Out

I outed myself at church* a few weeks ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Footprints in the Sand

Note: I've been hanging on to this post, unsure whether I ought to hit "publish" or not. Part of me feels like maybe it's a little bit too self-congratulatory or smug. I didn't write it with that angle in mind, but I'm a worrier, and I worried that it came off that way. I let my mother read it, which may or may not have been a mistake, as I doubt very much she would notice if I was being self-congratulatory. She's my mother and would probably see that sort of thing as a sign of self-esteem.

Suffice it to say that this wasn't written with smugness in mind. I don't think I'm, like, Captain Awesome or anything. But I am better than I used to be, and I wanted to write about why. So here goes.

There's this poem you've probably read before about God and footprints in the sand. I'm not going to re-post it because I'm too lazy to Google it and I think it's probably got a copyright, not that that ever stops anyone.

I will summarize, however. The gist of it is that in our darkest times, God picks us up and carries us through the pain. As a child, I thought, Isn't that nice? But the older I got, and the more pain I experienced, the less nice I found it. I mean, it's a lovely sentiment, it really is. And it's true that God doesn't ever abandon us, especially in times of pain and sorrow. But what I object to is this idea that He carries us, lifting us up. I've not once found that to be true.

Maybe it's true for you; I can't speak for anyone but myself. If it is true for you, well, you probably don't need to read the rest of this. In fact, you probably shouldn't, because I may unintentionally offend you (sorry). But if it's not true, if you've also wanted to cry foul when someone quoted the Footprints poem to you, read on.

I've been thinking a lot lately about pain. I have fibromyalgia, which is a chronic pain condition, so I'm no stranger to hurting. Every day when I wake up, something hurts. Add to that my father's death and Roo's placement and I think I'm something of an expert in what it is to hurt. Through my life, whenever I've hurt - physically, spiritually, emotionally, mentally - I've turned to my Father in Heaven in prayer. More than once I've asked Him to lift me up, to carry me through, to take the pain away. That particular prayer has never once been answered as I've asked. Prayer didn't make placement easier by one iota. My Heavenly Father has never once picked me up. But, if we're sticking with the poem here, there has never once been only one set of footprints. God has never seen fit to lessen my pain. But He has been with me through every step of it. He has never left me to suffer alone, not once. His answers to my prayers are often along the lines of my mother's response when I'm hurting: "I know. I know it hurts. I'm sorry."

I don't think I'm introducing a new concept when I say that pain brings strength. Think of your muscles. When you work out - lifting weights, for example - the exertion damages your muscles with thousands of tiny rips and tears. They hurt, don't they? But the body is an extraordinary machine; it heals itself. As the body repairs the muscle, it builds under the tears, making a bigger, stronger, better muscle than before. Or in other words, pain is gain.

When I was still only a few months along in my pregnancy, I heard one birth mom's account of her placement experience. I want to relay this carefully, because I have so much respect for this woman and her story and I know that what happened worked for her. Let me simply say that she concluded her story by saying that placement only hurt a little bit for a very short time, because God picked her up and carried her through - He took the pain all away. I'm quite sure I internalized that, because the pain of placing Roo was very different, and I felt misled and lied to.

I envied this other birth mom for her pain-free placement. In my darker moments, I hated her and her whole happy story. But in the time since then, I've come to pity her a little, as I pity anyone who blithely says that they prayed and God simply took their pain away. I think, if she didn't hurt, how did she grow? Because I have grown immensely from and through my pain. It has shaped me into a bigger, stronger, better woman than before. I'm not advocating intentionally causing pain as means of personal growth, but when it happens, go with it.

I think it's a mistake to assume that if God loves you He'll carry you through your pain. The God I worship loves me enough to let me hurt when I need to hurt so that I can grow into the woman He wants me to be. He doesn't leave me to suffer alone and He never will. He doesn't carry me, but He puts His arms around me. He says, "I know it hurts. I'm sorry." His footprints are right there in the sand next to mine. He walks with me through my pain, and I am a better woman for it.

I am thankful to my Father in Heaven for answering my prayers in His way, for letting me learn and grow through my pain.

Did you know that Glenn Beck's son was adopted? Maybe you did. It's probably one of those things that people who know a lot about adoption already knew. But I'm a little slow, and I only just discovered that the other day when I read birth mom Brit's blog. Her post (here) included a fantastic quote from Glenn's address at the 2007 FSA National Conference. You can read both Glenn's and wife Tania's remarks *here* at the American Fork FSA blog. I read them, and while I very much liked the entire text, one thing in particular jumped out at me from the end of Glenn's talk:

I know with everything in me that our children selected us in the premortal existence. I know that we stood around and we were honored when that soul looked at us and said, “I want you as my dad, and I want you as my mom. Somehow or another we’ll find each other.” It’s not just getting any child. It’s sometimes waiting for that soul who is trying desperately to fulfill their side of the bargain and to fulfill what you guys set out to do in the first place and to be reunited with his family for time and all eternity.

Isn't that beautiful? I believe it. I absolutely do, and no one will ever convince me otherwise. My little Roo, this tiny girl I love so very much, wasn't supposed to be my daughter. She was meant to grow in my belly, but she was meant to be with P and M. I know it. She knew it, too. When she met P and M for the first time, it was as if she already knew them. I believe that she did. She knew who was holding her. She knew they already loved her.

As impossibly hard as placement was, I have never doubted for a second that Roo is in the right place, in the right family. I am so grateful that I was led to P and M, because how sad would it be if Roo wasn't their daughter? Last Friday was the first time that I looked in the mirror and saw maybe a little of what people mean when they say that Roo looks like me. It surprised me - it always surprises me to see any of myself in Roo, because she is a [P and M's last name] through and through. She is perfectly suited to their family. She is their daughter. She's exactly what and who I would expect a child of theirs to be. I love it!

I don't think that I could have said so a year ago. Not because it was any less true, but because for a while I clung to the belief that being this happy with where Roo is was some sort of betrayal of my affection for her. I felt like if I willingly, even happily acknowledged that she was where God meant for her to be, it must mean that I loved her less. Lies! Believe me when I say that I would bleed for that little girl in half a heartbeat. There is nothing in this world that I wouldn't do for her. I love her every bit as much as I ever have, with everything I have in me. She has my heart, and she always will.

There are those who say that the idea of adoption being "meant to be" is a crock, that this is all happenstance, people trying to make the best of a bad situation. Maybe it is for some people. I can't speak for anyone but myself. But it's not that way for me. I believe with everything I have in me that my Father in Heaven meant for Roo to grow in my belly but grow up with P and M. I believe that He has a hand in each of our lives, and that He loves us so much more than we can ever begin to understand.

