FAQ: Do I Want More Children?

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

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

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

Q: Do you want more kids some day?

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

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

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

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

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

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

I will not go through that again.

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

In Which Jill Talks About Her Feelings

I hate trying to blog when I haven't blogged in a while. I feel the need to explain my absence, to say something profound, to make a Big Statement. I have started and abandoned twenty different posts since the last one, and absolutely nothing I tried to say felt right.

It's not that I'm having these deep emotional thoughts I can't express, though. My life is pretty awesome. But I wonder if that's part of the problem. I've always had more to say when I've been upset. Some of my best writing came from my darkest times. What is up with that? I mean, I know that there are these cliches about tortured artists and tragic clowns and everything, but that's messed up. Maybe some people need trauma to bring out their inner genius, and maybe I once did too, but in the words of Homer Simpson, that ship has sailed. I have been a happy person for quite some time now, and I plan on being a happy person for the rest of my life.

This is the other reason I hate trying to blog when I haven't blogged in a while. I end up mentioning clowns and Homer Simpson and I still haven't said anything of value. I probably won't say anything of value today, either, so brace yourselves. 

Last week I did an outreach presentation at a high school in Ahwatukee. (The location isn't particularly important, but Ahwatukee is a fun name.) It wasn't my first presentation of the school year - that was in September and I don't think I wrote about it because I've been ten kinds of lazy lately - but it was the longest at four classes in a row. There's a danger in doing four classes in a row. I feel like the first class gets the best version of my story. By the last class, I can't remember what I've mentioned already and I am easily distracted and I tend to be underemotional about some things. Blogger has put a squiggly red line under the word "underemotional" but I don't care, I want it to be a word today and I don't feel like hyphenating it.

I noticed something on Thursday, though. I did not cry.

I used to be big on crying when I did presentations. Not for effect (although doesn't that seem like something I'd do?) but because I could not get through my story without turning into what I believe the kids these days would call a hot mess, because placement was so expletive deleted hard, and I missed my baby SO MUCH, and just thinking about it took me back to that dark and lonely time. It helped, if that's the right word, that I was still not a particularly happy person, so it wasn't too hard to pull those feelings up for reference. Now that I am a happy person, it is much harder.

I got a little choked up when I mentioned Roo being born because that was such a defining moment for me - I don't think I have even gotten that far in my excruciatingly long and drawn-out story on this blog - but that was the extent of it. And I felt kind of weird, thinking about it, that I would utter a phrase like "I didn't think I could hurt that much and still be alive" and not even have a fizzy throat. I felt kind of deceitful.

I'm not sure why. I was telling the truth - it was the worst I've hurt in my whole life. But it felt wrong somehow that I could talk about it without being upset. I wonder if that's part of the reason I hung on to my unhappiness for so long. I figured out two years ago that part of why I couldn't let go of the pain was because I felt like I needed it - I needed to hurt to prove to myself that I love Roo and that placement was a hard thing. I wonder if the other part of it is that I needed to hurt because it gave me credibility.

But pain is exhausting. Hurting all the time made it hard to get out of bed in the morning. I had to let it go, and I am so glad I did! Because while being sad may have made me credible as far as the difficulty of placement, it didn't do much for the overall message I wanted to send, which was that adoption is a really awesome thing. I mean, if I sat through a presentation that was supposed to be pro-adoption and the birth mom who spoke was still a wreck, I wouldn't be any more inclined to place a child. I'd feel really sad for the birth mom but I would tell myself that if that's what placement does to a person, I'm staying away from it. That is not the point of me taking a morning off work and telling a hundred high school students embarrassingly personal things about my life.

The point is that I think adoption is pretty rad, and Roo is really ridiculously happy, and so am I, and even though I was a deeply unhappy person for at least a solid year, I'm not that person anymore. I am happy and I have a really awesome life.

I probably could have just said that to the disinterested looking teenagers and cut twenty minutes off my presentation, but I do like to tell a good story. Mostly, I like to tell a long story, which isn't news if you have ever read this blog before. Boy, do I like to tell a long story. I have always admired people who can express themselves succinctly. I think it's a remarkable skill. It's like juggling. I can be amazed at how easy other people make it look, but every time I decide to try it for myself, I end up with a headache.

I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but I think P and M are pretty much the coolest people I know. They are fantastic parents, and they are smart, and patient, and thoughtful, and a lot of other great things. If I ever grow up, I want to be just like them. When I was pregnant and considering adoption, one birth mom suggested looking for a couple that reminded me of myself - "That way it's like another version of you is parenting your baby." I am SO glad I did not take her advice. Roo already has to combat the genes I gave her; I wouldn't want to compound the problem by choosing parents for her with all of my neuroses.

