In Which Jill Writes About What She's Not Going to Write About

I spent quite a lot of time on a post about September 9th, 2009 - the day I placed Roo. It felt like what I ought to write about because today marks three years since then. I've written before about placement itself but I've never written properly about the day before placement. So I started to write, and I cried a fair bit, and even though everything I wrote was true and relevant, it didn't feel right.

I did a presentation the other night with P and M. We spoke to the women and teenage girls in a local LDS congregation. I've done these presentations with Roo's parents twice before and I love it. I love talking about adoption with pretty much anyone, but I think it's more meaningful when my audience gets both sides of Roo's story instead of just mine. When we reached the point in the story where I was supposed to be talking about my feelings during placement and what it was like, I had an odd moment. One part of my brain was bringing up the words I wanted to use to describe placement, but another part of my brain was nonplussed. (I have been trying for ages to properly work that word into a blog post, and there it is.) I thought, am I remembering this right? What did I feel that night?

I found that I sort of couldn't remember. I mean, I've read some of my own blog, so obviously I remember in the sense that the story is acutely familiar and of course I lived it, too. But as I was talking (the part of my brain that makes me talk always works three times faster than the part of my brain that actually considers whether I should be saying what I'm saying) I kept stopping mid-sentence and changing direction and finally I blurted out what is probably the least helpful thing I have ever said when describing placement -

"I don't know. It was just - it was a while ago. I've changed so much since then. It sort of feels like it happened to someone else."

A minute later, when my rational brain had caught up, I silently prayed that no one in the audience took that to mean I'd suffered a dissociative episode. But the thing is, what I said was true. I am quite the opposite of the depressed, juvenile, selfish woman who placed her child for adoption and then sat in her mother's Toyota screaming and crying. While I am immensely proud of the choice I made for Roo, I'm not proud of who I was when I made it. I was a wreck of a woman, and I find it nearly impossible to identify with her, even for the sake of my story.

I tried to slip back inside that skin to talk about how much placement hurt, but it made me feel petulant and selfish and it was uncomfortable. Writing about the day of placement, the last day I was a mother, didn't feel right because it was full of such wistful sadness and I don't like to dwell in those places anymore. One of the rather obvious things I have learned about happiness since I started studying it this year is that if you want to be happy, you shouldn't spend a lot of time thinking about sad things.

So, I'm sorry to say, I don't think any of you will ever be reading the paragraphs I labored over earlier. If Roo wants to read them when she's older she will but I don't want to go there with anyone else.

I was just going to write, like, a paragraph about why I'm not writing about placement day today, and look what happened. Words everywhere like some kind of explosion and I'm not even done yet.

I also thought that I should write something about the day my dad died, because today marks four years, but I spent hours on something that still didn't feel right. I wasn't sure why. I edited the heck out of it and re-wrote it three times and I liked what I wrote but it still didn't feel like what I ought to say today. I think I've figured it out.

When I was a kid I took gymnastics classes in the summer and I learned two important things. The first is that I have no aptitude for gymnastics. The second is that there's a pathetic sort of safety in looking back. If you're doing a handspring or a walkover or a flip, it's easier to go backwards because you can see where you're going. If you go forward, you have what is known as a blind landing - your feet face the direction you're headed before your eyes do. I mastered the back walkover, but the front walkover scared the daylights out of me. I didn't know where my feet were going to land and my fear kept me from putting them in the right place. Every. Single. Time.

But in life, as in gymnastics, if you can only go backward, you're not going to get very far. You have to learn to risk a blind landing every now and then if you want to get anywhere worth going. It's like the end of the last Indiana Jones movie. Remember this scene?

Indy had to save his dad (spoiler alert: he succeeded), and that meant taking a step forward, off a cliff. It would have been easier and safer to turn around at that point, but he didn't. (It would have made for a terrible ending if he had. The elder Henry Jones would have died and Indy would have looked like the worst sort of coward, especially considering everything else he faced in the movie, and the two movies before it.) He had to move forward. He couldn't go back.

Neither can I.

There are things I am going to remember for the rest of my life, and when the mood strikes me I will write about them and I may or may not put them on my blog. But I'm drawing myself a line there. The past is a foreign country. You can visit from time to time, but you can't live there.

More and more I find myself taking leaps of faith. Well, not leaps, exactly (which is lucky, since we've established that acrobatics are not my forte), but steps, let's call them steps, into the unknown. I can't see the path ahead of me but I know that it's there. I know that God is there. And even though it would be easier to look back, I'm going to keep moving forward, blind landings and all. I don't know where this path ends, but I can't wait to get there. It's going to be awesome.

That Which Does Not Kill Me

Four or five years ago, when I was making decent money doing hair, I bought a lot of vintage clothing on eBay. Among my most prized purchases from that era is a pair of blue and black Foster Grant sunglasses. They lean a bit too far toward the Willy Wonka end of the sunglasses spectrum to be considered stylish or cool but I knew as soon as I saw them that I had to have them.



In the time that's passed since then, I misplaced them. I recall seeing them a couple of months ago and thinking that I'd probably developed the chutzpah to pull them off. So I put them ... somewhere. And I couldn't remember where, and it was driving me crazy.

I thought that perhaps they'd ended up in some of the boxes of stuff at my mom's house, and so a few weeks ago after work, I went to her house to do some digging. I discovered a number of interesting things lurking in those boxes, none of which is my Foster Grants. I found thinning shears, Hello Kitty checks for a bank account that I no longer use, Mr. Sketch markers (they still smell!), a wooden model of a human hand complete with movable joints, a case for my iPod, several records, my old baseball mitt, and a stack of magazines from 2005.

There was one more box I thought my sunglasses might be in. As soon as I opened the lid, I found a handbag I'd been looking for. I seemed to remember having my sunglasses around the same time I had the handbag, so I dug deeper into the box. I'm sorry to say that I did not find my Foster Grants (they showed up later in my closet). What I found instead was a manila envelope that I quite purposely had not looked at for two and a half years.

I did not look at it again at this time, but I did slip it inside the handbag and I took both home with me. A few hours later, when I was home for the night, I sat down with that envelope and decided I was finally strong enough to read the contents.

The heading on the first page: Birth Mother Consent to Place Child for Adoption.

My heart beat a little faster, but I was surprised to find that I felt mostly okay. I read farther down the page.

