night. I was so naive then. As time passed I wised up a bit, but on that lovely March night I couldn't fathom how drastically my life would change in the next several months.

I don't know how many times I have replayed the night I met H over and over in my head, wondering if I could have said or done anything differently to keep myself from heading down the path I took, if there's anything that would have made a difference. Sometimes the scene plays in my head like a movie, and I cringe as each moment unfolds, charmed even in retrospect by how lovely the night was and how well H and I got along, but a little nauseated knowing where everything was eventually going to lead. It's like watching a scary movie and shouting at the lead, "Don't open the door! The killer's in there!" The past is a movie, and I'm just as powerless to change it.

But I've come to realize each time I take that particular stroll down memory lane that I wouldn't change it if I could. If anything had been different, I never would have ended up pregnant, and if I hadn't gotten pregnant, there would be no Roo. Wouldn't that be sad? I don't like to think about a world with no Roo. I don't like to think about a me without Roo. Heaven only knows who and where I would be.

I feel like I've finally reached the point where I can look back on some of the time I spent with H and not feel like dry-heaving. (I know, I'm quite the romantic.) We were happy for a little while. It's not always easy but I try to remember those times instead of the darker ones that followed. We were happy the night we met. Maybe I'm getting sentimental in my old age, but despite everything that transpired three summers ago, I can look back on that moonlit night and be grateful, because it led me to Roo, and I'm grateful for her most of all.

Nerves - A Confession

I'm a little hesitant to talk about this, because I'm not sure exactly who reads this blog. There are a few people who I think might read it, and I'm not sure what they'll make of this or think about it or do with the information. I'm also not sure I want to admit to being this neurotic and ridiculous. But in the interest of recording my life as a birth mother, I'm going to write it out anyway and hope that no one's IP has changed (I block a few), and that none of my readers are feeling judgmental. So, here goes.

I almost had a heart attack at Wal-Mart on Saturday night.

Oh, probably not a real heart attack or anything. But I definitely felt like I'd been kicked in the chest, and all the blood in my body shot straight into my cheeks. Another few seconds and I think I would have passed out cold on the filthy floor.

I thought I saw H standing by one of the checkout counters.

I shouldn't have been as shocked as I was, really. The Wal-Mart that I was at is right by his house. I never used to go to it before, but the place I moved to is not at all - at ALL - far from where H lives. Happenstance, really, but the place is perfect for me and I really felt strongly that this is where I'm supposed to be now. When I realized the proximity to H's apartment, I hesitated briefly. I thought to myself that it was only a matter of time before I ran into him somewhere. Could I handle it if I did?

I told myself that I could, that I was a grown-up, that I'd been in therapy for years, that I was mature and calm and collected. I envisioned several scenarios in which I would see H somewhere, and in each one, I was respectful and level-headed and escaped relatively unscathed. I thought, I've got this. I can do this. I can look at and speak to the man like a civilized adult. I felt confident. If anyone ought to be worried, I thought, it was H. How would he react to seeing me? Yeah, I thought, that's what I want to know. Me, I can handle. I can be the bigger person.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am full of crap. Because when I thought I saw him that night, I had a vagal nerve reaction the likes of which I've never dreamed of before. I realized after a few seconds of gaping that the man in front of me was not, in fact, H. I realized after a few more seconds that he didn't even resemble H that closely. I tried to calm down, to shake it off and find what I'd come into the store to buy. But I was spooked. I now half-expected to see H in every aisle. I all but sprinted to the back of the grocery section to get my French toast sticks. Three times more I thought I saw H. Twice it was a man pushing a cart with two small children. The third time it was a woman.

I scanned the store so many times while I was in line that if anyone had been watching me they probably would have expected me to bolt from the store without paying. When I finally got out to the parking lot, I searched anxiously for H's car before dashing for my own and hightailing it back to my place.

I feel like the biggest freaking idiot in the world. What is wrong with me? Why should the thought of seeing H again terrify me so much? He's not a monster. He's just an immature, stubborn man ... and, in a manner of speaking, I took something from him that I can't give back, nor would I give back, which is to say, his daughter. He's bound to be angry about that, isn't he? Or maybe he's shoved that down the way he seemed to do with all of the other emotions he didn't know how to deal with. Maybe he doesn't even think about it any more.

Would that be worse, I wonder? Which would make me feel sicker - knowing that he is still seething with rage, or that he is completely apathetic? I'm not sure. And although I was wrong about being mature and able to handle seeing him again even if just in passing at a discount store, I do still wonder what his reaction to me would be. I mean, we had a baby together. Surely I must cross his mind occasionally, right?

I think I'd feel like less of a spaz for freaking out if knew that the thought of seeing me again freaked him out too. But then, I'm not sure I want him thinking about me often enough to have considered seeing me again. I know I'd be happier if the thought hadn't occurred to me. Until I moved, I thought about H really very little. It was nice. I was happy that way. I love my new place, but I hate that moving here has made me think so much about H again.

Then again, as I said, we had a baby together. I'm probably going to think about H on and off for a very long time. I sort of hate that. I mean, I am appreciative of his genetic contribution. I am very pleased with the results. Roo couldn't be any more adorable or clever or cute or sweet or smart. But I wish that I could think about Roo without having to think of half of the reason she's here.

This is one of those weeks where I really wish my therapist hadn't decided we should cut back to one session a month. I mean, I thought I was quote-unquote over H, for the most part. I really thought I could just be cool about him. What does it mean for me that I'm not, that I can't? How am I ever supposed to have a relationship again when I feel like the specter of H is always hovering nearby on account of my having had a baby with him? I mean, it's probably going to be a heavy enough thing for most guys that I'm a birth mother. The fact that I almost threw up when I thought I saw my ex? That just can't be healthy. It can't be normal. Nothing about being a birth mother is normal, of course. But I figure many birth moms have a wee bit more closure and resolution than I do. Things ended strangely and rather abruptly between me and H. I reckon I'm as much to blame as he is.

The last time I saw him was at the end of November 2008. I was barely two months pregnant at the time. We were supposed to get together again to talk things over but it never happened. We didn't talk on the phone at all. It was either e-mail or instant message or text. After a while, even that stopped. I don't blame H for that. I'm pretty sure I told him to be fruitful and multiply (but not in those words) and to never contact me again. It felt like the right move at the time, but in retrospect I guess I just wish I had a bit more closure. I think that if I did, I wouldn't have had such an insanely extreme overreaction.