I think I was trying to make a point, and here it is. I am such a wordy person. I can't accept that a picture is worth a thousand words. I will find a picture worth a thousand words, and I will give it a 10,000-word caption. When I edit my writing, I add to it instead of taking away. One of my earliest memories is of being told to shut up. My childhood nickname was Little Miss Chatterbox. I could go on.

One of the things that I love about M is that when she says something, she says exactly what she wants to say, without saying anything else. Where I would be pulling adjectives out of the air, she simply says what she needs to say and stops talking or writing. For instance, M would have finished this blog post about eight paragraphs ago. I still don't know where I'm going with it. I should probably be done for now.

But I will blog again soon, and when I do, I have some exciting news to share.

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.

Grief and Healing, Part Two

I feel like I ended part 1 in an awkward place. But it was either there, or at the end of this part, and I felt it was best not to try anyone's patience.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch ...


So, what is this process of grief? If you've ever taken a psychology class you've probably heard of the five stages of grief - Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Accptance. These don't go in order, you may not experience all of them, and you may experience each of them more than once.

Many birthmothers would tell you that in placement, denial doesn't often come first – depression and tears do! Placement is hard. You can't really completely prepare for it. I know that when I was pregnant I heard stories about placement being all warm-fuzzies, but no one ever talked honestly about what happened right afterward. It stinks! It's hard. I wasn't at all happy. Maybe you weren't either. That's okay. Keep in mind that the time after placement being insanely difficult doesn't mean adoption was the wrong choice. It just means you love your baby an awful lot. It hurts because we love our children and we aren't parenting them, because of a lifetime of experiences with them that we'll miss, because it hurts not being around them. I've never met a birthmother who hurts because she feels she picked the wrong family or because she's worried that her child is going to be hurt or neglected or damaged in some way by the family he or she was placed with. If you feel any of those things, definitely talk to your caseworker about your concerns and do it right away. Knowing that despite our pain, the babies we placed are happy and healthy and loved gives us something to cling to when the pain is bad. Cling to it! Ride that horse to safety.

As far as the stages of grief go, it's worth noting that they may manifest differently in birth moms than they might in someone grieving a physical death. With denial, for instance, you obviously can't pretend you didn't place your baby, because if you hadn't, the baby would be with you. But some birth moms may want to pretend that they never had a child in the first place. They may opt for a closed adoption and never speak about it or the child they placed. The problem with this is that pretending it didn't happen doesn't mean it didn't happen. Closed adoption is fine if that's what works for you, but let yourself grieve before you close the mental door on this part of your life or it'll come back to bite you.

Anger is a big one – the birth moms I've talked to have expressed anger at God for inspiring them to place, at people who were unsupportive of their tentative plans to single parent or marry the birth father, anger at the birth father for being a less-than-upstanding young man, anger at the adoptive couple for getting to be the baby's parents, anger at themselves for getting pregnant in a situation that let them to choose adoption.

Anger is something that as women we tend to push back the most. But the more anger you let yourself feel, the less anger you'll find yourself feeling. It sounds counter-intuitive, but it's true. If you get it all out, you're done. But be careful in how you let it out. It's so tempting to unload on your parents or your friends. If at all possible, don't. Find a suitable outlet – a punching bag, a therapist, your caseworker, your bishop or other clergyman. Write – but don't send – letters to people you're angry with. Please don't send them. That part is important.

Post-placement, depression is the big one. Those who study grief say the most acute pain post-loss lasts about two months. Your experience may vary. Let it be what it is. If you're got thirty minutes of crying to do, don't stop at twenty. Don't let anyone tell you to cheer up or snap out of it. You're earned your tears with your love. Own them. C. S. Lewis said, “The pain now is part of the happiness then. That's the deal.” The "happiness then" is our love.

The depression can be the hardest to get past. In my experience and the experience of other birth moms I've talked to, each day after placement hurts just a tiny bit less – even if it's just a teeny-tiny minuscule bit. You realize you survived the day before, and it gets easier to think you can survive today and tomorrow, too. If it feels like too much, remember the following: Inhale, exhale, repeat. I can't promise that there's a bright shiny light at the end of the tunnel, but I can promise that the tunnel has an end. You won't always feel this way.

In addition to the things you expect, like depression, you may experience other feelings/reactions that you didn't expect and you might feel they are abnormal. They're not. As I said before, the beautiful thing about grief is that what's normal for you is normal.