"The undersigned represents and declares ..." There were my name, date of birth and address. Below that, "I am the birth mother of [Roo's name at birth] born on July 7, 2009 at [hospital name and address]." I was surprised to find myself smiling at that. Surprised mostly because last time I attempted to read this paperwork, not too terribly long after I signed it, I fell apart before I got to the third line (which reads "I am not presently married and was not married at the time of conception or birth of this child," which felt like a forced confession of sorts). I'm not sure what's changed - everything, maybe - but I sat there, uncharacteristically sanguine, and read every single paper in the stack, including the one that uses the word "sever" in a way that always punched my gut a little.

I read the whole thing, and I didn't hurt. I can't explain it, but reading through these papers, the very ones that cut me to ribbons a few years ago, left me feeling happy.

I am happy I signed them. I am happy for what they say and what they did. One line in particular jumped out at me that night. I never noticed it before probably because I was too caught up in the "sever" part which, incidentally, is in the very same paragraph. The paper says, about the adoptive parents, that "They will be the child's parents."

I realize that's probably very obvious and stupid, but it struck me as very profound, and I loved reading it. I think it's because more and more lately I've heard the uninitiated make reference to birth parents being the "real" parents. P and M are Roo's real parents. It says so on a binding legal document (and it says so in their hearts). They are the child's parents; Roo's parents. And I am so happy for all of them!

I read through every single page I signed 2 ½ years ago, and I felt happy. I am so happy with my decision! I have such peace. I don't think I've ever made another decision in my life with the certainty of this one. I've had reason to question a lot of the choices I've made, but never this. Not every birth mom got the result I did, and I'm sorry for the ones that didn't. But here's the truth of my experience: I don't regret it for a second and I never have. My pain has always been for my loss, not for my choice. My loss was Roo's gain. And now my loss doesn't feel so much like a loss at all. I still love her. I always will. She has everything I could want for her and so much more. Her gain has become my gain. I'm happy because she is.

Instead of pain, I found peace in that manila envelope. The paperwork that I once thought would kill me, didn't.

It made me stronger.

Guest Post

Today I have a guest post up over at Portrait of an Adoption. If you haven't read this blog before, you should definitely start. Carrie is an adoptive mother who writes beautifully about the ups and downs of adoption. She is featuring a guest post on her blog each day in November to celebrate National Adoption Month, and today is my day. Click *here* to read it.

I do want to add a caveat. My post is about the pain of placement, and I didn't try to pretty up the feelings. But I do not feel any of that pain now. I left that dark beast behind me. I am in such a good place with things. So when you're reading, please keep in mind that the pain I described was temporary, that I got through it, that I'm happy now, and that it was absolutely worth it.

Everybody Hurts

Several times in the past few weeks I've heard or read birthmothers express that although placement was a hard thing, there was an accompanying sort of peace and comfort. This isn't something I've never heard before. I heard it all the time when I was pregnant, and also right after I placed. It made me feel abnormal and dysfunctional, because I didn't get any of that. I mean, I knew that I'd made the right decision, and I felt like God was with me. But God was with me in the sense that ... how can I put this?

Okay, remember the '96 Olympics? More specifically, Kerri Strug's vault on an injured foot. She was hurt, and she knew that she was hurt, but her coach didn't say, "Oh, hey, Kerri, why don't you sit this one out? Your ankle looks pretty bad."

Actually, maybe he did, but considering what I have read about her coach, I very much doubt it. I suspect it was something more along the lines of, "You've got the rest of your life to fix this ankle, and only another 90 seconds to do this vault," followed by a couple of swear words in Romanian.

That's how it was for me after placement (minus the swears). God knew that I was hurt, and He put His arm around me, but he didn't let me sit out my second vault. I had to sprint down the mat again and trust that the landing wasn't going to kill me.

So I've always felt like a bit of an outsider when birth moms talk about how they were on a spiritual high after placement, or how they feel like God took away their pain, or how it wasn't that hard because it was the right choice. None of those things fits my situation.

But every woman is different. I've found that comparing myself and my situation to others isn't ever a productive activity. I decided a while ago that I was just different, and that was okay. Maybe placement would have felt different, maybe I would have handled it different, if it had happened within a week of Roo's birth. Maybe if I met other birth mothers who parented for a while, their placement pain and grief would fit with the pattern of mine and I wouldn't feel so maladroit.

I don't know. But here's what I do know: we don't always remember things the way they happened. At my birth mom group tonight, I heard a woman talk about how she had this peace and calm after placement, and how at times she missed that feeling. I know this woman, who placed a few months after I did, and I was there at group the first time she came after placement. She didn't seem to be particularly peaceful or calm. She was a miserable wreck. So it was strange for me to hear tonight that she remembers things the way she does. I suspect that the peace she has with her decision now has colored her memories of her pain. It got me thinking about the other placement stories I heard during my pregnancy and later.

Most of what I heard seemed to be really happy stories, about how even though placement wasn't fun, it was beautiful or peaceful or something like that. I wonder now - how many of those stories are true and how many of them are memories recalled by women whose pain was simply too stale to properly recount? I mean, I'm not saying anyone was lying, or even that they weren't remembering correctly. For all I know I just encountered an unusually high number of women for whom placement wasn't a gut-punch trauma. But I think, the odds are that one or two of them are like my friend who spoke tonight.

That's not a bad thing. I want to stress that. I think that we remember things the way we do for a reason. It's like ... well, to use a relevant simile, it's like childbirth. When you're in labor, it is awful. It's uncomfortable at best and excruciating at worst. It hurts! You don't forget that pain right after the baby is born. The baby makes it worth it, of course, but the pain was recent enough that you're not going to soon forget. You've got a good point of reference for a ten on the pain scale hospitals use. You see your OB-GYN a few weeks after the baby's birth for a check-up, and she asks you about your pain. You might be uncomfortable, but compared to the pain of actually getting the baby out, you're at, what, a two?

But the older the baby gets, the fuzzier that pain memory gets. Your lack of sleep doesn't help your memory any. But while you remember childbirth being painful, you find that you can't quite remember how bad a 10 is. You think, I was uncomfortable then, but my head really hurts now. This migraine is an 8 on the pain scale. By the time your child is two, if a pregnant woman asks you about labor, you'll brush off their concerns.

"It hurts, but you get through it," you tell her. "You won't remember it when you hold your baby." Which is a lie. I still had staples in my gut the first time I held my baby. But time has made the pain memory fuzzy. So, maybe you've decided to have a second child. You can handle the pain of childbirth, you think. And then labor starts.

My mother recalled her second labor once. She said that once things got started, she remembered really fast what it felt like, and she thought, "Oh, no. It really was that bad." But until that moment, she didn't remember the pain properly, and it's a good thing because if she had, my oldest brother would be an only child and I wouldn't be here.