I don't have words to say how grateful I am to be Roo's birth mother. Just by being born, she helped me get to where I needed to be. I'm glad I could return the favor.

Up the Hill

I was asked some time ago about grief after placement. More specifically, I was asked what changed for me. What is it that helped me get past the worst of the pain, helped me to turn around, to feel happy again. I've been thinking about it for a while. I wasn't sure I wanted to answer, because it is a story that is meaningful to me personally but that might sound kind of ridiculous when written out. But I thought I'd give it a try anyway, in the hope that maybe someone will read it who is hurting, and I can help them hurt a little less.

The days right after placement were absolute hell for me. To say that I was unhappy would be an understatement of epic proportions. After a week or so, and after the first visit, things got a little easier, but I certainly wouldn't say life got a lot easier after that. It didn't. It sucked less. As time passed, pain started to seep away little by little like a slow leak.

And then, a few months after placement, I hit a standstill. I wasn't as depressed as I'd been immediately post-placement, but I didn't seem to be getting any happier, either. My hike back up the hill of mental health hit a roadblock. No matter what I did or how hard I tried, I couldn't seem to get more than halfway up said metaphorical hill.

It was frustrating, and with that frustration came a number of other little things that acted as a mini landslide, which succeeded in knocking me back down the hill a few feet. I managed to climb back up to the peak I'd reached previously, but nothing in heaven or earth worked to get me to the top of that darned hill. I was ready to give up and pitch a tent.

I grew more and more frustrated and when the opportunity arose to do a school outreach presentation I nearly didn't take it. How, I thought, was I supposed to tell class after class of teenagers that adoption had made me happy when I didn't feel happy at all? I was beginning to think I was never going to be really happy ever again.

But something inside of me wouldn't let me say no, and so off I went, with a caseworker or two and a birth mom who had placed nearly 8 years ago. The birth mom, N, was someone whose story I'd heard before on more than one occasion and I liked and respected her. Since placement, N had married and had three children, and her story gave me hope for my own future. In my crabbiness, I think I'd have snapped at any other birth mom I might have presented with but for some reason I didn't mind N.

I told my story first, and if I was slightly less enthusiastic than normal no one noticed or at the very least no one said anything. After I finished, I gave a small smile and took my seat as N told her story.

It was the same story I'd heard her tell many times before, and I found myself drifting a bit. Then she got to the end. She told the kids that she had worried that the pain of placement would ruin her forever, that it would break her, and she would be forever broken.

Then N said three words I'm sure I must have heard before: "I'm not broken."

Such small words, but she said them with such force, such conviction that I felt them in my soul. I knew N wasn't just repeating a phrase she'd heart before. She was stating the absolute, irrefutable truth. She was NOT broken.

I can't explain it, but those three words changed something in me that day. They grew both roots in my heart and wings to carry them to my mind. They echoed in my head for hours. "I'm not broken."

Was I broken? I didn't want to be. I desperately didn't want to be. It felt wrong to me that I should go through so much pain and heartache and not come through it a stronger, better person. Being broken seemed wrong.

I decided something important that day. I decided that no matter how long it took me to climb that dratted hill, I would climb it. I would not give up, because I was not broken either.

The day N said those words - "I'm not broken" - was a turning point in my grief. I don't think it was until she said them that I realized I wasn't broken, either. I could be, if I so chose, but I didn't have to be broken, not for a second, if I didn't want it. I decided I didn't want it.

That's not to say that my pain is all gone or that there are no hard days and no tears. Certainly there are hard days! Certainly I cry! I still grieve a little. I think I'm entitled to; after all, my heart was broken. My heart was broken. But I was not.

My Father in Heaven asked me to exercise more faith than I thought I possessed and place my precious daughter with two people I had never met. He gave me the strength to do it. He saw me through the hard times afterward. I am not broken. He fixed me. I am whole.

June 2009, Part Three

Usually, I'm the one who cuts and colors my mom's hair. I've got a cosmetology license, and I'm much cheaper than a salon. But for reasons that would take too long to explain here, my mother went to a salon in mid-June to have her hair done, and I tagged along.

I got a million questions and comments and congratulations from the hairstylist, her co-worker, and other clients. It was refreshing and wonderful and made me very happy. I thought to myself that this must be what it’s like for pretty much any other pregnant woman. It was nice to feel normal for a change.

My youngest brother finally spoke to me on the telephone. He told me that he and his wife were praying that I would make the right decision. This meant that to them, there was a wrong decision, which irritated me. I was having a baby. That was the right decision, end of story. I really wished people could have seen that.

Owing to a combination of procrastination, fear, and defensiveness, I was due in two weeks and I hadn’t told any of my extended family that I was expecting (don't judge me). I wasn’t looking forward to their reactions. I fully expected everyone to pity my poor mother – first she lost her husband, now this. And I’ve always felt like a loser and a screw-up compared to other extended family members - not so much a black sheep, as a sick sheep who wasn't producing any wool. This wasn’t going to help. But my mom was going to visit my grandmother for her birthday, and I came along. I wasn’t sure what to say but I figured my belly would do the talking for me.

There’s a line in the Genesis song “No Son of Mine” that goes, “I rang the bell with my heart in my mouth.” I never understood that line until I got out of the car in front of my grandma’s house. I closed the car door with my heart in my mouth. I felt a nausea unrelated to my pregnancy.

I trailed my mother up the steps onto the patio. My mom gave my grandma a hug and went into the house. I bit my lip and gave my grandma a hug.

“Hi, Grandma. Um, I’m pregnant,” I said.

“Oh, no you’re not, honey, you’re just fat,” she said consolingly.

Just a refresher, here’s what I looked like in mid-June.



Fat? Just fat? I mean, I'm not a toothpick like most of my cousins, but really? Just fat?

“Um, no, really, I’m pregnant.”

“Oh, honey, no you're not, you just need to lose some weight.”

“No, really, Grandma, I am pregnant.”

Again, she insisted that I just needed to diet. I was tempted to say, Well, that's news to me, because my doctor's done several ultrasounds and it sure looked to me like I was pregnant.

Finally she seemed to believe me.

“Well,” she said, “I didn’t even know you were dating anyone.”

(This was, by the way, the reaction of pretty much everyone - they were stunned not at my pregnancy but at the fact that I had actually had a boyfriend.)

“I’m not,” I said. “I was.”

And out came an edited version of the last year of my life. But my dear old grandma, ever the Midwestern stoic, took it all in stride.

“These things happen,” she said, and she told me about a relative who’d become pregnant after a death in the family. I felt a little better. I don’t know why I was so nervous to begin with. This was, after all, the woman who, after my dad told her his cancer had returned and he was going to die soon, had sort of shrugged and then complained about her satellite dish.