That doesn't mean it's something you can anticipate. For instance, you may feel a sense of relief that you aren't responsible for the life of a tiny baby, grateful that you're not getting up every few hours with a crying baby. If you hadn't placed, you wouldn't be allowed to be selfish and irresponsible anymore. You still can, and it's perfectly normal to be a little relieved that this is so.

Jealousy is another thing that comes up – jealousy of the adoptive couple, of single parents, of women who marry rather than place, of women who are married and “allowed” to keep their babies, of anyone who didn't have to do what you did and who hasn't suffered your pain.

Aimlessness may push its way to the surface, too. You've spent the better part of a year growing a baby and preparing for his or her arrival. Now you don't have that to do, it's normal to feel adrift and without purpose. One of my birth mom friends said that after placement she didn't feel important anymore. Please don't fall into that way of thinking. You created life, and you helped build a family. You are still very much important.

I can't speak for anyone else, but impatience was a big one for me. Have you ever seen those JG Wentworth ads where people shout “It's my money, and I need it now!” I SO get that. Many of us are told throughout the process that God has all these amazing blessings lined up for us for this thing we've done. It's normal to feel, “They're my blessings, and I need them now!” The fact is those blessings – what they are and when we get them are on God's time, not ours. You may find yourself, like me, two years after placement feeling like very little has changed. Don't give up. (I remind myself of this every day.)

It's also normal to be impatient with yourself about grief – when do I stop feeling like crap? When does it get better? When do I get to move on? Now would be good! Research suggests that six to twelve months post-loss is the hardest time. All the firsts are difficult. But the second year may be harder for you. The good news is, I don't know anyone who's said that the third year is hard :)

Parenthetically, although I just said "post-loss," the first and second years that I referred to are actually the first and second years of grieving. If you placed ten years ago and promptly stuffed all your grief down, you are only just beginning.

What about disconnect? This one is a little scary, but it's a good sign. As time passes, your deep connection to the child you placed won't be as intense. You won't check your e-mail twenty times a day for a picture anymore. You might not read an e-mail from the adoptive couple right away. You might still feel this insanely irrational love for the child you placed, and yet spend most of a visit talking to the adoptive parents instead of gazing in rapt wonder at the life you created.

I should also mention that you may experience several of these feelings at once. It is possible to feel more than one emotion at a time. It doesn't mean you're crazy. It means you're human. You are absolutely allowed to feel happy for someone and jealous of them at the same time. You can feel sad and happy at the same time (and I'm the "happiest sad" chick, so trust me on this one). You can feel grateful and impatient. You can feel depressed at the same time you feel a lot of love.

I want to say a word about love. The temptation is often to jump back into a relationship right away. If the right person comes along, then by all means. But tread lightly. Be careful not to end up with the wrong person again. After placement, you're still learning who you are. You can't get to know another person properly if you're still getting to know yourself. You're not quite you when you're grieving. It's okay to be alone. As Mr Rogers said, "Solitude is different from loneliness, and it doesn't have to be a lonely kind of thing."


Hang in there - part 3 is coming soon.

Grief and Healing, or Something Like That

I don't know if any of you know this about me, but sometimes I like to talk about grief. And by "sometimes" I mean "at least once a week for the past three or four years." It's kind of become my thing. I guess that's okay.

I gave a presentation at the national FSA conference on grief and healing (as they pertain to birth mothers). I think it went okay. And then, because it was easier than coming up with something new, I gave that same presentation at the regional conference last month. I've had several (and by "several" I mean, "as many as two") people ask me for an outline of my presentation. And since I have been too busy/lazy to blog lately, I thought I would finally give in and post it on my blog. In an effort to stretch out my laziness, I'm going to split it into more than one post. Also, it's kind of long, and I think my eyes would glaze over if I had to sit and read the whole thing, and I wrote it. So I'm assuming that no one else wants to sit here for thirty minutes squinting at a computer screen. Even though some of you probably do that anyway, playing Farmville or watching cat videos on YouTube (my favorite is this one) or whatever it is that people do on-line for the 4-6 hours a day that Google says we're spending.

Wow. Isn't it a shame when bad things happen to good sentences? Let's move on.

So, here it is. My thoughts on grief and healing, as I wrote and presented them (with a few clarifications and additions), minus the insightful comments that other people made during my presentations. Sorry about that. I should have taken notes.



If you've wasted as much time as I have on-line looking at baby animal pictures, you may have seen a photo or two with the caption “You're doing it wrong.” A kitten with its nose in the pages of a book may accompany the line “Facebook: you're doing it wrong.”