I was going somewhere with my analogy, I know I was.

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Oh, right. Placement. I think that time, and acceptance, dulls the memory of placement pain for some women, and when they recall their experience, it turns into a lot of unicorns and rainbows that weren't really there, or that were there but only for a few minutes at a time.

I think that, for one reason or another, some of these women need to forget their pain. Maybe they're going to need to go through something else painful in the future and if they recalled placement exactly as it was, they wouldn't be able to handle it. Maybe their pain has served its purpose and it was time to send it packing. Maybe they don't need it anymore.

I believe that God had, and still has, a purpose in the way I've grieved and hurt after placement. I absolutely believe that He is going to use it for my good. Maybe it's because He doesn't want me to have a metaphorical baby again for a while - maybe I need to remember to keep myself from making decisions that are going to cause me to hurt again. (I should mention that I don't think of placement as a decision that caused me to hurt - I think of the bad decisions I made that led to my pregnancy as the ones that caused me to hurt.)

I don't know what that purpose is yet. Maybe I never will. I do know that every woman who has placed a child for adoption was hurt by that choice on some level. Everyone handles their hurt differently, but everyone hurts.

I don't hurt like I used to. I hope I never do. I do wonder if someday I'll be the one describing placement as a peaceful thing but I'd rather not be that girl. My pain has strengthened me. The memory of that pain is a reminder that I can be strong when I need to be. It's a reminder that there are things - and people - in this world worth hurting for.

Not every problem I have is going to be a second vault. But if a twisted ankle sneaks up on me, I know I can handle it. I can land on one foot again if I need to.

I did it before. And I would do it all over again in a heartbeat - for Roo.

Two Years

Today is the second anniversary of the hardest day of my life. Two years ago, I signed a piece of paper (in triplicate) that said I was no longer a mother. I signed the paper, and I handed my baby girl over to her new parents, and I went home with empty arms.

Sometimes I can't believe I'm still here, because just the memory of the pain of placement is overwhelming. Nothing in my life has ever been as excruciating as placing my baby for adoption. I couldn't have even begun to imagine feeling that kind of pain until I felt it. Once I felt it, I couldn't imagine that I could hurt so bad and still be alive.

And yet ... there's none of that kind of pain today. Today isn't a sad day for me. It's a happy day - not even a happy-sad, just a happy-happy. Roo has been in her family for two years, and I think that's a great thing. I am happy for her. I want to celebrate! I hope it's a similarly happy day for her and her family. I hope they're celebrating.

Two years ago, P and M each wrote me a letter, and they gave the letters to me at placement. When I'd stopped crying long enough to read them later that night (or the next day, I don't remember which), I started crying again, because each letter was just so perfect. P and M both managed to say exactly what I needed to read. I took great comfort in their words. I read those letters at least once a day for a week. Then I read them once a week.

Once a week faded into once a month, maybe, and eventually the letters stayed put in my nightstand drawer. I knew they were there if I needed to read them, but I didn't need to anymore.

Last night, I was having a really hard time with things. I felt stuck, like nothing in my life is ever going to change no matter what I do, and I missed Roo. Not two-year-old Roo, but my newborn baby, the one who was mine. I decided I needed to re-read my patriarchal blessing (click the words if you don't know what they mean). I dug through the mess of papers in my nightstand drawer. I found a copy of my blessing, and two envelopes with my name on them - my letters.

I read my letters from P and M again, and I cried again. It has been two years since they were written, and I'm in a completely different place now, but both letters still said exactly what I needed to read. I am so grateful for them! I was grateful for them two years ago, and I'm just as grateful for them now.

More than that, I am grateful for the people who wrote them. I couldn't have placed Roo with anyone else. I am so glad that she gets to be their daughter!

I got to see Roo last week. I don't think I wrote about it, but I saw her and her mommy. It was wonderful. The best part of our visit was towards the end. Roo had been answering every question with "no."

I'd ask, "Roo, do you like chocolate cake?" or "Is pink your favorite color?" and she'd give her little mischievous smile and say no. So I expected a no when I asked her another question.

I asked, "Roo, do you know that I love you?"

No small smile this time, but a bright one, and she said, "Yeah."

And then she went right back to answering no to every other question, because she is two. I wanted to make sure, so I asked her again if she knew that I loved her. I got another "Yeah." My heart melted.

Two years ago, when she was tiny, I placed her for adoption. Today, she knows that I love her.

I am so blessed.

18 Months

Today marks 18 months since placement. I had to count back a couple of times to make sure the number was right. That means that Roo is 20 months old, which is just crazy. How could she possibly be almost two already? My tiny baby isn't a baby any more. Of course, "my" tiny baby isn't mine any more, either, but that's okay.

An acquaintance asked me the other day about Roo, and they called her my daughter. Those words threw me off a little. My daughter? I don't have a daughter. The issue of how to refer to Roo is sort of a tricky one. I've heard some birth moms use the phrase "birth daughter" or "birth son" but that never felt like a good fit for me. She's always just been my little Roo. Mine not because I'm her mother (I'm not), or because I'm her birth mother (which I am) but because I love her. I think that, no matter how old she gets or how tall she grows, she'll always just be "my little Roo" to me.

I wish the English language had better words for relationships. As much as I love English, sometimes I find it lacking. I wonder if the Germans have done any better. They have a lot of good words for which there are no English equivalents. Maybe the Germans have a proper word for what Roo is to me, or for what I am to her.

I digress.

18 months ago, my heart broke. I smashed it to bits with my signature in triplicate. I did it on purpose, and I'd do it again. Not for me, or because I enjoy suffering, or because I feel like it made me a better person. I'd do it again for Roo, because she was worth it. I was asked once, "How could you place your baby?" All I can say in response is, how could I not? How could I look at all the things she could have with P and M and tell her no? I couldn't. I couldn't settle when it came to Roo.

I am so very happy with the life Roo has. I couldn't ask for anything more for her. Well, maybe a baby brother at some point. (Roo would be awesome with a baby brother. She's very sweet with her dolls.) But, babies aside, Roo has everything I wanted for her. She has an amazing family and a delightfully happy life. How could I not be happy when she's doing so well?

My heart shattered 18 months ago.

It's better now.

In Which I Answer a Question No One Asked

I'm a little late in the day to post, but today is still November 1st, and this still counts as a post for today. I think it's a good one to kick off National Adoption Month as well.

I was asked not long ago to explain what open adoption means to me.