I like to tell myself that I am done with H, that I am completely over him, but when things like this happen I am reminded of how many things went unsaid and how unsatisfactory our break-up was. But I'm never going to get that closure, and I have to learn to be okay with that. I have to learn to let go. I have to learn to handle difficult situations. Most importantly, I have to learn to check the parking lot for H's car before I enter a store.

Formspring Revisited: What the H?

I'm not very good at remembering people's names. Or, if I remember their names, I don't remember their faces. For some reason, these rather important things are hard for me to get the first time or two. But one thing I always remember about a person I meet is his or her birthday.

Tomorrow is H's birthday. I don't think I'll ever forget that. I seem to get a lot of questions about H on my Formspring. Here are a few of them, in honor (if that's the right word) of his birthday.

On your blog what does H stand for? I mean it is obviously the birthfathers name but what is it?

I decided a long time ago I was never going to use my ex's name on my blog, and I haven't changed my mind. H stands for Him. Simple as that.

If you are my friend on Facebook (be my friend?), and you look back far enough, should you ever be that bored, you can find him. But I don't use his real name here and I never will. If you are dying of curiosity and would like a hint, I'll tell you that his name is also a verb.

Did the birth father help you pick a couple to place with?

Hahaha!

No, he certainly did not. He was willing to be involved as much as the law required if I single parented, but if I went with adoption he didn't want a thing to do with me or the baby. And then it turned out he didn't want a thing to do with me during the pregnancy anyway.

So, no. He wasn't involved at all. With anything, least of all the adoption.

I'm not sure how much of a fan of adoption he ever was, actually. I had him served with paperwork that said I planned on placing, and he let it slide. He later accused me of manipulating him out of signing it, and told me that if I was thinking about adoption, I should just sign all my rights over to him. Because apparently to him, if I was considering adoption, it meant I didn't care about the baby and just didn't want to be a mother. Blah.

Was the birth father there when the placement happened?
He wasn't. When I placed, I hadn't seen him for nearly a year.

Does the birth father get the same openness you do?
Not that I'm aware of. I haven't seen him in almost two years and I haven't communicated with him in more than one year, so I can't be sure, but it would very much surprise me. I don't think Roo's parents even know his last name. Well, maybe they do. I can't remember everything I told them about him. I would certainly tell them if they wanted to know. But I'm not aware of any contact.

May 2009, Part Two – Mother’s Day

May brought my first Mother’s Day. I’d already gotten a great gift – my 3D ultrasound. I wasn’t really expecting much. I don’t think my mom was either, but she got something just the same, something she didn’t deserve.

H’s mother wrote her a letter. She e-mailed her, and she did it on Mother’s Day, first thing in the morning. My mom didn’t want to tell me about it at first. She didn't say a word. But I could tell that something was bothering her. At first I assumed it was me, that she felt a little strange about the circumstances of my first mother's day. I asked her several times what was wrong, and finally she told me.

It was a very manipulative letter. I don’t want to get into it, but suffice it to say that H had lied to his mother and said he’d never heard back from me, and H’s mother had a little pity party about how it must be nice for my mom to spend Mother’s Day surrounded by her grandchildren, and how maybe she should stop to consider how H’s mother felt, not knowing what was going to happen to her grandchild, blah blah blah. It upset me greatly and I cried for a while. I felt like Mother's Day had been ruined for all of us, and it was all my fault.

But my mother – my dear, sweet, strong mother – the one who should have been more upset about it than I, was the one who made me feel better. She said that she wasn’t going to let the letter bother her, and I shouldn’t either. We went to my brother’s house for dinner. He and his wife had gotten a card and flowers for my mom, and a card and a box of chocolates for me.

Their kindness was overwhelming. Cruelty and nastiness, I’m used to. I can more or less handle it. But kindness and understanding were still sort of foreign to me, and brought me to tears much more quickly. It was a lovely card, and the chocolates were my favorite kind. After their kids were in bed we all just sat and talked for about an hour, which was great. I'd worried that my pregnancy would make things awkward and uncomfortable but that wasn't so. It felt good to feel normal.

I was a bit depressed I didn't get a cute mother's day-for-the-mother-to-be card, but then who would buy me one? My mom, perhaps, but it seemed like more of a husband sort of thing to do, and I had no husband. Probably never will, I thought to myself. No one had wanted me before. Why on earth would anyone want me now?

I began to suspect that childbirth classes were a huge mistake. There were so many more things to worry about than I’d ever imagined. On the day we discussed labor, I thought to myself again that, sorry, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t actually want to deliver a baby. The only way I got through hearing about everything was to remind myself that my mother had made it through childbirth with each of her children, and she’s no glutton for punishment. If she could do it four times, I told myself, I could do it once.

More than once I began to have doubts about whether I could be a good mother. I thought that such concerns were probably normal, but that didn’t bring me much comfort. I wondered: Am I too selfish? Too anxious? Too tightly-wound? What if I couldn’t take good care of my baby? What if I lost my patience? I wasn’t certain what you were supposed to do with a newborn. I knew about feeding and diapering and supporting the neck and sleeping on the back, but that was about it. How much crying was normal? How many diapers was a baby supposed to go through? How often was a newborn supposed to eat?

Could I give my baby everything she needed? All the attention, all the love? I knew I loved her, and that I’d love her even more once she was out of my belly. But I thought, was love enough? I wanted to be a good mom so badly. But I wasn’t sure if wanting was enough, either.

I wanted to keep my baby very badly. It felt like the right thing do to about 95% of the time. Was the other 5% nerves and anxiety, or something more? I had trouble stomaching the thought of adoption, the thought of my baby being someone else’s to cuddle and care for. It didn’t sit quite right with me. It was like an emotional heartburn. It wouldn’t digest properly.

I continued to meet with my therapist weekly. I read him the letter H’s mother had written. John was galled. He agreed that the whole of it, especially the timing, was distinctly manipulative. He also said not to let it get to me. My mother met with her own therapist, who helped her craft a terse response to the message. She heard back quickly – H told his mother I’d never responded to his e-mail. Based on what H’s mother had to say, it seemed that H had been telling his mother naught but lies for months. Oh well, I thought. Their problem, not mine. My mother ignored the second letter, and we agreed to put H and his mother behind us.