You may feel at times like, “Grief: you're doing it wrong.” But the odds are, you're doing it right, because what's wrong for someone else may be right for you. How many of you have ever felt like you were grieving placement improperly: too long, too short, too much, not enough?

[Here I paused for a show of hands]

No two birth moms are going to grieve exactly the same, and that's okay. The intensity and duration of your grief aren't as important as what you get out of it – its productivity. Grief can and should be productive. As long as it's moving you forward in some way, you're doing it right. You won't find yourself moving forward very much at first. Grief is more of a reflex. It's up to you to make it work for you.

And it is work! It's neither easy nor fun, but the only way out, as they say, is through. You can push it back, stuff it down, box it up all you want, but eventually it's going to have to be dealt with. I recommend starting now! It won't get any easier. But it's important.

How many of you have felt like you shouldn't be grieving at all?

[Here, again, I paused for a show of hands]

I think sometimes we fall into the trap of thinking that because adoption was the right choice, it shouldn't hurt, that maybe we don't have a right to be sad. But the thing is, we do have a right to be sad. We need to be sad. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross* said, “Grief is the reflection of the connection that has been lost. We think we want to avoid the grief, but really it is the pain of the loss we want to avoid. Grief is the healing process that ultimately brings us comfort in our pain. That pain and our love are forever connected.”

When I think of the kind of life I want to live, I think of my Savior. He set a perfect example for us. Do you all remember that short scripture that's so easy to quote? “Jesus wept.” If He wept, I think it's okay for us to weep, too. Emotions - the full gamut of them - are a gift from God. Embrace them.

Give yourself permission to grieve. It is a perfectly healthy response to any kind of loss. I had a birth mom tell me once that she felt selfish for being sad, because she knew adoption was right for her baby. If any of you share that belief, I want to disabuse you of it. Your grief is NOT selfish. You grieve because you love, and it is the most selfless love in the world.

The world won't always understand this. For example: when my father died, my mom was treated with sympathy, kindness, patience, and understanding. No one accused her of being selfish for her sadness. On the other hand, after I placed, people told me I was being self-centered, that I needed to stop thinking about my own pain and do something for someone else, that I needed to snap out of it and move on already. It goes without saying that that kind of attitude isn't very helpful or respectful. If you've been on the receiving end of that kind of “advice,” please disregard it. You need to grieve just as much as someone who has lost a spouse.

Placement is a death, in a way. Your baby is gone – he or she no longer exists. In their place is someone else's baby. And you're not just grieving one single moment of loss but a lifetime of things that won't be as the child grows up - or, rather, things that will be, but without you.


I hope you like depressing cliffhangers, because that's it for part 1! Part 2, which deals with the specific aspects of grief, will be up in a few days :)



*Quote taken from "On Grief and Grieving," by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

Back Home Again

Did you know that from my house in the Valley to the Davis Conference Center it's exactly 735.9 miles? True story. My car's trip odometer says so. Also a true story: Gasoline is about thirty cents per gallon more expensive in Utah than in Phoenix. I paid three and a quarter in Mesa and $3.69 in the middle of the Beehive State. Scandalous! They have refineries there. Gas should be cheaper. Although how sad would it be if BP lost money that way? I know I'd cry myself to sleep. So $3.69 it was.

(I first typed that as $369, which reminds me of a truck I saw near Anthem on my way out of the Valley. It was for sale, but the guy had put a $ in front of his phone number, which confusingly took up two lines. Dear guy in the red truck: your late 90's low-rider Chevy isn't worth $623,000 dollars. You might want to fix that.)

Anyway. I think I was trying to make a point, and here it is: I'm tired. I drove 13 hours on Thursday (and lost an hour thanks to the inanity that is Daylight Saving Time) and 11 hours yesterday (not sure how that worked out but I'm going to credit taking highway 89A instead of 89), and the blog post I planned about the conference is going to have to wait.

But you know what? As excruciatingly dull and butt-numbingly long as the drive was, it was worth it. I met some really cool people and learned a lot of important things and gave what I think was a pretty darn good presentation. And I had homemade brownies and ate them on a patio overlooking pretty much all of North Salt Lake (thanks, Becky!). I think that adoption people are the best people. You know that song about how people who need people are the luckiest people in the world? (I hate that song.) Well, I think that adoption people are the luckiest people in the world - or if not the luckiest, the coolest. Some of my favorite people in the whole world are my adoption friends.

I found myself thinking frequently of Roo, and wondering what she was up to. I do that sometimes. But I thought of her, and pictured her sitting with a book and carefully turning the pages as she does, or imitating everything her big sister does, or swimming or coloring or just being adorable, and I thought just as frequently of how very grateful I am for what adoption has given my little Roo. I'm willing to take credit for how cute she turned out, but everything else she is, is a result of her mommy and daddy.