I'm sure that the person who asked was hoping for a definition of sorts - what do I consider to be an open adoption? How would I classify their idea of it? What are the requirements that I personally have for an adoption to qualify as open?

Well, too bad, question asker, because this is my blog, and I am obstinate. When I read the question, although I was certain of the context, I couldn't answer it that way. When I read the question, answers came to my mind. They're probably not the answers that you (whoever you are) were looking for, but they're what I've got. I've got answers to the question that no one has asked but that needs to be asked.

What does open adoption mean to me?

Open adoption means that any time I want to, I can turn on my computer, open the right file and watch Roo take a few shaky steps, or watch her dance with her sister, wiggling her hips and squealing with glee.

Open adoption means if I want to know how she's doing, all I have to do is ask.

Open adoption means I know the baby I placed, the person I love most in the world, is a happy, healthy, clever, sweet, gorgeous toddler.

Open adoption means Roo will never wonder who her birth mother is, what I look like, what sort of person I am, and why I placed her. She will know.

Open adoption means I will never wonder who my baby is, what she looks like, and whether she has a good life. I will know.

Open adoption means I know, every single day, that I made the right choice for Roo, because open adoption brings peace and reassurance.

Open adoption means that when I grieve, I grieve for the right reasons, not the wrong ones. I grieve out of love, not regret, out of sadness for myself, not for my baby.

Open adoption means that Roo is happy, and it means that Roo's mommy and daddy are happy, and it means that Roo's birth mom is happy. It's win-win-win. We all get to be happy. We all get to have peace and joy.

Open adoption means that if something needs to be said, it's said, and we make adjustments, and we're happy again, even happier than before.

Open adoption means that Roo is loved by more people than she will ever know. It means she gets to meet some of the ones who love her who are not her forever family, and that the rest of them that don't get to meet her still know who she is and that she is happy. Open adoption means an abundance of love for Roo and for all of her families.

Open adoption means that even though my heart broke, it's healed stronger than it was before. It means that I am a better, stronger person, for Roo and for her parents. It means I try every day to be someone they can be proud of.

Open adoption means I never have to wonder and I never have to worry. Open adoption is the happiest sad, and the happiest happy.

Open adoption means that placement wasn't goodbye; it was hello.

(And if you keep having the tagline "Love means never having to say your sorry" stuck in your head after reading this list, don't worry, I do too. And it's crap, because love means saying you're sorry whether you really are or not.)

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.

Good Grief!

A caveat: this gets a bit rant-y. I'm trying to rant less, I really am, but sometimes I just need to get it out. And I feel like my ranting is more productive now than it once was. You've been warned :-)


Grieving after placement is unlike any other kind of grief in the world. It's different, and it's difficult to explain.

I've never lost a child in the mortal sense. Roo is healthy and happy. I don't even like to think of what it would feel like if something were to happen to her. I can't imagine it, and I don't want to. I would never say that I know what it feels like to lose a child.

And yet ... I did lose a child. I lost my child. My baby - the one I took home from the hospital, who had my last name, who was my responsibility - no longer exists. It's like that baby was sucked into a vortex, and in her place is the little girl belonging to P and M. I love her, but she is NOT my baby anymore. This Roo never was. My Roo is gone.

So there's a grief there, to be sure. All birth moms grieve and I'm no exception. I reckon I feel a bit more like I've experienced a death than is usual, because I didn't choose adoption right away; I waited. I came home from placement with an empty car seat, home to an empty crib and stacks of freshly laundered Onesies that my Roo - MY Roo - would never wear again. It very much felt as though someone had died, and the grief was overwhelming and all-encompassing. I'm crying as I type this just thinking about it.

I remember coming home after my dad died and looking around and thinking, he's never going to sit at the end of the kitchen table anymore. His Dr Pepper isn't going to be in the refrigerator. His sunglasses aren't going to be on the counter by the sink, and his laptop from work isn't going to be in its case by the front door ... All around me were places he'd once occupied and now they were empty.

It felt the same after I placed Roo - the empty car seat, the empty crib, even the empty diaper pail. They were all signs that I used to have a baby, used to be a mom ... and that I'm not anymore. I couldn't look at or even think of any of them without a sob fizzing in the back of my throat.

And yet, for all my grief, for all my pain, my little Roo is alive and well. How glad I am! She's delicately chubby and smart and happy and delightful and everything one-year-old should be. I know it's wrong to compare my grief to that of a mother who has lost her child. There is no comparison, in all fairness. In comparison, I've got it easy. And yet I grieve.

Other people draw comparisons, too. And their comparisons are usually impatient ones. The implication is that because the child I birthed and love it still alive, I haven't a right to grieve as long as I need to, if at all. The implication is that I get a month, maybe six weeks, and then I need to get on with it. How on earth is this fair?

I know life's not fair, and that anyone who says otherwise is selling something. That's #1 on my list of the Facts of Life (and yes, I do have a numbered list). But, look, there's unfair, and there's unfair. My dad died almost two years ago and my mother has yet to be told she needs to get on with it already. I was told to get on with it two months after I placed Roo. What's up with that?

When my mom grieved the loss of her husband, no one ever said to her, "You're thinking too much of yourself, that's why it hurts. You need to think of other people. Find some way to serve or volunteer and you'll feel better." And it's not surprising that no one said that to her, because really, who SAYS something like that to a grieving widow?

But that's exactly what I was told after placement. People told me that I was too wrapped up in my own problems and that if I wanted to be happy I needed to think of other people for a change and find ways to serve others. And I thought, excuse me? I gave two people I barely know a BABY. I think I'm good on serving others for a while. And yes, I am a bit wrapped up in my grief. But I think I'm allowed! If anyone's entitled to a good pity party here and there, it's a birth mom. My grief at placement was and is no less valid than my mother's grief at my dad's death. I need to feel my feelings and learn to live with them.

People's suggestion that my grief was selfish and that I needed to stop thinking only about myself was shocking to me - still is, actually. I grieve because I love, simple as that. And I WAS serving others. Just because I don't keep a running tally on my sidebar of my service hours this year doesn't mean I'm not doing anything. I prefer to do that sort of thing quietly, thankyouverymuch.

But people would insist; I was depressed because I was selfish and immature, and how could I not see that? Why didn't I get on with things already? What was my problem?

I have overwhelmingly more good days than bad days now, ten months post-placement. Bad days are very rare. But I still have days here and there that are tough, when I miss Roo so much I physically ache from it. I don't think that's anything to apologize for. And yet people pretty much come out and ask me why I haven't moved on with my life yet and what the heck my problem is and why I'm still thinking about the baby I placed because it's been nine months and I should be all better now.