Knocked Up

It was March 14th. I was bored; I wanted to watch a little TV. I couldn't find much on that interested me. I checked my Guide. "Knocked Up" was on E! at 7:30.

I'd seen it before. H and I watched it on DVD. Just seeing the title and description took me back. I told myself to find something else to watch. Anything else.

I couldn't. I didn't. I watched it.

I thought of H the whole time. I missed him horribly. I wondered, not for the first time but certainly with renewed panic, whether I'd ever be in a relationship again. I missed H. I missed being with him, I missed our relationship. I missed watching movies, ordering pizza, acting a little goofy and being completely enamored of each other. I missed the slight scratch of his goatee as he kissed me. I missed the way he'd look at me, like I was the most beautiful, amazing woman on earth. I missed believing he meant it when he said he loved me. I missed believing that I loved him back.

It depressed me. Horribly.

The movie depressed me for other reasons, too. Mainly because I'm not Alison and H isn't Ben. I always hoped that H would pull a Ben - grow up, be responsible, be involved. Love me. Pledge something - his heart, his time, his attention, something. I always hoped for something more. It never came.

"Knocked Up" was pitched as this raunchy guy movie. And it certainly is (I think the unedited version contains more expletives than "The Departed"). But it's also a sort of fairy tale. It's fantasy. Completely unrealistic. Things don't really happen like they did in the movie. The guy never grows up. Never. There's no happy ending. Mistakes with birth control do not turn into happy families.

And yet I wish they did. I wish that H was the best version of himself, and that we were together in a cozy little place with our baby. I wonder if I'll ever have another shot at that kind of cozy domesticity to which I aspire.

I hate that movie. I hate it. I hate how it made me feel, how it made me miss things. I hate it, and I hate how it's made me reconsider my life without H. It brought up things I don't want to think about, feelings I don't want to feel. It made me miss H, and I HATE it when I miss H. I don't ever want to miss him.

I hate that I do. I hate that life is never like the movies. I hate that I wasn't enough for H. That a baby - HIS baby - wasn't reason enough for him to grow up, to be a man, to stand for something. I hate him sometimes. I hate myself sometimes. I wish I could take back the past two years of my life.

Except for Roo. I'd never take back Roo. I'm learning, slowly but surely, to appreciate that the crap I've been through is what got her here. She is worth my miserable past.

If having her means I cry while watching crappy movies, so be it. I can live with that. I confess, I wonder if H can live with that too. I wonder if he's seen "Knocked Up" since things went sour between us. I wonder what he thinks. If he regrets anything. If he ever misses me. If he ever envies Ben.

I hope he does. I hope he's learned something from all of this. I know that I have.

April 2009, Part Three

I feel like I’ve picked on my big sister a lot in this blog. But at the same time, it’s not my fault she’s given me so much material, is it? That sounded a bit more mercenary than I intended. I digress. I’m not done picking on her yet. Mostly because of how she picked on me. I got e-mail from her (the day after H’s letter) that made me cry.

I know she meant well. I know she loves me. But my sister is just … I don’t know. I think a tactful way of putting it would be to say that sometimes she says (or types) things without stopping to consider how her words might be taken.

Most of the e-mail was the sort of things I’d expected – have faith in the Lord and His plan, get a priesthood blessing, remember that eternity is a long time, she supported me no matter what … blah blah blah. The kicker was at the end, and I quote:

"Not that you should go back and deal with the LDSSS people, but might there be another couple that you passed over, or just decided to adopt that you might consider? No couple would be perfect, but at least they could give your baby a family to be sealed to."

In other words, it doesn’t matter if you actually like them. Anyone would be better parents than you. I pity my mother; I’m sure I had nothing good to say about my sister after that, and my mom was the only person to whom I could vent.

I had arranged to meet S for dinner. I had a copy of H’s e-mail with me. As she read it, she reacted just as I had hoped, with plenty of eye rolling and a "Who does he think he is?" here and there for good measure.

"And he’s so messed up," I said. "He thinks he’s still got rights after he ignored his paperwork. He doesn’t have any rights!"

S nodded emphatically. "Well," she said between sips of Sierra Mist, "unless you decide to single parent."

I choked on my own beverage.

"What?"

It turns out, S had inadvertently misinformed my mother on the phone. Adoption, H had nothing to do with. But he did indeed have rights if I kept my baby. The thought chilled me to the bone. I cried, I lost my appetite.

"That’s not what you told my mother," I said, upset and confused. "You told her H has no rights anymore."

"I thought she was talking about adoption," S said. "Your mother must have misunderstood."

Now I was cheesed. My mother may have her shortcomings, but I knew she hadn’t misunderstood. I had made my mom go over her conversation with S in detail, and my mother assured me that twice she had made sure that S understood my mom was talking about me single parenting.

I left dinner early and got slightly hysterical on the way home. I told my mom what had happened. She let me cry as I spoke, and remained preternaturally calm. She told me not to worry about things, and to just tell H that I was going with adoption, since he’d been so eager for a response. I did just that. It was a very short e-mail.

I hated knowing that H had rights. I felt like my hand was being forced, like adoption was my only recourse, my only way of keeping my baby safe. And I didn’t want to place my baby for adoption! I wanted more than ever to be her mommy. My own mommy said that no one could force me to do anything, and she’s send me and my baby out of the country if she had to. That she would never let anyone take my baby away. For my part, I just hoped that H would leave me alone now that I’d given him a decision that didn’t involve him.

April 2009, Part Two – “H” bomb

My baby was the size of a butternut squash, and she was kicking like mad. I passed the time working on a pregnancy scrapbook. But I was still bored and irritable. I was sleeping poorly, owing to the early morning aerobics in my womb.

Then I heard from H. He asked about my blood glucose test. I told him I’d tested one point higher than they usually like. He asked about insulin and diet. I explained that I had discussed things with my doctor and she wasn’t the least bit worried about my blood sugar – both me and my baby were healthy and happy, my weight gain was on track, and I was measuring right on for my due date.