I really am a genetic mutant, I think, because I like to talk things out and feel my feelings, and my dad’s immediate family is very much the opposite. I love them dearly, I really do, but they tend to react to life-changing news by either shrugging or changing the subject.

But it was good to get it out in the open finally, and good to see my grandma and talk to her. It had been months. And now that my grandma knew and would spread the word, my mother seemed to be more open to talking to people about it. She told one of her friends on the phone. Her friend was excited for me, which I thought was super nice. I wished more people were excited. Getting it out seemed to relax my mother, too. She seemed less tense, and less prone to snap at me.

My brother came over to help put the crib together. He also gave me a priesthood blessing. I don’t think I could ever say enough about what an amazing brother I have. He should be given an award. I don’t think I could have gotten through my pregnancy without him.

My last full month of pregnancy was ending quickly but I hadn't yet reached the point where I just wanted the baby out. I liked being pregnant. I liked feeling my baby kick. I liked knowing she was safe and healthy and happy. As long as my little girl was in my belly, I didn't have to do anything or make any decisions. I dreaded my pregnancy ending and life getting more complicated - and even then, I knew it would.

Three Months Later, I'm Still Awkward

I've written before about my necklace. I love my necklace. I still wear it every day. I still fidget with it when I'm feeling thoughtful or anxious or if I just need something for my fingers to do.

I only wrote about the instance in Ireland, but I've actually had several people ask me about my necklace, or comment on it at least. I started a post almost two months ago about one such instance, but I never finished it. I meant to. But then I went to the FSA conference, and one of the classes I took was on who to tell, and when, and how. By tell, I mean, tell your adoption story. I was excited to take the class because of the time in Dublin when I explained my story so poorly. I was eager for any advice that I could get. And after the class, I felt empowered, and I thought to myself that I wasn't going to bother finishing the post, because the awkwardness I'd been writing about wasn't something to be repeated - I knew how to speak confidently about my story and my decision, and the next time it came up, I would look the person in the eye and tell them, with a smile, that I placed a baby for adoption a year ago.

I've known myself as long as I can remember. I should know myself better than to think that an hour of "People take their cues from you" would keep me from making a cake of myself.

I was with a group of friends (mostly guys) after a fireside tonight, and we were all sort of standing around and talking, the way that young people like to do when many of them are gathered in one place. I was shifting my weight from one foot to the other (because for me standing in high heels is more painful than walking in them), and had just become aware of a slight lull in the conversation when my friend T, who had been talking, caught sight of my necklace. I suppose when I shifted the light hit it just right for him to notice.

"That's a pretty necklace" he said.

It caught me off guard. I think that's part of the problem. After all, NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition.

"Oh, thanks," I said. Please, please, please don't ask about it, I thought. T is a nice enough guy that I think he would be cool about things, but it wasn't just T listening - there were probably six other people listening. Five of them were men. What was I supposed to say if T asked?

I did learn a thing or two at the class on talking about adoption, and so anymore, if it comes up, I will tell women a brief version of my story. Women feel safe to me. Even if they think I'm a dumb skank, they'll school their faces into polite smiles and pretend they like me just the same. But men? Men are much scarier. Men are unpredictable.

Don't ask, don't ask, I thought.

"Who's it for? Does it mean anything?" T asked.

He seemed genuinely interested. And he is a genuinely nice guy. The truth was on the tip of my tongue. My audience seemed like nice enough people. I was thisclose to telling him ... except that another guy friend, D, was a few feet away, in another group of people. And before I could explain my necklace to T, I remembered what had happened with D.

I wrote about it in my scrapped post. I was talking to D and two female friends, one of whom happens to be a labor and delivery nurse - MY labor and delivery nurse. Small world, right? Anyway. My nurse friend mentioned something about epidurals, and without thinking I blurted out that the hardest part is holding still for it in the middle of a contraction. D and my other friend looked puzzled.

"I had a baby last year, I don't know if you knew that," I said.

D had a look on his face like a pig that knows it's dinner. "I did not know that," he said.

And ever since then, for six weeks now, D has been distinctly awkward around me. He's a huge flirt, but he hasn't once flirted with me. The ease of our old conversations is gone. It doesn't seem to matter what I've done with my life in the past year, how much better I have become. It feels like D will never be able to get past the fact that I had a baby.

All this flashed through my mind in about two seconds while I formulated a response to T's question.

Does it mean anything? he'd asked.

"Um, sort of. I mean, no." I blurted out.

"What does the R stand for?" he persisted.

I don't know what happened after that. I just ... I couldn't do it.

"Nothing. It stands for nothing," I said. Liar! I thought. R is for Roo, sweet little Roo!

T turned to A, the only other woman in the group. "Is she lying?" he asked.

A shrugged. She didn't know. T questioned me with his eyes.

"The R stands for Richard," I said, picking on a guy to my left. "We're secretly married."

That got laughs out of a few people, and T said that if he were married, he wouldn't hide it, but that he wouldn't want to be married to Richard, because Richard is a man.

The attention shifted, and I breathed a little easier. But only for a few seconds. Because once again, I've let myself - and Roo - down. And the more I think about it, the more I find that I WANT to tell T. Because he is such a nice guy. He'd probably say something like, "Oh, that's so cool!" and ask me maybe two questions, and then move on to something else.

But I couldn't tell him. Because D seemed like such a nice guy, too, and now I think he thinks much less of me than before, and doesn't like me as much, and our friendship just isn't the same. I would hate it, absolutely hate it, if the same thing happened with T.

What on earth is wrong with me? Why can't I just say it? Why can't I just tell people the R stands for the name of someone I love very much. The person I love more than anyone else in the world. I wouldn't have to get detailed. I could even honorably dodge the question by saying the necklace was a gift from people I love dearly, and the R is one of their initials.

Argh. I am angry with myself. I had a chance to promote adoption - to maybe change people's minds, or to at least open them - and I blew it. I made Roo out to be something shameful. Why did I do that? Why do I STILL do that? I am not ashamed of Roo, or my decision. I love the former and I'm proud of the latter. Why can't I just tell people?

I wonder if it's too late. What if, next time I see T, I ask him if he still wants to know about my necklace? I could tell him, explain that I just didn't feel comfortable sharing it with everyone who was with us when he asked the first time. Would he understand? Or would my initial dishonesty keep shame as the most important thing? Will he understand why I didn't tell him when he asked? Or will he wonder why I didn't just tell him?

My problem is, I think, that I just don't know how people are going to respond. My problem is that I know that most guys can't handle it. My problem is that even though people might mostly react based on how I tell them (they'll be cheerful if I am, etc), they've all still got prejudices, preconceived notions.