I will never be all better, because I will never stop loving my little Roo. Certainly the time will come when the pain will be a fraction of what it is now, I will be better, but not ALL better. And I'm okay with that. I can be blissfully happy with that. In my mind, all better means I don't care any more, and I don't ever want to not care.

You want to know my problem, bearers of unsolicited advice? I miss my baby. I miss my baby who isn't my baby any more. I miss her and I reckon I always will. If I want to cry about it, I'm allowed to cry. Holding my feelings back won't accomplish much. Crying helps. Crying helps me to quote-unquote move on.

The question then becomes, what are you supposed to say to a birth mom when she's depressed after placement? Well, here's the answer: Tell her that you love her, and let her grieve. She'll "move on" when she's good and ready, and not a moment sooner.

Happy Tears

Something pretty awesome happened a few days ago, and I thought I'd share. I slept poorly last night, so I apologize if this is a bit too stream-of-consciousness to make sense of. And I apologize for ending the preceding sentence with a preposition :o)

I was writing up a short (ha-ha!) version of my story for this guest blog I did. I don't know if it's super-cheesy or not, but I sometimes get all teary when I write and/or read my own story. Or tell my own story. Anyway. I had a box of Kleenex nearby as I typed, just in case. And I needed it. But not for the reason I expected.

When I got to writing the part where Roo met her parents for the first time, I started to cry - not for myself or any of the emotion I'd felt at the tie. I cried because I realized in that moment how amazing it must have been for P and M to meet their baby girl. I cried for what they must have felt, for the thoughts they must have had. I cried happy tears because that was probably one of the most amazing and happy moments of their lives, and in reliving that moment I was so super happy for them all over again!

That was huge for me. I used to cry for me, for what choosing adoption meant to me. I used to cry because I knew when I met P and M that I wasn't Roo's mommy anymore. The thought of that feeling, that quiet peace tinged with sadness, used to be what made me tear up.

Something has changed in me. I don't know when or how or why, but all I know is that for the first time when going over that part of Roo's and my story, I didn't think of myself for a second. And it is the most wonderful, freeing thing! I really am so truly happy for P and M. I am happy that they're Roo's parents. I'm happy that they got a baby last year - their baby.

I love them so much. I am more thankful for them than words can express. I'm thankful that, though Roo's story began with me, it will end with them. I wouldn't change a thing.

A Good Question, and a Good(?) Answer

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Four Months/17 Weeks

Wednesday marked 17 weeks since placement, and today it's four whole months.

I hate to brag, but I've impressed myself with how far I've come since those impossibly hard days right after placement. I have grown immeasurably, and I have found strength I did not know I possessed. I'm a better person, a stronger person, a braver person. I'm proud of myself.

I would do it all again in a heartbeat. Not for myself or any growth on my part, but for Roo. She's the reason I did it in the first place. I wanted her to have the world. Adoption was the best way to make sure she got it. I placed her because I love her. And I'd do it all over again for the same reason. Yes, it was tough. I suffered. I cried. I went through sedatives and Kleenex at a rate heretofore unknown.

But Roo is worth it. She is worth every tear, every second of emotional turmoil and pain. She's worth the worry and the heartache, the harassment by H's mother, the ache of missing what I wanted most in the world. I would gladly be miserable every day for the rest of my life if it would ensure a happy life for Roo.

And I'm not miserable! I'm not going to win any awards for cheerfulness. But I'm not miserable. And Roo is happy. She's happy because I put her first. It's a pretty amazing thing. All that any mother ever wants is for her child to be happy. What a blessing it is to know how happy my Roo is! And knowing how content she is, how could I not be happy for her?

It's a process, to be sure. I have my share of bad days (sometimes more than my share). But I feel like they're fewer and further between. They don't bother me as much as they used to. Perhaps someday they won't bother me at all. I'm making progress, that's what's important. And Roo has everything I wanted for her, and that's most important of all.

6 Months Old!

I can't believe my little Roo is 6 months old today. Where did the time go? It feels like both hours and years. She has grown so much! She is the happiest, most content baby I have ever seen. She is a good sleeper, a good eater, and a good smiler. She sees her parents and she smiles.

I miss her terribly. And yet, it doesn't always hurt as much as it used to. I miss my teeny tiny girl, not the 6-month old who is working hard on sitting herself up. I miss being the mommy of a newborn. I want a husband and a family. I want a baby I can have for eternity. I envy P and M not because they have my Roo, but because they have two beautiful children who are sealed to them. I want that, too.

I can't believe how much I've changed since Roo was born. I thought when my dad died that I had grown up an awful lot. In retrospect, I matured not by losing my father, or even by having a baby. I grew up when I put myself aside and put my baby first.

I am much more mature than I was six months ago. I am much happier than I was six months ago. I am a better person. I like myself more.

Roo would have been fine had I kept her, I'm sure. I was a good mother. I took good care of her, and she was healthy and happy when I had her. But she'd have been an eternal floater. And as she got older, she'd have had questions with unsatisfactory answers.

But neither Roo nor I will have to deal with that now. When the little Primary kids get up on Father's Day to sing "I'm So Glad When Daddy Comes Home," Roo will have a daddy to sing to. She won't feel left out. When she learns about eternal families, she'll know that when she was a baby her mommy and daddy took her to the temple so she could be part of their eternal family.

What a blessing that is! Roo deserves it. She deserves the best this world has to offer. I'm so glad she has it. She is the most beautiful baby I have ever seen. And she's only 6 months old! I can only imagine how adorable she'll be as she gets older.

As hard as things have been, in so many ways these have been the best six months of my life. Roo, just by being Roo, has made me a better, happier person. I only hope that adoption will ultimately do the same for her.

On Being a Daddy’s Girl

I will admit it: I was an unapologetic daddy’s girl. Not always. Like a lot of kids, I was closest to my mother for years because I spent more time with her. But I was always ecstatic when my dad got home from work.

I was a very curious child and from the time I learned to talk I had nothing but questions for my mother. She answered as best as she could, but frequently my questions (“How does gravity work?” “Why is water wet?”) were too much for her.
“Ask your father when he gets home,” she’d say. And so when my poor father came home from a ten-hour shift at the power plant, he was greeted with a rapid-fire stream of questions from his youngest child. And you know what? He answered every single one. He tried to make things simple for me but he never lied to me or brushed me off. And I asked some odd questions. How did he make electricity at the power plant? And what was electricity made of? How come some cars had a stick shift and some didn’t? Why, once they made the first automatic, did they ever bother making any more stick shifts? Why did some people’s homes catch on fire? Where did the fish in the lake come from? He could always tell me.