I thought that would be the end of it, but H took exception to my doctor’s trained medical opinion. Here’s our IM conversation:

(I've left H unedited)

[H’s screen name]: Don't know what else to say to the comment, if you think that's best it's your business but seeing things like 'I went shopping and all I have is liciroce' and knowing those results just ... seems weird
jilleb163: what do you mean?
[H’s screen name]: Your not concerned about being that close, or at least concerned enough that maybe you'd cut out some sugar? That's all i'm asking. But i'm sure your going to call me an [expletive deleted] for asking, so I don't know why I am
jilleb163: my diet really isn't any of your freaking business.
(like I said, I was irritable)
[H’s screen name]: Yup, good to see we could have a mature conversation about this
jilleb163: i mention licorice once and you think i'm not eating properly ... just sort of irritating.
jilleb163: my doctor - a trained, medical professional, who has known me my entire pregnancy - isn't worried about my blood sugar.
[H’s screen name]: burger king for dinner three nights a week, and everytime we talk it's 'candy store'.

For the record, I’d been to the candy store, like, twice. And who was he to criticize my diet? This from a man who considered bacon and beer to be two of the main food groups! I was eating enough fruit and vegetables that I knew the guys who stocked Safeway’s produce department by name. If I wanted a little candy or a hamburger, I was going to eat it. I was livid. If this was H’s idea of caring, I’d been lucky he hadn’t cared so far.

Things got worse a few days later. H sent me e-mail, which I have again left unedited for your reading pleasure. Here’s the gist of it (my reactions are in italics):

“I want a decision on what you are doing with the baby as soon as possible, preferably within 48 hours. I understand it’s a hard decision, but you have had plenty of time to think about it now. You know what your options are, you have been talking to an agency (which you lied to me about and told me it was a support group) [Um, actually, it was a support group] and you know your options with them. On my side, I did not file the paperwork because when I asked you about it, you said you wanted to keep her, or at least that was my perception of what you were saying.

Now, it’s ‘I am leaning’. Or ‘I told you I was leaning than’. Fine, I misinterpreted, but I felt when we were making discussions on materials we would need or me asking how we can setup shared custody, that that meant you were keeping her. [And I thought we were discussing hypotheticals, since I used the word "hypothetically" and all.] I don’t want to hear bout leaning anymore. Decisions need to be made.

If it helps make it easier for you, if you keep her I will be filing a custody (parenting) plan and a request for shared custody. This will be used in determining support payments from one party to the other [not from him to me, but from one “party” to another], as well as set specific amounts of time we will be sharing her. [What is she, a condo in the Hamptons?] And I will be insisting this go into effect as soon as possible. I will not just start having a relationship after 6 months because you don’t want me involved at first … I don’t have any rights in the event your giving her up for adoption, but I do have rights once she’s born and if you make the decision to keep her."

In retrospect, I can sort of get where he was coming from. But only in retrospect. And just reading through that stupid e-mail makes my blood boil. How dare he demand a decision in such a cavalier, arrogant manner?

I didn’t know what else to do, so I sent S an SOS. We’d had a bit of a to-do when I tried explaining how depression makes it hard for me to trust people and she didn’t quite get is. But I needed her now. She’d told my mom that H had lost all his rights when he ignored his paperwork. I wanted to make sure of that. Who, I wondered, would be crazy enough to try to split custody of a newborn baby?

I was terribly upset, but my baby gave me a few reassuring kicks and I felt a bit better. For a few hours, anyway. Then I got another surprise in my inbox.

A Good Question, and a Good(?) Answer

An adoptive mom asked me a very good question on Formspring. Her baby's birth father isn't the sort of guy who would win any awards for gentlemanly behavior, and she wondered how best to explain him when her baby got older and asked. How, she continued, would I want H explained to Roo?

I've thought about that quite a lot, actually. I know very little about H, really, and I hate that there's this void where half of Roo's history should be. I don't want her to wonder about him as this mysterious person all her life. But I also want her to understand that there's a reason he isn't in her life.

This is how I would explain it to Roo, if I was her mommy. I wrote it like a children's book because I don't doubt that Roo will wonder about her birth father when she's still young. It's rather a long children's book, but I have hopes that Roo will be a voracious young reader, much like I was. This is essentially the response I posted, plus a few tweaks. It's not perfect by any means, and I'll likely edit it and condense it later, but here's what I have so far.


You know who Jill is. Jill is your tummy mommy. You grew inside her and she gave birth to you. A little while later, she gave you to Mommy and Daddy where you belonged.

You have a tummy daddy, too. His name is H, and a long time ago he and Jill were very much in love, and soon you were growing in Jill's tummy.

Usually a baby's tummy parents are her mommy and daddy, who are married to each other and who take care of the baby. But sometimes a mommy and daddy aren't married to each other. This can make them feel sad. They love the baby very much, and so they don't want her to have an unmarried mommy and an unmarried daddy who are sad. These lucky babies have two sets of parents who love them: their tummy parents, and their mommies and daddies. Isn't that wonderful?

You know Jill, of course. But you don't know H. Even though H loves you and Jill loves you, Jill decided you would be happiest if you didn't know H when you were small. Here is why.

H had a lot of growing up to do still, and grown-ups who aren't finished growing up sometimes have big problems that make it hard for them to be good parents. They want to be good parents, but they don't know how, sometimes because their own parents had problems, too.

H's mommy and daddy (especially his daddy) sometimes weren't as nice to him as they should have been when H was a little boy. So he didn't always learn what children should learn from their parents. He never learned to take good care of himself, to be kind to others, to be like Jesus, to stay away from things that could hurt him, to make good choices instead of bad.

H made some bad choices. When children make bad choices, they get a time-out. Bad choices make you feel bad, and you know that they are wrong. Everyone still makes bad choices sometimes, but we learn from them to make better choices. Better choices make us happy.

When grown-ups make a bad choice, there is no time out. There was no one to tell H what he could learn from his choices so he kept on making bad ones. When you're a grown-up, the more bad choices you make, the harder it is to know if you are making a good choice or a bad one.

H made a lot of bad choices. Sometimes this meant that he was not a very nice person. When he met Jill, he was a nice person. They were very good friends, and then H decided he loved her. She loved him too, and they were very happy.

But H made some more bad choices, and they made him a not very nice person. He was mean to Jill on accident sometimes. This made Jill sad. She told H that she was sad. H felt bad and said he wouldn't be mean anymore.

But it got hard for H not to be mean. Soon H and Jill found out there was going to be a baby, and that baby was you. Jill was very excited. H was very scared. His daddy had not been very nice and he worried he would not be a very nice daddy either. Because he worried, he said things he didn't mean to say, and he made Jill sad and mad. Jill said things that made H sad and mad. They decided they did not want to be friends anymore.