I know I need to just let it go, but I think, the timing of being asked tonight was actually pretty good. The fireside that we'd been at was given by one of my church leaders, Elder Richard G Scott, and in his talk he had actually mentioned adoption specifically (I'm working on a post about it). So how perfect would that have been? I could have tied my story into what Elder Scott said about couples using adoption to find the spirits that were meant to join their families (it really was a beautiful talk, y'all should look it up - here's the *link*).

But I let the chance pass me by, and now I don't know what to do. And I don't know if I'm ever going to be able to get past this fear I have that every man I meet is going to think less of me for having had a child.

One Year Later

Today is a special day. Today marks one year since I placed my little Roo with her mommy and daddy!

I cannot believe it's been a year already. But then ... I think, it's sort of like Roo's birthday felt. Like only a month had passed, and also like twenty years had passed. It's hard to say how much time it feels like it's been.

I don't often revisit the things I wrote (and, by extension, the feelings I had) just after placement. It's too hard for me. But not for the reasons you might think. When I do read what I wrote, I feel a bit detached, as though what I'm reading about happened to someone else. I can still vaguely remember feeling that way, but it seems like so long ago. I just don't feel the need to go back to that time and relive those feelings.

Sometimes I wish I'd been a bit less honest, a bit less forthcoming about how hard placement was. It can't have been easy for P and M to know the depth of my devastation. For their sake, I wish I'd kept my feelings a bit more private. Placement should be a happy time for new parents, and I hate the thought that I might have ruined some of that for them.

But I try not to dwell on it. The past is past, what's done is done, cliché, cliché. Here's what's important: A year later, I am so much happier and more at peace than I ever could have imagined. I expected today to be a hard day, but so far it hasn't been. I got a nice e-mail from Roo's parents, I've done a bit of reading, a bit of laundry. I haven't cried yet. I might not. But it's okay if I do. It's funny, though. I cried a few days ago, in anticipation of today, but then, as always, I cried for myself. For how hard it was to place, to say goodbye to motherhood. I cried for the teeny-tiny newborn I cared for. I cried for Roo [insert my last name here]. I have never shed a tear for Roo [insert P's and M's last name here]. I cry for my baby. I don't cry for theirs. I cry for what might have been, not for what is.

A year later, I would do it all over again in a heartbeat. Yes, it hurt. It hurt for a while. But time has dulled the pain, and continues to do so. Roo's happiness is worth every tear. If me being sad for a while is the price of her being happy forever, I'm glad to have paid it.

I know I've probably got family members who think I should have placed sooner, with one of the couples I met when I was pregnant. But I couldn't have done. They weren't right. I was only able to place because I knew I'd found the right family. It was P and M or no one. I'm glad it was them. I'm glad they are Roo's parents. I hope today is a happy day for them - a day they celebrate being a family of four instead of three.

Funnily enough, today's a pretty happy day for me, too. I feel alright. Mostly, I think. I mean, I feel a little sad when I remember this day a year ago - pre-placement, I should say.

I remember how quickly the day seemed to pass - the fastest day of my life. I hardly put Roo down for a second, determined to spend as much of the day as I could with her in my arms because it was my last chance to do so as her mother. The hours slipped away and before I knew it, it was time to put Roo in the little dress I'd made for her when I was pregnant, brush her soft hair one last time, and strap her into her car seat for the last trip she'd make in it. The back of the car was loaded up with things to give to P and M, things I wasn't going to need anymore - formula, a few things from my baby shower, the last of the diapers. I dragged my feet, took a few last pictures, and finally knew, when I looked at the clock, that I couldn't postpone things anymore. I carried Roo in her seat to the car a final time, set the seat in the base gently and held the handle until I heard the click that meant Roo was secure. I walked around the car and got in the back seat with her. I stared at her the entire drive, trying desperately to memorize every bit of her. We got to the agency so quickly.

The pace at which time had passed that day had never seemed more unfair as it did when we parked the car and I had to get out and take my baby inside the agency office.

I don't remember placement as clearly as I ought to. I do but I don't. I wish we'd taken pictures together. I get so jealous when I see pictures from other placements. I get jealous of the professional photo shoots so many birth moms and adoptive couples seem to have done. I wish I'd thought to do something like that. I have a few pictures of me and my mom and Roo before P and M arrived, but none of all of us together.

Well, now I've made myself a liar, because I cried when I was typing all that up, but it's okay. Because like I said, I feel sad for me. I feel sad at the thought of how hard that day was. I don't feel sad for Roo.

She's had a great year by all accounts. Sometimes when I get e-mail and pictures of all the fun things Roo has done and the places she's been, I wish P and M could have adopted me, too (no offense, Mom). My little Roo has so many people who love her! She's so very blessed.

Sometimes - not very often, for sanity's sake, but every now and then - I try to imagine what Roo's life would be life if I'd not chosen adoption. She would be loved, yes. But how hard things would be! I don't want her life to ever be hard. I know that being adopted doesn't guarantee that things will be perfect for her. But I know I've done all that I could to help, to give her the best start by finding P and M for her. Whatever happens now is meant to be, because she was meant to be theirs.

And I was meant to be her birth mom. I'm so very thankful for that. I really do think today is a happy day. Roo is happy. Her family is happy. I think I'm going to be happy, too.

Cold Risotto Redux

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

I digress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ugly Truth

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway, back to honesty.

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

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

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

May 2009, Part One

I keep looking at the 3-D ultrasound picture, at my baby’s wee little nose and chin and pretty lips. I thought she was the cutest fetus ever (I still think so). If there were ultrasound beauty contests, my little girl would have won, hands-down. She was the most perfect little person I’d ever seen. Everything I read said to expect a decrease in fetal movement, but no one told my baby. She kicked and wiggled happily a LOT. I loved it.

My back did not. I’m not a very tall person, and the extra 30 pounds I was carrying were murder on my spine. I invested in a few belly bands, which helped a bit. I hadn't taken more than a vitamin during my pregnancy but one weekend I finally broke down and took two Tylenol. I felt guilty for it, too. I was immensely proud of not having taken any medication. I was determined that, no matter what else, I was going to grow the healthiest baby I could.

I knew from ultrasounds and appointments that my little girl was healthy. But I wondered what sort of little person she would be. The 3D ultrasound lady told me that personality in the womb pretty much carries over after birth. So I decided she’d be a busy little bee, kicking and alert and happy (and I was right!). Kicking was pretty much my favorite thing ever. My baby kicked on a pretty regular schedule. She kept me up at night quite a bit. From 3 to 4am it was party time in my womb. I worked a lot of SuDoku puzzles since the kicking was hard to sleep through.