The older I got, the better I got to know my father – not just as a dad, but as a person. He was a fascinating man. He knew everything, it seemed. I know that a lot of kids go through a phase where they think their parents are idiots, but that never happened with me. I have always felt that my dad was the smartest man I’d ever met.
My dad taught me so much. Not just about trivial things, like automotive transmissions or voltage. He taught me important things, things about life and death and God and the universe. And he did so much. He could fix anything and everything. He could find anything I lost. He could solve almost any problem. I don’t think I really realized how much he did and how much I relied on him until he died.

When I was considering adoption, my dad was actually an important factor. I didn’t have a choice in losing my dad. He had brain cancer and I was powerless to stop it. I realized as I thought about it that I’d had the most amazing dad in the world … and I was choosing for Roo not to have that. I was choosing for her to be fatherless. A little girl needs a dad! And a big girl needs a dad – as does a teenage girl, and a young woman, and a not-so-young woman. How could I deny Roo a good daddy?

I love M dearly. I think the world of her. I trust her to be a better mom for Roo than I could be. But I would love for Roo to be a daddy’s girl. When I met P and M, and it occurred to me that they might like to hold her, I handed her first to P. And she gave him the biggest smile I had ever seen on that sweet little face. It was a look that said, “Daddy! It’s really you! I’m so happy to meet you!” Roo LOVES her daddy. She loves her mommy, too, of course. But I confess, I’m hoping to hear in a few years that when P gets home from work, Roo runs through the house to greet him at the door.

I had the best dad in the world, and I am so blessed to be sealed to him and my mom for eternity. It is an amazing feeling to know that I’ve given the same to Roo – a wonderful mother and father who are hers, and she theirs, forever.

Nine Weeks and Eternity

Today marks nine weeks since placement. It’s sort of a strange day for me, because now P and M have had Roo for as long as I did. From this point on, they’ll have had her for longer. It’s sort of a relief in a way. Before, I felt as though I had some undeserved advantage in having had her for longer. Now the advantage is theirs, and I think I prefer it that way.

I’m still not sure how I did it, how I drove to the LDSFS office with a baby and drove away without one. I took m y baby, my best blessing and my whole world, the baby I’d grown and birthed and cared for, and I handed her to a woman I barely knew. And I walked away. How did I do that? How could I have? It defied instinct and logic and my very heart. I don’t know where I found that strength, that courage. I don’t consider myself to be a particularly strong or resilient person. And yet I did the unthinkable, the unimaginable. I don’t mean to brag, but I’m pretty proud of myself.

Some people think that having a baby makes you grow up, and fast. I won’t deny that; certainly it will do that for some. But I know that in my case, I didn’t feel that having Roo made me grow any. I only felt I’d truly grown, truly become a mother when I put aside what I wanted most in the world for the sake of my baby. That grew me up in a hurry, I’ll tell you that for nothing.

I like to think that my mom is the best mother in the world. I wanted to be for Roo what my mom has been for me. I realized that part of what made my mom a good mother was being married to my dad, who was a great father. No, I’m not Roo’s mommy anymore. But her mommy and daddy love her more than I think they could ever say. I gave them to her. I think that makes me the best mom in the world. And how blessed is little Roo? She’s got not one but two mothers who love her dearly – one who gave her life, and one who will give her the rest of her life. We should all be so lucky.

I think part of the reason I’m so glad that P and M have had her as long as I did is that I personally feel that she’s more theirs every second they have her. In my mind I see it as this sort of 9-week hourglass, where time flowed from my half to theirs. It probably sounds stupid, but I sort of feel like, okay, now she’s really theirs.

I cannot wait for Roo to go to the temple with her family and be theirs for eternity. What joy! What more could I want for her at this point in her life? I can’t think of a thing. Part of me lived in fear that something will happen, some tragedy will befall their family, before Roo can be sealed to them. I worried about that for a week before I mentioned my concerns to my dear mother.

“Jill,” my mother said, “Heavenly Father would not let you go through what you’ve been through only to let something happen to Roo before she’s sealed. Don’t you think He wants her to have an eternal family just as much as you do?”

How awesome is my mom, seriously? I felt better when she said that. I haven’t worried much since. And I’ve been doubly proud of myself for a time as well. My decision will help Roo to live not just the life that I want for her, but the life that her Father in Heaven wants for her as well. Having an eternal family isn’t just a blessing in the sense that it brings togetherness. It will help Roo to return to live with God again someday.

The decisions we make in life have eternal consequences. I’ve often thought that fact was a negative, but I’m beginning to see that it can be a positive too. These particular eternal consequences are the sweetest blessings anyone could hope for, and I’m looking forward to them.

Two Months

I can remember exactly what I was doing two months ago today. September 9th, 2009, the shortest day of my life. I was sitting where I am now, on the couch in the living room. My computer is on my lap right now, but two months ago, Roo was there instead.

I was giving her a bottle and she was looking up at me with those big blue eyes, preternaturally wise. She seemed to know that something was going to happen that day. I think she knew the day before as well. Roo is a very mellow baby, but she was even more so on the 8th and 9th. Almost as though she knew I needed that time to be peaceful and calm. Normally Roo would have gotten sick of me holding her and she'd have fussed until I put her down for a little wiggle time. Not so on Tuesday and Wednesday. I scarcely put her down those two days. My arms ached from the constant weight of her but I refused to put her down. I knew my time to hold her as her mommy was finite, and I wasn't going to miss a second of it.

On the morning of the 9th, Roo woke up hungry at 8am. We'd both slept for four hours, 4am being Roo's preferred bedtime. I gave her a bottle and burped her and rocked her to sleep. I was tired but I couldn't bring myself to put her back in her crib. I got back in my bed, Roo still in my arms, and held her as she slept for the next four hours. Tired as I was, I couldn't fall back asleep. I knew I could sleep later, would sleep later. This time was precious. I tried to memorize the exact feel of her in my arms, the weight of her, the sound of her soft breath, the feel of her silky skin and hair, the curve of her cheek, the shape of her nose.

That is one of my favorite memories from my time as a mommy. I will treasure those quiet hours for the rest of my life. My arms feel empty just thinking about it. I think I'd give the world to have just another minute like that with her.