Before you were born, H decided that he wanted to be a daddy, but that he did not want to be friends with Jill. This made Jill sad. Jill's mommy and daddy were best friends, and she wanted your parents to be best friends, too. And they are, which makes Jill very happy, and I'm sure it makes you happy, too.

Jill also worried about what would happen if H was your daddy. H made a lot of bad decisions, and she worried that he would teach you bad decisions because he didn't know any better.

Because of this, Jill found your mommy and daddy, and she made sure H did not see you. She knew that he would never be mean to you on purpose, but she didn't want him to be mean to you on accident and make you sad.

Jill hopes that some day H will finish becoming a grown-up and learn to make good decisions. Perhaps he has. And when you meet him someday, you will be strong enough and smart enough to meet him and know who he is, and still make good choices.

Anniversary

Today - at exactly this time, 12:57am - marks two years since I met H.

We met on MySpace. How embarrassing is that? But it's true. He found my profile, liked my picture, and sent me a message. I'm not going to share it here. It's private. But I still have it. He said I was quite cute. No one had ever said that to me before.

He said lots of nice things to me. We had great conversations. We talked about baseball and zombies and politics and television. He told me that I was witty. That my eyes were striking. That he liked my hair. Such lovely flattery for a girl starved of that sort of thing. How could I resist? I couldn't. He paid attention to me. I was in love.

I'd gotten messages from strange men before on MySpace. I wonder sometimes, why H? Why did I decide to respond to his message when I'd never responded to one before? What was it about him that drew me to him, that made me want to get to know him? Why did I decide I needed to meet him in person? What in his messages made me want more? Made me want him?

Sometimes I wish I could go back and keep myself from signing up for MySpace. Or keep myself from writing back, from engaging H in conversation. Keep myself from agreeing to meet him, from kissing him. Keep myself from hanging out with him more than once. Keep myself from going to his apartment ...

Wishes accomplish nothing. Wondering doesn't change anything. And yet I wonder. And I remember. I miss him a little. And I cry.

Happy 2-year anniversary, H.

I Wonder ...

I wonder sometimes what would happen if I ran into H somewhere. I've been thinking about him a lot lately for some reason. Maybe because it's been 2 years since we first met.

It could happen, you know. We probably go to a lot of the same places since there's not a ton of things to do around the east valley. Although the fact that I don't frequent bars does narrow things down a bit.

But still ... the mall, the zoo, the gas station ... it could happen someday. And maybe someday it will. And I wonder what it would be like. What would happen.

Would he acknowledge me? Would he look away? Would he say anything?

And what would I do?

I like to think that I'd run screaming in the other direction, but I'm much too sensible and passive-aggressive for that. I'd probably pretend not to see him and hide behind the first thing I could find.

But sometimes I think I'd like to talk to him. I've had conversations with him in my head. They start off civil and he tries to explain himself. He tells me he didn't want to get his heart involved until he knew what was going to happen with the baby. And I tell him that I didn't either, but I didn't have that option, as I was the pregnant one. And I tell him that if he didn't want his heart involved, he shouldn't have gotten his ... something involved. I use a lot of unladylike language in this imaginary converstation.

He's not a bad person and I don't hate him. I just think that something, somewhere, went horribly wrong with him, and he forgot how to empathize - if in fact he ever learned. I wonder if he didn't.

Sometimes I wonder if he has a heart at all. He was full of plenty of excuses but little emotion when I confronted him last March. And the e-mail I got when he found out I still had Roo ... plenty of legalese and blather but no real content. No real emotion. Nothing about him being hurt. Just this harsh, imperious sort of tone that was so unlike him - unlike him, and very like his mother.

What sort of man lets his mother handle that sort of thing? And he has to know that she e-mailed me in December and January. Wasn't he embarrassed that his mother said and did all that? I would be. But again, H seems incapable of feeling anything other than amused, randy or tipsy.

I don't know. Sometimes I wish he'd have manned up or something. Made some sort of commitment. And I wonder, what would have happened had he done so? If he'd bought that Hello Kitty engagement ring he once mentioned seeing at the mall? What would I have done? Would I have said yes?

I think I would have. It would have been wrong, but I would have done it. I wonder what sort of life I would have now. Where I'd live, who I'd be. How Roo would be. If H would have changed at all.

I feel certain that he would have been the best father he knew how to be. I don't think he would ever have intentionally harmed Roo - not physically, not emotionally or mentally. But he might not have seen the wrong in what he said or did. He might not have thought there was anything wrong with his views, his methods, his lifestyle. And Roo would grow up confused about things - about why daddy said one thing and mommy said another. Who was right? And why were they always arguing with each other?

And eventually I'd have taken Roo and left him, and she'd be in the middle of a disaster, being pulled in both directions, emotionally scarred and confused.
It's a moot point, I know. He never asked. I can't imagine any circumstances under which he would have.

But I think I still would have said yes. And I hate myself for it.

March 2009, Part Three

Enough whining. I'll return you to your regularly scheduled blog, already in progress ...

Things fell completely apart on March 25th. H and I got into as much of a knock-down drag-out fight as you can get via instant message. It started off when I asked H about the papers I’d had him served with. I’d heard from LDSFS that he hadn’t, and I wanted to know whether that was true. He said he hadn’t filed them.

He said, “I hadn't filed at the time because we started talking socially and you started leaning towards keeping it and the filing was to block the adoption ... at the time I didn't want to block it if that was your choice. Now, I can't block it, but I want something to do with her if your keeping her … As I understood the paperwork, that was to either a) block the adoption or b) be involved in the adoption (such as sharing information). If you are keeping her, I will end up having rights to her. There are things that will need to be filed, but its in our intrests to file the paperwork and get the process rolling once she's born”

“i still haven't made up my mind yet,” I wrote. “i might not until after she's born. in case you were wondering.”

H’s next words shocked me. “if your leaning towards giving her up for adoption at all, please let me take full custody.”

Was he bloody serious? That’s exactly what I asked him. “are you bloody serious?”