My siblings continued to call my mother and tell her what a horrible decision I was making. They apparently believed that I’d make my mother raise my baby while I went off and did … something else, I don’t know. It irritated me. It still does, even a year later. No one was excited for me, or for the baby. I knew that circumstances weren't ideal of course, but I HATED that my baby was being punished for my mistakes. I felt (and still feel, actually) that there should have been a little more compassion, and a bit more perspective. A wonderful, delightful little girl was going to be born, sweet and perfect and fresh from God. And not one single person on earth seemed happy about it, only me. No one asked how my pregnancy was going. They only asked if I'd come to my senses yet and got angry when the answer was no.

In retrospect, I'm able to be a bit more understanding about things, but the hurt is still there. Allow me to interrupt my story for a moment to say this: if you know a woman who is facing an unplanned pregnancy, you've got two options. You can be supportive and kind, or you can be a jerk about it. You might think the choice she's made is a horrible, terrible mistake, but the choice isn't yours to make, it's hers. Being a jerk about it is going to accomplish one thing: hurt feelings. It's not going to make decisions or change minds. It's simply not. It's going to hurt feelings and ruin relationships. Your choice, really.

May was notable for me because it was then that I took childbirth classes with my mom. It sucked to be there with her instead of a husband. I hoped people knew that she was my mother and not my ... partner. I worried that people thought we were a lesbian couple. My mother laughed at the thought.

"Easy for you to laugh," I told her. "They think the best I can do is a woman in her fifties!"

I learned quite a bit - there were videos and handouts and at one point I thought, you know, I've changed my mind, I really don't want to have a baby after all. I decided that a good way to encourage teenagers to use birth control was not, in fact, to make them carry around flour sacks, or those electronic baby dolls. Childbirth classes seemed a much more effective contraceptive to me.

I bought baby things here and there. In the back of my mind I was still considering adoption, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself from buying baby things. I made a few trips to Babies ‘R’ Us. It is a horrible place to be in alone. Couples everywhere, happy couples, starting registries. I envied them. I wanted to start a registry, too, but I didn’t see a point in it. You only need a registry if people are going to buy you gifts, and people only buy you gifts if they're happy for you.

No one was happy for me. I hated that. I wished that people could look past circumstances and just be happy that a baby was going to be born. It irked me that no one could, or would. But my little girl always seemed to know when I was upset. She’d give me reassuring little kicks just when I needed them the most. It was like she was saying, "It’s okay, Mommy. I’m here, and it’s okay."

At my mother’s insistence, I met again with S, this time to gather information about single parenting. LDSFS had initially told me that they’d help me explore my options, and give me information about whatever I chose. It became apparent, however, that they were not used to dealing with women who chose to single parent once that decision had been made. S wasn’t very enthusiastic about the idea of me single parenting. She told me that she’d put a "soft hold" on one of the couples I’d met with, meaning they weren’t really available for any other birth moms to choose. I was irritated. It was no wonder they’d been e-mailing me so frequently! I hadn't asked her to do that, and it bothered me that she’d have done so without my input. S told me that no matter what I chose the couple really liked me and cared about me and wanted to keep up a relationship.

"Seriously?" I asked. "So if I keep my baby and single parent, this nice married childless couple would still like to hang out with me?" I couldn't see it happening. I couldn't see the couple ever liking me once I'd told them no. I didn't even much like myself for telling them no. They were the perfect adoptive couple - I couldn't have asked for anything more from them. I wasn't sure why I hadn't chosen them, really, except that I simply couldn't bear the thought of not being my baby's mommy.

As my pregnancy progressed, I became more and more moody and emotional. And as the weather heated up, my feet got fatter and fatter until the elastic on my socks cut into my ankles and I decided to give up on shoes and socks and wear flip-flops everywhere. Even if my feed hadn't puffed out, flip-flops were inevitable because I reached the point where I could no longer touch my feet. I had vague recollections of once being able to reach my toes and ankles, but those days were long gone.

I had started attending church again. It was awkward going to a singles ward while pregnant, but I couldn’t forget the story I’d heard from a married birth mom. She’d met her husband in church when she was eight months’ pregnant. She’d been asked out a LOT at eight months’ pregnant. The men in her ward had been impressed by her consistent church attendance and obedience. I decided that would happen to me, too. If she could meet her husband while pregnant, so could I. If nothing else, I would charge ahead, make new friends, and show a little faith. I bought a simple black maternity dress from Old Navy and felt thankful, not for the first time, that I didn’t look as far along as I was.

Church wasn’t much fun for me. Ninety-nine percent of the time, no one looked at me, no one talked to me, no one sat by me. I think that my bishop was probably the only person who was glad to see me there. It was rough. I knew I’d messed up, but I was trying to do better. On occasion the Relief Society president would sit by me out of pity, but she never said more than “Hello” to me, and she always got up quickly when we were dismissed, as though she didn’t want anyone to see us sitting together. It hurt. I left church after Sacrament Meeting, went home and cried. It was a routine I’d stick with until the end of my pregnancy.

I didn't know everyone in my ward, but I knew enough about enough of them. I was certainly NOT the only one there who wasn't taking the sacrament. There were at least a handful of people in my ward who had done some pretty serious things. The only difference was, their mistakes weren't making their feet swell. I felt like my maternity dress bore a scarlet S for skank.

I used the word "unfair" an awful lot when I was pregnant, and this was another instance. I hated that I had to suffer publicly for my sins when there were seriously messed up people who escaped public scrutiny altogether.

But I wasn't going to church for them, I reminded myself. I was going for God, and for me. My Heavenly Father was happy to see me there even if no one else was. My baby wiggled around when I sang the hymns. Sitting in church, I was able to think a bit more clearly about what my baby's life would be like with me as a single parent. Would she feel as out of place as I did, being the only little girl in Primary without both parents at home? What would she feel on Father's Day when all the little kids got up to sing to their daddies? I knew what she would feel, and it broke my heart. I cried, thinking of my sweet, innocent girl feeling left out and sad because of something that wasn't her fault.

It made me question the idea of single parenting. I hated questioning. I pushed it aside as best as I could, and counted the minutes until I could leave church.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Today is a special day. It's my mom's birthday!

Fifty-three years ago, these two über-stylish folks ...



... were at a party. I don't know all the details, but I do know that at one point during the party, they got a phone call from someone at Quintard Hospital - the phone call they'd been waiting for. Their baby had been born, and it was a girl!

Some people might have been confused had they listened in on that phone call. The lovely lady was, after all, about eight months pregnant. Had the hospital called the wrong people?

Nope. Because their new baby was special. Their little girl had been born to this young woman:



They didn't know her name. They didn't know how old she was or where she lived or what sort of person she was. All they knew was that she had made the bravest, most selfless and impossible decision a mother can ever make. She had chosen to place her sweet, tiny baby girl for adoption.