I heard one adoptee say on Friday that she wouldn't be the person she is with the great life she has if she hadn't been raised in the family she was raised in, and she was grateful to her birth mother. I loved hearing that. I think, that's going to be Roo someday with that sentiment, happy and successful and smart and saying, “I am who I am because P and M are my parents, and I'm so glad my birth mother placed me with them!”

I'm glad I placed her with them, too. I'm thankful every day.

Saturday

I wrote this two weeks ago. I wanted to make a minor edit before posting ... and then I forgot until a little while ago. So "today" is April 9th in this post.

There's a song in the LDS Children's Songbook that begins with the line, "Saturday is a special day" (it is, you see, the day we get ready for Sunday). The older I get, the less special Saturdays seem to be, because after a few years the luster of doing laundry and sweeping the floors tends to wear off. But today really was a special day, because it was an Adoption Academy day.

Have I written before about Adoption Academies? I don't remember. I'm also too lazy to go through my archives and find out. In short: Adoption Academies are put on every three months by FSA to help couples meet the education requirements for certification. I'm sure they do them other places, maybe a little differently and with different names. But here in the Phoenix area, they're called Adoption Academies, and Roo's parents have been the ones in charge of the Mesa ones since a little bit before I met them. Part of the academy is a birth mom panel, and since P and M know me and my story, they've asked me to be on the birth mom panels they've arranged since I placed Roo. That's what I did today. But because I love adoption, and because P and M do such an amazing job, I stayed the whole day instead of just being there for my part.

It was awesome. I know I toss that word around like confetti, but I really do mean it. It was awesome. Everyone did a good job - all of the panelists, and P and M. I cannot even imagine how much work it is to put one of these things on, but I think it totally paid off. Today left me with the warmest, fuzziest feeling about adoption. And I am not being facetious. It was the best Saturday I've had in ages.

Oh, and my mother was on the adult adoptee panel. I love to hear her talk about adoption, because it wasn't something she ever used to feel comfortable talking about. My father was the first person she ever told that she was adopted. They'd been married six months at the time, and she told him the night before they were going to be sealed in the temple. Isn't that crazy? My mom never had any issues about being adopted, but I think it took her a while to feel like talking about it was okay. I am very proud of her.

The birth mom panel was after lunch. I don't really get nervous about that sort of thing anymore. I guess I've done it enough times now that it's not stressful. It went pretty much the same as other birth mom panels have gone. But something unusual happened - or rather, didn't happen. I've lost count of how many times I've told my story and Roo's. Dozens, certainly. And every time, I cry.

I didn't cry today.

I'm not sure how I feel about that. I think I might have cried, if I'd had more time to blather. Not that I didn't have plenty of time, but for some reason I feel like I skipped some parts of my story today - idiot that I am, I somehow completely glossed over the part where I met P and M and chose them, and that's one of the best parts of the story! Anyway. I got choked up for sure. But I didn't use a single Kleenex.

This bothers me. How could I not have cried? I've never not cried. I AlWAYS cry. I didn't think I could get through my story without crying. I guess I wonder what it says about me that I didn't. Does it mean I care less? I certainly don't care less. I'm getting teared up just thinking about Roo and how much I love her and what an amazing little person she is.

I don't know why I didn't cry. I guess it's not really important. If tears are a measure of love, I've certainly proven the depth of my feeling over the past two years. A few months after placement I was starting to consider buying Kleenex by the case and recommending that friends and family buy stock in the company. Perhaps I've just gotten most of my tears out of the way. I don't know.

It shouldn't matter. I know that I love Roo, whether I cry about it or not. But maybe that's it - I know, but I feel like maybe the couples who were there won't know unless I prove it by crying. Is that ridiculous? I think it's ridiculous, but the thought is there just the same (it is absolutely exhausting inside my brain).

I digress. Today was a fantastic day. And M said something about maybe having a visit in a few weeks! That would be amazing. It's nothing definite, but even so it was so awesome of her to suggest it. It means a lot. I've sort of had this itch lately to see Roo again. But what's kind of funny is that I'm almost as anxious just to see P and M again. I really do love them, and it was so good to be able to see them today and talk for a little while. I wanted to brag to every person I saw today that P and M are "my" couple, that these awesome people who put on such a good academy are Roo's parents.

I am glad that they're Roo's parents. I'm glad for her, and I'm glad for them. They are my favorite little family in the world.