He said yes, and I said well I can tell you right now, that’s not going to happen. He said he hadn’t filed because I had told him I was going to keep the baby. I told him that while I had said I was leaning that way, I’d also told him I hadn’t made up my mind yet. He said he was sick of me dragging him around on the issue. I said he could have filed the paperwork any time he wanted. It got worse from there, and I’m not going to get into detail both because it’s private, and because it’s too painful. I signed off after calling him a bad name, and I spent the next half hour or so crying and hating myself for ever being with him in the first place. I experienced the most intense self-loathing I had ever felt before. On the one hand, H had treated me cruelly, and it had been painful. But on the other hand, I felt that I deserved it – that I had brought it upon myself by getting involved with H in the first place.

And I cried for my sweet, innocent baby, who deserved so much better than all of this. She meant so much to me! She was the only thing that kept me going day after day, getting out of bed, getting dressed, eating, taking care of myself.

H had said during our fight that if I kept the baby, he had rights. The way the paperwork had been explained to me was that, if he failed to file, he had no rights. I left a message with S to verify that. She called while I was out and told my mother that by not signing those papers he lost ALL parental rights and I didn't ever have to let him near my baby if I didn’t want to. I felt better after that.

I talked to my mom and to my therapist about possibly keeping my little girl. It made me nervous to think about, but I was excited at the prospect of motherhood. I already loved my baby so much. I thought that no matter what happened, I would take a cue from Tim Gunn and make it work.

I wrote this in my journal:

“Went to see "Knowing" with Mum today. Strange movie. You moved around a lot during it, I'm sure you could hear it (it was loud enough and the seats rumbled in parts). Being a disaster sort of movie as it was I started worrywarting. What if I give you to another family and you're in an accident - hit by a car, trapped somewhere, kidnapped, hurt, sick ... how would I ever forgive myself? But then what if I'm naturally less vigilant than two parents would be and something happened to you in my care? A slip and fall, bad food, an abduction, a car accident ... there were so many scenes where Nicolas Cage's son is in trouble or worried and looks to his father. Can I be that for you? Am I good enough, smart enough? What if I'm not a good mommy? What if I don't bond with you right away? What if I start to resent you for being born and messing with my life's timeline and my love life?

What if you've got emotional problems I can't handle? What then?

Sometimes I wish I could keep you safe in my belly forever. You're warm and safe and comfortable and you get all the nutrients and vitamins you need, you get plenty of exercise and never overeat, you can't really be injured, and I don't have to worry about where you are and what you're up to.

What am I going to do with you? I wish I could somehow see the future both ways. What my life would be like, how things would play out. But some things are only for God to know and I'm pretty sure that's one of them. I have to try to have a little faith and do the best I can.”

A few days later:

“I've been so bored lately. I need a little princess to fuss over and care for. You'll keep me busy, that's for sure. We'll have such fun together, you and I. I'll take you places and show you things and play games with you. And I will love you, no matter what. I will love you, because you are mine, my own little girl. I will understand you. I will help. I will do something about your nightmares and anxiety, although I pray you won't have either. I will do anything. Everything. Because the thought of someone else doing any of it breaks my heart beyond repair.”

I wondered what my life would be like in a few months. Could I handle raising a child on my own? Could I deal with the demands of a newborn?

More importantly, could I find the will to go on if I ended up placing my baby with another family?

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.

March 2009, Part Two

H seemed to have decided for me – I was keeping the baby. He made reference to shopping for furniture and overnight visits and custody. H didn’t seem to understand much about newborns, aside from what he referred to as “boobie feeding.” He seemed interested in sharing custody right away. I tried to explain that babies need routine, stability, and most of all, their mommies. He seemed to be under the impression that we could just pass her back and forth like a Christmas fruit cake. This worried me. Although H mentioned the importance of both of us raising the baby, he talked like the times that she’d be with him, I’d be completely out of the picture, and my input would be moot.

The more the baby kicked, the harder it got for me to imagine ever giving her up. Already she was my entire world. And I’d been through so much, given up so much. How could I give up my baby, too? I asked my mother. She didn’t want to talk about it yet, which just reinforced the fear (which I voiced to her) that she and everyone else who said that this was my choice was just biding her time until I came to the obvious conclusion that adoption is the only way to go. I didn’t care what people said about love and selfishness. I felt that I loved my baby too much to ever give her to anyone else. All I’d ever wanted was to be a mommy. How was that wrong?

I bought Dreft and washed up the baby clothes and blankets I had. I wondered, not for the first time, what my baby would be like. What would she look like? Would her eyes be blue or brown? Would her hair curl? Would she be pasty white or olive-y? Would she be a tiny baby or a chubster? Would she be a good sleeper? A talkative, giggly baby or a quiet one? I was still horribly depressed, but the happiest times I had were when I thought about my baby – playing with her and dressing her up and taking care of her.

In the middle of the month, H and I got into a sort of instant message fight. His past behavior hadn’t inspired a lot of confidence, and I told him so, and that I didn’t want him in my baby’s life, and that I didn’t feel like I could trust him. He didn’t have much to say about that except that if I wanted him out of my life and my baby’s, I was SOL. His attitude, and what I knew about him, made me think very strongly that I didn’t want him anywhere near my baby. At this point, H had finally told his mother, and I worried that she would be a problem. She was a chain-smoker, and I worried that she would pollute my baby’s air and hurt my baby’s teeny-tiny lungs. She’d smoked during her pregnancy with H. What was to stop her from smoking around my baby as well?

H continued to IM me over the weeks, talking custody and child-rearing, which hurt my head. I still hadn’t made a decision, and just the thought of deciding turned my stomach. H had plenty to say on the topic of parenting – he went on and on about how he had friends and family to help out - the whole 'it takes a village' thing, and started in on tolerance (which he misspelled) and other things and all I could think was, not with my baby you don't. I found myself fiercely protective where my little eggplant baby was concerned, and I simply didn’t think H would be a good influence on her.

And to make matters worse, I still didn’t know if he’d filed his paperwork yet. S hadn’t contacted me in weeks. She hadn’t understood my wanting to take a break from birth mother stuff at LDSFS. I'd explained that I felt uncomfortable at group - unwanted, unnoticed, unimportant. She didn't seem to understand. Well, fine, I decided. S didn’t even want me to consider keeping my baby, so forget her. I focused my energy (most of it nervous) on sewing dress after dress for my baby. I was getting more and more uncomfortable by the day – I was really starting to notice the extra weight in my belly, and the stairs in my house were murder. The baby was kicking like a maniac.