I don't know the exact timeline of things. I don't know how long that newborn girl stayed in the hospital with the woman who gave her life. But I do know that young woman placed her baby in the arms of the lovely lady and asked, "You'll have her sealed to you, won't you?" And the lovely lady tearfully replied in the affirmative. She kept her promise. Many months later the lovely lady and the handsome gentleman took that baby girl to the Los Angeles temple and became her parents for eternity.

The young woman didn't know any of this. She never knew what had happened to the tiny girl she placed for adoption. She had no way of knowing anything about her - whether she was happy and safe, whether she had a good life, whether she succumbed to a childhood illness, whether she'd been disfigured in an accident, whether she believed in God ... she never got pictures or visits or letters or updates. When she handed that newborn to the lovely lady, she said goodbye forever.

I wonder where she found the strength to do such a thing! What a brave, noble choice. I am so thankful for it. I am thankful for that impossible courage. I am thankful that she made that choice. That darling girl ...



... grew up, of course, to become my mother.



From her birth mother, my mother got tenacity, strength, courage, a handful of quirks and of course the DNA that gave her hazel eyes and brown hair and a body that stopped growing taller at 5-foot-2 and a laugh that gets goofy when she's tired. And from her mother, she got love, patience, kindness, loyalty, responsibility, joy, knowledge, a love of God and a strong testimony of the Gospel ... and the odd annoying habit, of course. My mother is the incredible woman she is today because of both of her mothers. The mother who grew her and gave her life and sacrificed so much for her, and the mother who is her true, real, forever mother, the one who raised her and loved her and cared for her and taught her and took her to the temple.

Today, on my mother's birthday, I am more thankful I can say for both of my mom's mothers. Because of her birth mother, I had the strength to place my Roo. And because of her mother mother, MY mother is an amazing, smart, strong woman, herself a good mother and an inspiration to me.

Happy birthday, best mother of mine. I love you.

Adoption Academy and a Bit of Rambling

Yesterday I got to speak at another adoption academy. The birth mom panel wasn't until 12:45, but I went much earlier because my mom was on the adult adoptee panel and I wanted to support her. She did such an amazing job. I'm so proud! My mother never talked about being adopted until 6 months ago at the last adoption academy. I think it's been good for her to do them.

One thing she always emphasizes is that adoption was an enormous blessing for her. Her parents were supposed to be her parents. She grew up with the family she was meant to have. Being adopted never made her feel any less; I can vouch for that. I always got the impression that my mom was her parents' favorite, as a matter of fact. My grandma always told my mom that she was a joy. How blessed is my mom to have such a great family? I don't doubt she was meant to be theirs. My grandma knew it, too. Her family must have thought she was crazy, adopting a baby when she was seven months pregnant. I'm so glad she did!

My mom had to leave after her part because she had a flight to catch - she's in Canada for about a week visiting my brother and his wife and their sweet little kids. I stayed. For my part, of course, but for the rest of it, too. I LOVE adoption academies. There is such an amazing spirit there and I always come away feeling like the luckiest person in the world to be a part of them, and a part of adoption in general. There's just something very special about the people there - those who can bear witness that God puts people in the families they're meant for in a very real way. I don't think I've heard an adoption story yet at an academy that didn't give me chills.

I was on the birth mother panel with Tamra, who placed more than 12 years ago and who is one of my favorite people, ever; and Krista, who placed about 6 years ago. It was a little intimidating for me to be the one with the most recent placement, and the most open. But it was good for me, too. One thing I tire of is having my placement compared to others that might be more open, and having people think that there's something wrong with me or with my couple that we're not as super open as some others are. I think the birth mother panel helps people to see that just because each level of openness is different, doesn't mean they're any less than or not as good as another level of openness.

The level of openness I have with P an M works incredibly well for us. It's what we're all comfortable with, and I know that we're mature enough and communicate well enough that if something needed to change, it would. But it's great the way it is now. I get very regular pictures and video and updates, and visits when I need them, and we're all happy.

I don't feel like Roo's mommy. I tried to emphasize that on the panel. A lot of these couples who are certifying for the first time are very anti-open adoption, because it scares them and intimidates them. They just don't understand it. There are no boundaries blurred. Roo knows exactly who her parents are. I feel more like her aunt, and she's my favorite niece. I love her more deeply than I can say, but I'm not her mama, and I haven't tried to be. That's not my job. I didn't place her for adoption only to try to be her mom.

I so love to see opinions and thoughts change. I love to see couples understand how amazing openness can be (if that's what works for them). Obviously, Tamra doesn't have an open adoption. I admire her strength and courage. I don't think I could have done it without the promise of openness. She did. She's a hero of mine.

I probably sound like a gushing moron, but I just LOVE adoption academies! They're emotionally exhausting but oh so worth it. The Spirit is so strong there.

I think it's funny how my little flying leap off the straight and narrow has helped me feel God's love for me so much more acutely. My testimony is so much stronger now that it's ever been before. Adoption is an integral part of God's plan for his children. I am so blessed to be a part of it!

Roo's daddy gave me a CD full of pictures from the past few months of Roo, many of them including Roo's sister. The two of them are the cutest things ever. They love each other so much. I hope that they'll always be good friends. I like to picture them in a few years walking hand in hand to primary on Sunday.

And for the first time in maybe forever, I can picture my own children doing the same. I don't know when I'll marry and be a mother, but I know it will happen. God's time, not mine. Can I be super cheesy and end with a testimony? I am so blessed to have played a part in creating an eternal family. I will be forever grateful to have been chosen to bring Roo into the world; to have been trusted by my Father in Heaven to carry and deliver one of His precious children and then to find her family.

Adoption is the most amazing miracle. I am more thankful than I can ever say that it is a part of my life.

Little Wonders

I'm not sure what possessed me in January, but when I was signing up for an ASU Institute class, I went with "Building an Eternal Marriage."

Part of it, I think, is it fit in with my schedule. And I've already taken Book of Mormon and a couple of other classes that were offered on Wednesday night. So I went with BEM.

The class consists of me, two or three other singles, and about 12 couples, both engaged and already married. I should have expected that, I suppose. But do the couples have to be so physically demonstrative? I get sick of the constant nuzzling and intertwined limbs. One girl spent about twenty minutes running her fingers through her fiancé's Grizzly Adams beard. It reminded me of the way apes will groom each other. It was nauseating on many, many levels.

I don't sit behind them anymore.

Anyway. The last time I went to birth mom group (2 months ago, give or take), I left early for Institute. L, a dear friend of mine, said she wanted to go to Institute with me. Well, I thought, that'll at least be another for the Bitter Singles side in my class. And L is awesome. So we went.

I wish I'd checked the schedule first. Class that night was on intimacy and fidelity in marriage. Not, strictly speaking, about the law of chastity, but it sort of turned into that. It was awkward. Sort of. L seemed distinctly miserable, and I can't say I blame her. I thought I'd be miserable and uncomfortable, too.