I'm rambling, aren't I? Oh well. I think a little ramble now and then is a good thing, provided you know when to quit.

Which I do :)

Outreach

I have been busy lately.

Busy is something sort of new for me. I'm not sure I like it yet. I haven't had time to decide. It is nice to have my days full. The less time I have to sit around, the less time I have to decide I am dissatisfied with some aspect of my life. Most of my time is accounted for, and I'm okay with it. It's nice to have things to do.

When I decided to go back to school this semester, I figured that was it for doing adoption outreach. I have school in the morning and work in the afternoon. It made me a little sad to think about, actually, because I love doing outreach presentations. But what could I do?

What I did was jump at the chance to present a week ago Wednesday, because instead of speaking with just any adoptive mom, I had the chance to speak with Roo's mom, M! I'd never done a presentation with her before. I know she's heard my rambling story several times at adoption academies and the like. I've heard her and P's story a few times in bits and pieces. But we've never had the chance to speak together. How could I turn down the chance? I'm blessed with a very kind, very reasonable supervisor at work. My schedule was rearranged.

I don't typically get very nervous about speaking. I never really have. Most people dislike public speaking but I love it. Given a topic and five minutes to prepare, I think I could comfortably address the United Nations. High schoolers are no sweat. But this time I was nervous. I wanted to do well because M was there. I think I felt like I needed to do well to keep from detracting from M's story. I spoke first. I rambled. Boy, did I ramble! I think I overdid the rambling. My words got mixed up, which happens sometimes when too many of them pile up in my brain. As I was speaking I thought, I didn't need to mention this. I should have said that. I forgot something important.

I usually think that, though. I mean, it's a difficult thing, isn't it? Trying to explain to a room full of teenagers that desperately loving my little girl and placing her for adoption aren't mutually exclusive. Just saying "It was the best thing for her" feels insufficient. Even here on my blog, where I have seemingly infinite time to write and edit, I struggle with explaining my decision properly. I'm not sure that the words I want to use actually exist.

Every time I finish speaking to a high school class, I wonder if any of them really understand. I think that when you're younger love is a selfish sort of thing. As an adolescent, it's like that song - you always hurt the one you love. Part of growing up, of being a parent, is hurting for the one you love, hurting so they don't have to.

Well, shoot. Why couldn't I have said that on Wednesday? Oh well. I reckon I did well enough. I only cried once, during the same part of my recitation that always makes me cry. I'm not sure why, but when I talk about seeing newborn Roo for the first time, I turn into a faucet. But I mostly just teared up this time. I wonder if one of these days I'll get through without crying at all.

Then it was M's turn. I loved hearing her speak. I had the thought that the story that she was telling was probably similar to the story she will tell Roo someday about how they became a family. I think I cried more at M's story than at mine. Infertility is simply heartbreaking. I've always thought so in the abstract, but hearing the personal experience of someone I love so much just killed me. But P and M are strong. They weren't content to accept that they wouldn't be parents. Now they have two smart, beautiful little girls. They are a family who can handle anything life throws at them. How lucky is Roo to grow up with that? And how lucky am I that I get to see it?

I am a spoiled girl, really. I know that openness is supposed to be just as beneficial for the adoptee, but while she's still so small, I feel like I get the better end of the bargain.

I could tell during the presentation that it was a little weird for some of the students to see me and M together. I don't know if they could wrap their brains around the two of us being in the same room, sitting next to each other, talking to each other like good friends. I wish I'd thought to explain that better. M is Roo's mommy, the only person I know of who loves Roo as much as I do - she's the only other person who has been Roo's mother. How could I not love M dearly? How could I not be her friend?


It's probably a foreign concept to most people - that a birth mother and the adoptive mother she placed with keep track of each other and stay in each other's lives. It's not what you hear about in the media. It's not what people expect. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

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.

It's That Time of Year Again!

No, not my birthday, although that's coming up soon enough. I'm talking about something that other people are excited about, too.

That's right, it's time for the Families Supporting Adoption Southwest Regional Conference. And it's happening right here in the unseasonably warm state of Arizona, in the very same building I go to every Tuesday night for Institute. It promises to be an amazing conference. Andrea has been working day and night and every time in between (4am, anyone?) to make it great.

Check out the conference website and sign yourself up. You might notice a familiar name or two on the presenters page. How I ended up on the list with the likes of Mrs R, Kerstin Daynes and the always awesome Tamra Hyde is beyond me, but there I am.

What are you waiting for? Go and sign up!