I loved it. I loved her. I wondered if fetuses could feel that they were loved. I hoped so, and I did everything I could think of to let her know. I took good care of myself, but I also talked to her, and I sang to her. I read her a few stories. I hoped that the gentle rumble of my voice from inside would comfort her. I rubbed my belly and felt her move under my hand. It was the most wonderful feeling, and I wished it could last forever.

Looks Aren't Everything, But They Help

I've gotten a few new pictures of Roo lately, which I love. Pictures always make my day. Just the sight of her sweet little face makes me smile. And what can I say? She's a stunner. Absolutely perfect. Beautiful. I'm happy that H's and my DNA got along better than we ever did. I firmly believe that Roo is the result of the choicest genes from both H and me. Roo got the very best of each of us (although whether she got my curly hair remains to be seen) with none of our physical flaws as yet (her forehead is a normal size, and the few teeth she has are healthy). She is absolute perfection. I wouldn't change a cell in her little body. I did good work :o)

And yet ... she looks just like her daddy! Several people have said so, including her daddy's family. I don't know how, I don't know why. I just know that she does, and I love it. She looks like her daddy, but with her mommy's pretty eyes, long-lashed and slightly exotic. I get such a kick out of that, I can't even tell you. No one would ever guess that she was adopted. Not that that's important. I wouldn't care if Roo didn't look a thing like her parents. But she does, and I think it's awesome.

I don't know if this sounds silly or stupid or not, but it's comforting to me how much Roo resembles her mommy and daddy. It's like one more of the many signs I've found that Roo is where she's meant to be. And there have been dozens! Some people would call them coincidences, or say I'm finding them only because I'm looking for them. But I believe strongly that almost every single day my Father in Heaven has found some small way to confirm to me that I found the right family for Roo, and that she is where she belongs.

How grateful I am to my Heavenly Father for allowing me to be Roo's birth mom, and how grateful I am to P and M for being her parents! They could and can do everything in the world for her, except give her a body. I'm happy to have done that for her, and for them. It's the body they would have given her had they been able - right down to the button nose and pretty eyes. She looks more like them than I look like either of my parents, and I wasn't adopted.

Roo belongs with them. She is theirs, and she looks like theirs, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Is it important? No. But is it nice? You betcha.

Don't Open the Door!

I've been in a bit of a funk lately. I think it's because I've been working on more of my story, and although I tend to ruminate, I hate it. I don't like living in the past, and I really don't like reliving stupid things I've done.

But I want to be thorough. It's one of my quirks. It's not enough to me to just say that my pregnancy was a lonely time and I wasn't sure what to do about things. Writing is cathartic, and I know I'll feel better once it's all out.

That said ... I've been going through old messages on MySpace. H and I met on MySpace, have I mentioned that before? I'm never on MySpace anymore, because it reminds me of H, and because I like Facebook better. And because most of the people I connect with on-line have abandoned MySpace for Facebook.

Anyway.

It's coming up on two years since I met H, and I've been reading through the messages H sent me, from the first down to the last, so I can write about things. In retrospect I can see things progressing, see the danger that was almost imperceptible at the time. It's horrifying. My stomach turns more and more as I move through the list. I want to reach back two years and slap myself. Give myself a good shake and tell myself to snap out of it, to use my brain for once and think about what I'm doing. I feel physically ill as I read.

It's a bit like watching a scary movie. I can look at things now and see the stalker with the meat cleaver hiding behind the door, waiting for the horror-film heroine, too tragically stupid to live, to enter the room. I want to shout to her, "Don't open the door!" But it does no good. She can't hear me. She's going to open the door no matter what I do. She's going to be butchered and I am powerless to stop it. I can only look on in horror at the bloodbath on the screen.

That turned into a violent metaphor. Hmm.

Sometimes I wish I hadn't opened the door. I wish I could go back. Arm myself. Give myself something to defend myself against the onslaught. But then ... what of my baby? If I'd known not to open the door, known what was behind it and walked away instead, she wouldn't be here. I don't like to think about a world without her.

I've struggled, thinking about things. Would I make the same mistakes again, knowing what I do now? Would I still have done everything just to get Roo here? I think I would. I know that, if I hadn't, Roo would have gotten here some other way. But I'm greedy and selfish. I want Roo in my life. I wouldn't trade being her birth mother for anything in the world. If I had to open the door to get her here, so be it. She is worth it.

March 2009, Part One

I kept adoption in the back of my mind, but I also started looking at baby names, keeping my options open. If I was honest with myself, I didn’t want to go with adoption. I wanted to keep my baby. And since I was in no rush to decide, I figured I might as well start looking at things from the keeping-the-baby point of view. In my forays into the birth mom support group, I’d gotten to know a birth mom who kept her baby for two weeks before placement. I told myself that I was allowed to follow her lead – if I didn’t want to make a decision until after the baby was born, that was okay. In the back of my mind I thought I might do what she had done.

In the meantime, I decided to take a break from LDSFS and from the whole adoption thing. When H asked me (via instant message) how I was feeling about things, I told him that, at the moment, I was leaning towards keeping the baby. H asked me to give the baby my last name, not his. “i would like mine to die out,” he wrote. He asked if I was getting things together to prepare for having a baby, and I told him I’d done a bit of sewing, and checked prices of furniture on-line. Most of the rest of our conversation was rubbish, including this little gem from H: “i smoked weed because it makes you feel AWESOME!!!”

We discussed potential custody arrangements and I got the impression that he would be mostly hands-off – coming to see me and the baby a few times a month, that sort of thing. I didn’t dwell on it too much, because I had enough to worry about without future hypotheticals in my head.

My baby was a kicker. Her little feet and fists were in constant motion, and I loved the feeling. I loved to go to Target and look at baby clothes and bedding. I bought a few tiny things – sleepers and Onesies and socks. I told myself that, even if I ended up placing my baby, I could use them someday, for another child. If I ever had another child. Privately I thought this pregnancy would likely be the only one I ever experienced (and I still think so, sometimes).

All I’d ever wanted out of life was to be a wife and mother. Obviously, I’d sort of skipped the former, but here was my shot at the latter. Was it so wrong? I felt like everyone around me thought that single parenting was a horrible mistake. It seemed like they wanted to make me feel bad for wanting to be a mother, and it angered me. I was a mess of hormones and more than once I cried myself to sleep, feeling bad not only for myself but for the precious baby in my belly whom no one seemed excited about.