But, wonder of wonders, I wasn't. Not once. For the first time since I took a flying leap off the straight and narrow 2 years ago, talk of chastity and marital intimacy did not make me feel like trash. It was amazing! I was able to listen to the material and read the student manual and take things in the context of my future relationship with my husband. I didn't sit there and feel like I blew it, like I was chewed gum, to borrow an analogy, from an irritating object lesson of my youth.

I wished L could have had the same experience. As we were leaving class, she mentioned how awkward the lesson had been for her. How it made her feel like crap. She asked if I'd felt the same.

"Well, sort of," I lied, feeling that tact and sensitivity were more important than honesty. And I wondered why it was that our shared experience had produced such different results. I thought about it for a few hours and I think I know what it was.

I used to feel like L did. I used to hide at the very mention of chastity. I used to feel like there was a scarlet letter on my chest (an "s" for skank). Like I was a horrible person who had done horrible things (my words and feelings here, not L's). I felt acutely that I had let down my Father in Heaven. That my Savior had had to suffer a little more because of my stupidity.

But I spent the better part of a year repenting, and being obedient, and in February I went to the temple and received my endowment. What a blessing it has been, and how grateful I am for my Savior! I know more deeply than ever who I am, and why I am here, and what I can make of my life. I know - I KNOW - that I have been forgiven for what I've done. God doesn't just forgive us, either. The scriptures say that He will "remember them no more." How awesome is that?

And I find that, the more time passes, the less I remember them as well. Maybe that's part of why my Institute lesson didn't bother me. The sins that I committed belong to a person I'm not anymore. Why should talk of intimacy bother me? I will have it someday with my husband. I am worthy of an eternal companion. I don't always believe it, but it's true just the same.

Tonight, in my other Institute class, my teacher ended with his testimony of the Atonement. "Our Savior loves us," Brother N. said. "He is glad He could suffer for us. He would do it again." I thought that was profound. It's easy to fall into the trap of thinking that Jesus died for us because He had to, because we are all rotten people who mess things up, and that maybe He isn't too happy about it. But He is! He wanted to. He did it for us because he loves us. I think it's wonderful.

A Few (ha-ha) Words of Advice for Couples

I first started this blog as a record for Roo. I wanted her to know where she came from, how she came to be with her family, and what sort of person her birth mom was.

It's grown since then. I would have figured I'd hear from birth moms about my blog. I've heard from more adoptive couples than anything, which has been great. I've gained a new perspective and a better appreciation of couples who adopt.

I would never presume to speak for every birth mom or potential birth mom out there. I only speak for myself. But, that said, I am a birth mom (and I have birth moms friends). I went through the process of looking at couple profiles and trying to choose parents for my baby. I saw a lot of profiles that were very well done ... and some that were a turn-off. No couple's profile or blog should be a turn-off! No couple sets out to make themselves unappealing. But it happens sometimes because they simply don't know what to say - or what not to say. As such, I offer the following suggestions (for blogs, profiles, meetings with potential birth moms, and relationships with your child’s birth mom).

Meetings and Relationships
-Don’t make promises you won’t/can’t keep – forever. When in doubt, don’t promise. In that vein, don’t start something you can’t keep up. As in business, it’s best to underpromise and overdeliver.

-Remember, when planning for openness, that things will be very different once placement is done. Your feelings about contact and/or the relationship will likely change. This is why it’s best to avoid overpromising.

-When in doubt, err on the side of too much contact with the birth mom. There almost can’t be too many pictures or updates or input or visits. The birth mom will let you know if you need to back off. Just because something may hurt a birth mom (baby shower, court date, sealing, etc) doesn’t mean you shouldn’t offer her the chance to be there. Not being invited can hurt worse.

-Be open and honest to a fault – COMMUNICATE. Don’t ever let communication between you and your birth mom get awkward or stressful. Love her and trust her enough to be honest, open and communicative. (P and M excel at this, which I love.)

-Remember, when you’re going to meet with a potential birth mom, that she is as nervous as you are. Gifts are nice, but she’s not going to expect it, and if you do want to bring her something, keep it inexpensive and neutral. Flowers are good. You don’t want her to feel like you’re plying her with gifts to get her to choose you.

-Relax. Don’t try to sell yourself or be pressuring. Just get to know her for her, not for her baby. If you happen to have the exact same tastes and views as she does, great. But don’t pretend you do to try to get her to like you. Be yourselves.

-For the love of all that is good and decent, don’t refer to her pregnancy as “unwanted.” Unplanned does not mean unwanted. Don’t ever lose sight of the fact that birth moms choose adoption out of love, not because they don’t want their babies.

-Pray every night for your birth mother, whether you’ve met her yet or not. Pray before you meet with a potential birth mom. Follow the Spirit. Don’t let your desire to be parents override your feelings. If a situation isn’t right, you’ll know. Remember, you’re not just looking for A baby, you’re looking for YOUR baby.

-Don’t take it personally if you meet with a potential birth mother – even if you meet more than once, and e-mail and talk – and she doesn’t choose you. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t like you or that you’ve done anything wrong. The couples I met with but didn’t choose couldn’t have made a better impression on me. They just weren’t my baby’s family.

For Blogs and/or Profiles
-Proofread, please. You don’t have to be the world’s best writers or even have a knack for spelling. But when you’ve typed “ans” instead of “and” and not fixed it, it just looks lazy. Not every birth mom is going to be as picky as I was, but the first thing I noticed about P and M’s profile (after their picture) is that it didn’t contain any glaring errors. I appreciated that.

-If you’ve adopted before, mention what things are like with that birth mom – how open is the adoption? If you’ve got pictures of her with your child, that’s awesome. Post them! Birth moms want to know that they won’t be dumped after placement.

-Speaking of pictures, please please please have some nice ones taken for your profile. They don’t have to be glamour shots, and you don’t need to be Photoshopped, but do try to look your best. Be yourself and have fun in your pictures, but birth moms don’t want to see your his-and-hers “white trash” Halloween costumes.

-Do you enjoy hunting and fishing? Good for you, and go ahead and mention it. Maybe your birth mom does, too. But maybe she doesn’t. And she might find your blog a bit off-putting if it contains multiple pictures of bloody, entrail-strewn deer carcasses or slimy large-mouth bass. I’m going to put high-risk activities in this category, too. If you enjoy 4-wheeling, that’s fine. But please don’t post pictures of the gory flesh wound on your back from the last time you crashed. A birth mom wants to feel that her baby will be safe and protected, and that the baby’s parents will live long lives, unmarred by any sort of horrible accident or disfigurement.