Never Say Never

Thursday morning I got to do another round of school presentations - three classes in a row, starting at 7:50am. I am not precisely what you would call a morning person. If I'm awake at 5am, I'm more likely to still be awake than I am to have just awoken. But I love doing school presentations, so I woke myself up, made myself presentable, and headed out.

I took the 60. Why did I take the 60? The 60 is almost always a bad idea. But Google Maps told me the 60 would save me six minutes over the 202, and I live much closer to the 60 than the 202. In the end I was only five or so minutes late, but I could have done without the stress of stop-and-go traffic (mostly stop) and having to repeat to myself, "It's okay, my brakes worked, I'm not dead yet."

I digress.

This was my first school presentation in several months and I felt a bit rusty. I think I did okay, though. Well, actually, I think I did terrible, but I always think I've done a terrible job. It's so hard to tell with teenagers. You don't get much of a response from them. It doesn't seem to matter what you say; they just sit there and stare at you with bored looks on their faces. I feel like I need more feedback than that.

I found myself mentioning irrelevant or unimportant parts of my story just for comedic effect. I got a few perfunctory laughs for them, at least. After I talked, there were a few minutes for questions. The first class was silent. I don't even know if it registered that I'd finished talking. The second class had no questions but a few comments. Three comments, in fact, all from girls. All of them said the same thing when Calli (the LDSFS caseworker) asked if anyone had any thoughts or experiences about adoption.

"I could never do that."

Have I mentioned before how much I loathe that phrase? I believe I have. And I do. Loathe it, that is. I don't believe there's a woman in the world who thinks they could do it. I sure as heck didn't think so. I said as much to the girls. I told them that when I'd heard about adoption before I was pregnant, I thought, I could never do that. But never say never, right? Because not only could I, but I did.

When I spoke to the third class I changed up the conclusion to my story. I told them, "So many girls hear I'm a birth mom and say, 'I could never do that.' But I didn't think I could do it, either. No one does at first. What it comes down to isn't so much, 'I could never do that, it would be too hard for me,' but, 'I have to do it, because it's not about me.' Motherhood is about making hard choices and doing what's best for your child."

This time, when Calli asked for comments, a girl in the back raised her hand. "I think that if I was pregnant and I didn't know what to do, I might think about adoption," she said. "I mean, I wouldn't want to or anything, but I think maybe if I was in that kind of situation I could think about it."

I could have kissed her.

I hope this young woman doesn't face an unplanned pregnancy. I hope none of the girls I spoke to ever has to, really. But odds are if this young woman doesn't, one of her friends will. And what she realized is all I ever want these teenagers to get out of a presentation - adoption is an option. It's not for everyone, maybe it's not for you, but it's an adoption. It's a possibility. It's worth looking into. Never say never.

I never thought I could do it, either. I never thought I could place my precious little baby for adoption. But I did, and I am so glad! I hope that someday Roo will be glad I did, too.

(I'm sure she'd be happy about it now if she weren't preoccupied with things like learning to walk properly, and growing teeth, and being adorable.)

Outreach

I got to do an outreach presentation at Compadre on Monday (the 3rd). Compadre is always a fun one because instead of a health class full of bored fifteen-year-olds, I get to speak to single girls who are facing unplanned pregnancies. Compadre has classes for pregnant girls and for girls who are already single-parenting. On the one hand, I think it's fantastic and innovative and a good idea. On the other hand, it depresses me that there are enough pregnant girls in the Tempe Unified School District that they need their own program.

I've done an outreach presentation at Compadre once before. Talking to the class of single mothers is awkward. It's like going to a prison and talking about the benefits of a law-abiding lifestyle. Fortunately for me, I didn't get to speak to that group Monday. That honor (I think) went to another birth mom I know, Heather. But Heather had to go back to work after that, so the second class was all mine, and the class was all pregnant girls.

I do pretty well speaking to teenagers, because they appreciate my attention to humorous detail and my asides about trouble with my ex. They were a terrific audience, and they all oohed and aahed over the Roo pictures I showed them. When I finished, Sarah, an adoptee and adoptive mom spoke. I've heard Sarah speak before at adoption academies before and I love her story. The time was mostly gone after we'd both talked, but C (the LDSFS caseworker doing the outreach) passed around some fact sheets and asked the girls if they had any questions or if they'd learned anything.

This is usually when the girls take a sudden interest in their mobile phones or their homework, and they refuse to look up or make eye contact. This was a good group of girls, though. They all enthusiastically thanked Sarah and me for speaking and said they'd loved our stories.