I haven't seen Roo in two weeks. It will be three at my next visit, which is this weekend, maybe. I've never gone so long without seeing her. It's hard. Hard, too, is the drop in e-mail and pictures from P and M. I used to hear from them several times a week. Now seven or eight days will pass without a word. When I was Roo's mommy, I swear I spent half the day taking pictures of her sweet little face. It's hard to go from that to a couple of pictures a month.

Oh, how I miss that little girl! Has it really been only two months since she was my baby? It seems like an eternity. She's changed so much since then. So have I. Both of us for the better, to be sure, but in my case there's some bad with the good. I've struggled with depression my whole life. I wonder now if those respites from the pain that I would get when my medications were adjusted perfectly, or when I made breakthroughs in therapy, are a thing of the past. If because I placed Roo, I will always, always have this undercurrent of sadness that I've had for the past two months. Will I ever feel whole again? I hope so. I hope that I can make something of myself and my life. I try. I try, because I want Roo to be proud of me, to be glad that I am her birth mom. I don't want her to think that placing her destroyed me and feel guilty for it.

Somehow, some way, I will learn to be happy, I will do something with my life. I will make her proud. I placed her not for me, but for her. And if I have to make something of myself for the same reason, I'll do it. I will make sure that when she's older, she knows that I've had a good life not because I placed her (because I feel I'd have had a better life had I kept her because I love her so), but in spite of it.

I am tired and my heart aches and I want to crawl back in bed and cry. But I won't. I'll get my exercise for the day, eat my veggies, and go to my ward FHE tonight. Not for me or for my sake. I'll do it for Roo.

Eight Weeks

Today marks eight weeks since I was a mom.

Time has passed rather strangely for me. I scarcely remember the first two weeks, the third week felt more like the third month, other weeks have felt like years and this week feels more like eight days than eight weeks.

I miss her a lot. I'm not sure what brought it on, but in past few days I've found myself preoccupied with Roo. I've remembered with astounding clarity the exact feel of her in my arms right after she was born, the delicate weight of her head resting on my arm. She seemed so tiny, so fragile, and yet looking at the length of her stretched out on my lap, I marveled that she had ever fit into my belly, even curled up tightly.

I miss holding her. Sometimes I wish I could will her into my arms for a moment, just to hold her again, to relax with her warm weight resting on me, to feel her soft skin and silky hair, to kiss her chubby little cheeks and watch her regard me with big blue eyes. I miss that sense of rightness that I had when she was in my arms, the feeling that she was my baby and I was her mother and I was holding her and nothing else in the world could possibly matter.

I miss being her mother. She is at that age where babies change rapidly, learning and growing and testing their abilities. And I'm not there for it. She is not mine to hold, and her firsts aren't mine to wonder at. I wish they were. They were for a time, and it was magical.

I don't know why anyone would ever tell a birth mother, as some have told me, that they're sure the birth mother must have done what was best for her. Best for me? Not hardly. Best for me was being a mommy. Not just best, but natural and instinctual and right. It went against nature, against every cell in my body, to place her with P and M. It didn't matter that I knew it was best for her, that I knew she needed to be theirs. She might need to be theirs, but she was mine. She was my baby and I loved her and if it was about what was best for me, I'd be in bed asleep with Roo a few feet away in her crib.

I did what was hardest for me because it was best for her, and I don't regret it for a moment. The past eight weeks have been the hardest of my life but I think I've learned and grown the most. I would do it again in a heartbeat.

Time Flies ...

There was a time where I thought that I would spend the rest of my life marking every Wednesday as one more week that had passed without my baby.

But here it is, Sunday, and I just realized I forgot that last Wednesday was seven weeks since placement. It's a strange feeling. P and M have had Roo almost as long as I had her. It feels like an eternity in some ways. It seems like a lifetime ago that I was in the hospital having Roo, or that I was up three times a night fixing bottles and feeding a baby. Sometimes it feels like maybe it was just a dream, that I never had a baby at all. I have days when I scarcely think of Roo, when I think that I don't miss her much at all.

And then some days I'll come home and see her picture and want to collapse on the floor and cry for all I'm worth. I will notice, in a picture, new fat rolls on Roo's legs, and I'll remember the feel of her little feet kicking my belly from the inside, and I'll marvel that I grew this little person inside of me, and I'll lose it because that sweet, precious baby isn't mine.

She has become a stranger to me. I once knew her better than I knew myself. I knew everything there was to know about her. I was a Roo expert, an authority, and she was my world. I don't know her anymore. I don't know what songs she likes to hear, what time she likes to eat, what makes her smile, how much she weighs, where her hair has thinned out, how she likes to be held. Realizing that is a loss in and of itself. It's almost as though I've lost a little bit of myself in losing that bit of mom omniscience. I don't know a thing about her anymore, except that once she grew inside me, and I gave birth to her and I loved her, and I still love her, this little stranger of mine. I miss her dearly.

And yet, I go on. I think that's the biggest bit of progress I've made in seven weeks. Where once I would have brooded about for an entire day about things, today I can miss her, and I do miss her, and I can still go on. I can eat and sleep and exercise and go out with friends and do things that people my age do.

It seems impossible that so little time has elapsed since I placed Roo. The world seems such a different place now. Every day that passes makes me just a little bit stronger, a little bit better. It is not easy - but what in life is ever easy? I like to tell myself that each day that passes brings me another day closer to the life I want to live, with a good husband and another sweet baby, one that I can keep. It doesn't do a lot, but it helps some, and most days, some is enough.

Time will pass whether I like it or not. My time with Roo slips farther and farther behind me. But I take comfort in that as sweet as her first weeks of life were, the rest of her life is going to be even better. She isn't my baby anymore, true, but she is going to have an amazing life, and I love knowing that I gave that to her.

Fourth Visit

I got so distracted by yesterday's anniversary that I almost forgot to mention Saturday's visit. I got to see my Roo! This was visit number four since placement, which is just awesome since it's only been six (almost seven) weeks.

P and M brought me a birthday cake and several different flavors of gelato. The cake was decorated for Halloween, and it looked and tasted wonderful. I'd had gelato before but I wasn't a big fan. Turns out, I'd just not had very good gelato. This stuff was amazing!

I shared Roo with my mom for a bit so I could eat and take some pictures, but I hogged her most of the time. I could hold that little girl forever. She is so happy and so sweet. She napped on me for a little bit, as she usually does on visits. When she woke up she looked so confused because she saw both her parents on the couch and I think she wondered who was holding her. It was very cute. I think everything she does is cute, of course. She gets these little puzzled eyebrows and sticks her lower lip out just a tiny bit.