Pregnancy was very lonely for me. I hated shopping alone for baby things. I hated going alone to doctor’s appointments. I hated the feeling that I was the only one who seemed to be happy that I was having a baby. As wonderful as my mother was, it wasn’t the same as having a husband. I started to wonder, to worry. Could I be enough for my sweet baby? Could I love her enough, take good enough care of her? I could be a good mother, but I was just one person. Would I be enough?

H continued to IM me on and off. In one conversation, he said that he had no problem showing an R-rated movie (Kill Bill) to a 12-year old. He said a few other things that worried me. I started to really consider what H’s influence might do to my baby. What sort of things would the baby be exposed to? What things would she hear? What fumes might she inhale? What would she see? What would she be taught about God and morals and right and wrong? It worried me.

The baby kicked more and more each day. My appointments, lonely as they were, went well, and I was assured I had a healthy baby. I wasn’t happy with my weight gain (my doctor wasn’t worried, but I was) so I added more fruits and veggies to my diet. I’ve never been a big fan of produce, but there wasn’t anything in the world I wouldn’t do for my baby. I ate apples and carrots and salad and drank more water than I ever have before. It felt good. I felt good. My baby was happy and healthy, and I still had months to think about what I was going to do with my little kicker.

February 2009, Part Two

My sister came to visit over Valentine’s Day weekend.

We’d never gotten along very well, owing to the fact that when we shared a room during our formative years, I was exceptionally obnoxious and she was exceptionally strong-willed. We’d learned to play nice as we got older, but I suspected that had as much to do with her moving across the country as it did with any real maturity or understanding.

We’re five years apart – 4 years, 10 months and 2 days to be exact. It’s a difficult age difference for sisters, and I always got the impression that in my sister’s mind, I stopped aging or maturing at around age 13, when she left for college. I was stuck forever as the bratty little sister, and it was only in the last two or three times we’d seen each other that we actually started to enjoy each other’s company.
The visit went well, for the most part. We got along swimmingly, and I dreaded the announcement that I knew I had to make. In light of my sister’s recent fertility issues, I was especially anxious about sharing my news.

Each day of my sister’s visit my mother asked me when I was going to tell her. I told her not yet. How on earth do you begin such a conversation? I didn’t know, so I put it off again and again. Finally, the last day of her visit, I decided to spill. My mother, my sister and I went to my brother’s house for dinner. And after dinner, when we were all sitting around and talking, I finally blurted it out.

My heart was hammering faster than my baby’s, I swear. It was awful. I felt like I was saying some sort of expletive. The word “pregnant” felt dirty in my mouth. But everyone was so nice about it, and no one seemed too horribly disappointed.

My sister called her husband a few minutes later, to tell him, and she relayed the message, “He says to tell you we’ll adopt it,” only half-joking. Which was awkward. Then my mom called my brother in Canada to tell him. I wasn’t sure how he’d take the news, either. His wife was due with baby #4 just a few weeks after I was due.

It felt so nice not to hide things anymore, though – to not have to suck in my stomach or worry that someone would recognize my clothes as being from Motherhood Maternity. I still wasn’t sure about adoption, although I did tell my siblings that I’d met with a few couples, when they asked what I planned to do.

I wrote to H – a nice long letter, sort of an airing of grievances. I waited anxiously for his response. And waited, and waited. His inaction made me worry about what sort of future we would have together, and what sort of father he might be. And yet to place my baby for adoption just because of H … inconceivable.

I wrote this in my journal a few days later: “Part of me wishes I could be pregnant forever. As long as you're in my belly, you're mine. I wish you could always be mine.”

And the next day: “I can't even begin to describe how the thought of adoption makes me feel. It's like my heart is being ripped out. I can't bear it.

I spent a good portion of the day crying. Things went poorly with S, I haven't heard back from H and ... just a million little things. I've never felt so alone. I have nothing. How am I supposed to give up the one good thing I have in my life?

I wish I could keep my little banana baby inside me forever and never let her go. How am I supposed to let her go? To some other family, to be their daughter. Their parents and siblings will get to pick her up and play with her and love her and I won't. It kills me. I die.”

I didn’t get an e-mail response from H, but finally he contacted me via instant message. It wasn’t pretty.

He told me, “I pretty much realize that when you have this child, it's up to us to have a good friendship , because I don't feel I can ever be what you need in a relationship setting.”

Well, I thought, that would have been nice to know a few months ago.

(Aren’t you glad, dear reader, that I’ve saved all my Instant Messages?)

He didn’t have much useful to say after that – more excuses, things about how he was distancing himself to keep from getting hurt. Apparently it didn’t occur to him that his distance might cause me any hurt. The conversation devolved. He mentioned that he’d been a big baby despite his mother smoking throughout her pregnancy, and then made a remark I’m not even sure I should mention (so here’s your EXTREME TMI warning) to the effect that I should take a photograph of a rather personal place to show to my next boyfriend, because I would never be the same after I birthed his spawn.

My jaw just about hit the floor. I teared up. How could he be so crude, so flippant? My next several responses were monosyllabic while I gathered my composure. He asked if I was showing yet, and if it was “uncomfortable to walk yet, or just kinda like a fat chick at a mall?” We debated the efficacy of therapy (don’t ask) before he signed off, saying “ok, i'm getting tired, and, well, admitingly, drunk.”

End of conversation.

I wasn’t sure if he’d signed off yet, so I typed this out for him to see the next time he logged on:

you still there?
i'll take that as a no
well for the record, i'm still mad at you.
you treated me like crap for five months when i was really vulnerable and that's not easy to forgive.
and i've got ultrasound pictures but i don't feel like you deserve to see them because i still don't think you really care.
i just wanted to tell you that.
and you said you think you could be a good father but the fact that you were drinking while having this conversation with me says otherwise.
so ... yeah. i think that's it.

The next night he messaged me again, telling me that he didn’t think his drinking had anything to do with what kind of father he could be. He said he had poor stress-handling mechanisms or something like that, and I pointed out that children can be stressful. He didn’t see the connection. I gave up trying to explain it.

The month ended and I was no closer to a decision, or to any answers, than I’d been the month before. I was getting tired and depressed and my patience with H was wearing thin. I wasn’t sure what to do about him. I wasn’t sure what had happened with the papers he’d been served with. But I’d survived another month of pregnancy, and I decided that was something to celebrate.