-If you waited several years after marriage before trying to conceive, keep it to yourself. I’m REALLY not proud of this, but there are a few profiles that mentioned that and my knee-jerk reaction was, “Well, you should have considered your fertility ten years ago when you were young and ‘enjoying it just being the two of us’ and travelling the world and building up your careers!” Whether you did or not is your business, and it’s not my place to judge (although obviously that didn’t stop me). But you might want to keep it to yourself.

-Blog! Update at least monthly, too. If you haven’t updated in 10 months, a birth mom might wonder if you’re no longer hoping to adopt, or if you’ve dropped off the face of the earth. You might feel like you have nothing to say. Make something up. Are you wondering how “Lost” is going to end? What did you think of the latest Twilight movie? Blog about it. A blog is a great chance to really be yourselves and show potential birth moms what your lives are like and what great parents you would be.

And Finally …
Try to anticipate what kinds of questions a birth mom might ask. What would you want to know about a couple if you were in her place? Here’s a messy, random list of some things you might want to mention.

-Will she be a stay-at-home-mom?
-Do you have any family traditions you hope to carry on?
-Do you have a nursery set up (are you ready, right now, for a baby)?
-Do you have any pets?
-Any plans to move in the next 10 years?
-Do you attend the temple regularly? What are your church callings? Do you have Family Home Evening every Monday night?
-Do you have immediate and/or extended family living in the area? (Roo has tons of family nearby, and I love it.)
-Besides infertility, have you overcome any other hardships/adversity? What did it/they teach you?
-Do you have any experience with adoption? Do you know anyone who has adopted, or anyone who was adopted?
-What would adopting a child mean to you? You can’t oversell how precious a child would be, although you'll want to avoid sounding desperate, as though your lives are empty and worthless because you aren't parents yet.

Overall, be yourselves. You don't have to be perfect, and you don't have to take any of the advice I've given. Odds are, your child's birth mother will love you anyway, warts and all.

Maybe I'll Feel Better In the Morning

[Caveat: I wrote this when I was feeling terribly emotional. I try not to write when I'm a mess, but I think it's important to be honest about my feelings, and this is what they were earlier.]

I miss my little Roo today.

I miss her every day, if I'm honest. But most days it's more of an undercurrent. And then there are days like today where I cry for all I'm worth, and I feel desperate, broken, like I will never be human again.

I know it sounds selfish, but part of the reason I didn't want to place Roo was because I was afraid this was going to happen. That I would be ruined, that every day for the rest of my life would be a battle to keep from falling apart. I didn't think I could bear that kind of pain.

I was wrong. Apparently I can bear it. But not very well.

I miss her so much that it is a physical ache. My arms feel empty, my heart feels empty. I have nothing. I could die from the pain of missing my little girl. I wish I could sometimes. It seems grossly unjust that a person should have to live with this kind of torment.

Everyone told me that I was going to get the most amazing blessings from placing Roo. That my life would improve in ways I couldn't even imagine. That this would be good for me as well as Roo - that I would find direction and purpose and hope, and that God would compensate me immeasurably.

So far, my life has not improved. This hasn't been particularly good for me. I have no direction, no purpose, very little hope. Mostly I have a void. How much longer will God make me wait for things to get better? How much more will I be asked to endure? I'm tired of being brave, of being strong. I'm tired of being a good example. I'm tired of being a birth mom. I'm tired of pretending I'm doing okay because people have grown impatient with my grief and pain.

Maybe it's not what people want to hear, but I don't care. My feelings are valid. They are important to me and I'm not going to hide them because people don't think they're important. You know what? I have good days and bad days and I'm not going to apologize for the bad ones. Being a birth mom really, really sucks sometimes. It hurts worse than anything.

There isn't really anything in the world that can make things right again, that can make up for the loss. But she's worth it. My little Roo is worth the pain and the anguish and the misery and every single tear.

I love her. And I miss her, and so I cry. And I pray for the strength to get myself through another day. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.

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.

The Invisible Woman

[I don't usually do double posts, but I put this one on the Mesa Birth Mom Support Group page, too, because I think every woman should see it.]

I don't know how long this one has been floating around the internet, but I just came across it today. I needed it today. It's told from more of a mom perspective, but I think it applies just as well to birth moms. Pregnancy and birth and placement are just the foundations of the amazing people our children will become. We may never see the finished work, never know what heights are reached. But we are not invisible. God sees. God knows.

I've been feeling invisible lately - not to P and M, of course. They continue to be amazing. But with everyone else - especially some of the people on whom I should be able to rely more than any others. I hate feeling invisible. This is a good reminder that I am not invisible to the One who matters most.

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.

Seven Months Old

My little Roo is seven months old today! I love her so much. I miss her.

I'm probably not going to have a visit for a while. I've decided I'm okay with that. My mother is fond of reminding me that that which does not kill me, makes me stronger. I've always liked to correct her, citing ample evidence from my life to prove that that which does not kill me, makes me wish it had. (I've also coined the phrase, "This, too, shall pass, like a kidney stone.) But I've found that there's no point in worrying about things that are beyond my control. Not to say that I don't still worry about them, but I try not to, because nothing ever comes of it but more worry.

Roo has the very best parents, she really does. I know that everything they do for her they do because it's in her best interest. I guess what I've grown to hate is that, since Roo was born, the things that are in her best interest and the things that are in my b est interest seem mutually exclusive. It seems grossly unjust, and there are days where every breath I draw is a battle to reconcile myself to that perpetual, seemingly permanent injustice. It stings.

Although I can easily recognize the hand of God in my precious baby's life, it seems particularly cruel that I - the one who grew her and carried her and gave her life and cared for her as I've never cared for anyone before - will play no part in her upbringing, something that defies biology and instinct and every atom of every cell in my body. Though I will be a part of her life, however small, she will never in a million years appreciate how deeply I love her. It is the worst sort of unrequited love.

I'm getting maudlin and broody. I don't mean to sound so despairing or melancholy. My feelings of sadness today were brief and passing. I have felt joy and peace more deeply since going to the temple than I ever have before in my entire life. I don't think I've been unhappy for more than about fifteen minutes total since I left the temple. I know that temple attendance does not make life perfect or without trial. But it helps, and it has made such a difference for me!

I am eternally grateful to my Father in Heaven for entrusting His precious daughter to me - for trusting me to take care of her developing physical body and to find the family He meant her for. I am thankful for those nine weeks I had to be her mommy. In placing her, I was able to give her an eternal family. As a birth mom, one of the hardest things to come to terms with is that the only way you can give your child what you want for them is to give them to someone else. Although I like to think that I gave them to her, and not the other way around. I couldn't give her what I wanted most for her by being her mommy. I think I'm finally okay with that. Roo is where she was meant to be. There isn't a doubt in my mind that P and M are supposed to be her parents. And I'm okay with that, too. I'm happy about it. And so is Roo.