She smiled at me just a little bit but saved most of her smiles for her mommy and daddy. This is one baby girl who absolutely loves her mommy and daddy. She smiles at them as though nothing in the world would make her happier than seeing their faces. It does me so much good! I love to see her turn her head to follow their voices and give a big toothless grin when she finds them.

I had a great time talking to P and M, too. I feel so comfortable with them. We talk about so many different things, some relevant and some random. I love it. It was a great visit and when they left I felt fine, happy to have seen them and Roo.

She is doing so well, my Roo. She has new fat rolls and her head is very steady. Her eyes are a lighter shade than they once were, which I love. I wasn't sure if they'd darken to the rich brown of H's eyes. I don't have anything against brown eyes, but Roo's big sister has blue eyes, and I wanted Roo to have blue eyes, too, so they'd match. I think they look so much alike already. They look like sisters. I love it. They look like their parents, too. I don't think anyone would look at Roo or her sister and guess that they were adopted. It's not necessarily important that they look like a family, but I like it just the same.

I know that a lot of potential adoptive couples worry about openness. I saw at the adoption academy that it's not something they feel comfortable with. They are afraid, perhaps, that if they are open, the birth mother will be overly involved and call herself mommy and try to take the baby back or something strange like that. But in my experience, and from the experiences of birth mothers and adoptive families I know, openness has the opposite effect. It's mutually beneficial. Visits confirm to me that I made the very best decision for Roo. I never feel the urge to steal her back, and I am not her mommy. I know it and Roo knows it. I'm good with that. I love seeing how happy Roo is with her mommy and daddy, and seeing how happy they are with her. With every visit I feel better and better about the adoption.

And P and M have told me that it's beneficial for them too. They know what kind of person I am. They will be able to answer any questions Roo might have about me as she gets older. And I don't mean to brag or exaggerate or anything, but I did do something pretty amazing for them and their family. Why wouldn't they want to know me or see me or talk to me? I have never felt threatened by or jealous of them. I would never take Roo from them. She is theirs, just as she was always meant to be. We will be forever connected. They have become very dear friends. They love Roo just as much as I do. How could I not love them?

I am so blessed to have these amazing people in my life. They are the very best parents, and they are so very good to me. I could not ask for better people to raise my Roo. I could not ask for better friends.

I call Roo my baby, my Roo, my little girl. But I don't mean that in the sense that she is mine. I grew her and carried her and birthed her and mothered her for two months, and I will always love her more dearly than I can say. But she is mine, my Roo, in the same way that my nieces and nephews are mine. They are family and I love them. But I would never elevate myself to the level of mother to any of them. So it is with Roo. She is mine, but not mine. She is P and M's baby, their precious daughter, and she will always be theirs. I am thankful for that. They can give her the world. The only thing they couldn't give her was a body, and I am so thankful that I could do that for her, for them.

I never wanted to be a birth mother - never. I didn't think I had it in me to be that selfless. I didn't think I had it in me to give up my baby. I couldn't imagine how awful I would feel if I had to do such a thing.

But I found it in me, and I did it, and although it was awful at first, it has also been an amazing blessing. I would do it all over again in a heartbeat. Being a birth mother has been the hardest thing in my life, but it has also been, in some ways, the best thing. I wouldn't trade this experience for anything in the world.

Four Weeks

It has been four weeks since I was a mother. I miss my baby.

It feels like years since I placed Roo. How has it only been a month? She is three months old now and holding her head up like a pro. What happened to my teeny-tiny little newborn? She has grown so fast.

Every Wednesday I think about her, about how long it's been since I placed her, and about how different both of our lives are. It seems a bit strange to go back to LDSFS for the support group every Wednesday night - the place and the day that I signed away my rights.

Like a war veteran, I have flashbacks. I walk out to my car in the parking lot after group and all of a sudden, I am holding Roo, sobbing, looking from her parents' car to mine and back again and realizing for the first time exactly whose car Roo was going home in, and to whose home that car would take her.

Or I will be sitting in group and S will use a word or phrase that takes me back to that night, to the ninth, and I forget which room at LDSFS I'm in and what exactly is happening and why I'm there.

In a way, I am a war veteran (although I apologize if that seems an unfair comparison). I fought a war against my instinct, against my heart, against my very being. The problem with fighting against yourself, of course, is that whether you win or lose, you lose.

I won and I lost. I won in the sense that I was able to set aside my every instinct to mother my precious baby, and I lost in that in doing what was the very best for Roo, I lost her. No, I didn't lose her. I hate that phrase. I hate it when people refer to a death as a loss. "Oh, you lost your father?" That sounds so irresponsible, as though I have misplaced him. I didn't lose him. I know exactly where he is.

And I didn't lose Roo. Had I not been strong enough and kept her, I think I might have lost her. Maybe not this year or next year or in five or ten years, but I think that at some point, whether emotionally or spiritually or physically, I would have lost her. In placing her with her parents, she was found. I found out who she is, who she is meant to be. Not my daughter but theirs.

I miss her dreadfully. I ache with it. Every so often the gravity of what I did will fall upon me and I almost can't breathe for the weight of it on my soul. But I would do it again in a heartbeat. Being a good mother means doing what is best for your child, no matter what it does to you. I'm not Roo's mommy anymore, but I feel like because I did what I did, I am the best mother in the world.

A lot of people I know seem to think that when adoption is the right choice, there will be a certain peace and joy in it. And to a small degree, they are right. I am so happy for P and M. I am happy that they got the baby they were meant to have. And I don't wrestle with my decision so much anymore. I made it, and it is done, and it was right. But for the most part, when adoption is the right choice, it's not the birth mother whose peace and happiness indicate the rightness of the choice. I think it's the peace and happiness of the adopted child and the adoptive parents that matter.

Which isn't to say that a birth mother's feelings aren't important. But I know that I made the right decision because Roo is happy and loved and content, not because I feel all hunky-dory about adoption. I don't yet have that exponential degree of peace that I had hoped for. I'm still praying for it and working on it. It sounds cliched but I can say in all veracity that that kind of peace is a journey, not a destination. There are good days and there are bad days. I'm finally getting to the point where there are more good than bad.

I think the biggest difference between now and four weeks ago is that while I have always known that P and M were meant to be Roo's parents, I am no longer devastated that that means I am not meant to be her mother. I have learned to be grateful for the time that I had to be her mommy. I would not trade it for anything in heaven or earth.

I am not Roo's mother anymore. I am her birth mother. And I'm starting to appreciate what a nice thing that is to be.