C asked if what they'd heard had changed any ideas any of them had had about adoption. One girl - this stick-thin 14-year-old with a gigantic hairstyle, gave me a big grin and said, "I really liked your story. It helped me make up my mind. Now I know I'm never giving my baby up for adoption. My situation isn't like yours was. My boyfriend and I really love our baby."

This is what I believe the 'nets refer to as a facepalm moment. Had she not heard a word of my story? After she thanked me and opined, a few other girls nodded their assent. They, too, had conclusively decided against adoption.

These teenage girls ... they just kill me. You want to make a birth mom breathe fire? Imply that she chose adoption because she didn't love her baby. They just didn't GET it! It was pretty discouraging for me because even though I figure no one at an outreach presentation is going to leap up and say, "Yes! Yes, adoption! That's it!" this is the first time after one that a girl has actually told me that I persuaded her against adoption.

I wanted to cry. It felt like I'd done more harm than good, and I wondered if I should have just stayed home. But while I was wallowing in stunned disbelief, one of the girls in the class mentioned to C that she was definitely going to consider adoption, because certain parts of her pregnancy story paralleled mine, and she wanted more for her baby than she alone could offer.

C, I didn't tell you this, but when you offhandedly mentioned what that young girl told you, you saved my bacon and my day. Thank you. Thank you for paying attention to the quiet, reasonable girl and not just the cheerfully loud one. Thank you for making me feel better about the words of the toothpick teen with the big hair.

And thank you, quiet girl on my left who spoke to C, for listening with your heart and not just your ears. I haven't forgotten you, and I never will.

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.

Spreading the Word

I got to tell my story again today.

It was a little different from usual. I'm used to teenagers, mostly. Today it was adults, and quite a few of them were older than my mother.

Every stake in the LDS Church has (or is supposed to have) an LDSFS Agency Representative (AR). I think the calling used to have the title of Birth Outreach Coordinator or something like that. Anyway. This morning was sort of a training for them, to get to know what it is to be a birth mother. I was one of three birth mothers telling my story. There was also an adoptive mom to give her perspective.

I could tell that for a lot of the ARs the concept of an open adoption was very foreign. Part of it is generational, I think. Years ago, when my mom was adopted for instance, adoption was very hush-hush and as adoptions were completely closed. I can imagine how strange it must be for people who have that picture of adoption to hear about how open things can be today.

The ARs all seemed fascinated by the birth mom stories. I guess I've been knee-deep in adoption for so long now that I forget that a lot of people don't have any experience with it. It was sort of refreshing. When I do school presentations, the kids aren't any more familiar with it, but they don't seem to care overmuch either. It was nice to have such a rapt audience for a change.

I think what I like best is seeing people's faces when it clicks for them - when they get it, so to speak - that adoption is nothing shameful or strange or distasteful. I love to see minds changed as stories are told. Adoption is a wonderful, amazing thing! I wish more people knew that. I wish the whole world knew it. I feel like there's still this stigma about it. People see it as a sad thing, a shameful thing, something that shouldn't be talked about. It needs to be talked about!

I'm so glad I have the chance to do presentations. I don't know if anyone I speak to gets anything out of what I have to say, but I know that I certainly do. I used to worry that every time I told my story I lost a little part of it - that it lost a little more meaning each time, that it became less precious, less special. Sometimes I still worry about that. But I'm starting to feel more like mine is a story that needs to be told. That maybe I had this experience not just for me, not just for Roo, but because it's going to give me the experience and perspective to help other people. I hope so.

Compadre and Komodo

I did another school presentation today - this one at Compadre High School in Tempe. Two classes with a half-hour break in between them. I don't know what the reason was, but I had an off day. Maybe it's because I've had such a rotten week. Maybe it's because the first class consisted solely of teen mothers - not pregnant girls, but girls who are single moms. Maybe it's because I slept so poorly and for so little time last night. Whatever the reason, the first class was brutal. I didn't know what to say to those girls that wouldn't make them think I was judging them or trying to convince them to place their kids for adoption. It sort of threw me. I did a terrible job. I kept stuttering, my tongue catching on simple words. I don't think I helped at all. I probably did more harm than good. I was glad to be done.

I cried a little bit after the first class. Just buried my head in my hands and let my eyeliner run. It wasn't like this was the first time I'd ever presented. I could do this in my sleep. Why was it so hard today?

I pulled myself together a bit for the second class, but I felt a little more comfortable with the audience - all pregnant girls. I don't know if I changed any minds but I kept them entertained at the least. They all looked so young. One or two of them were sophomores. Sophomores! Fifteen, sixteen years old at the most. I looked around the room and I didn't see that any of them looked particularly prepared to be mommies. I hope they are, if that's what they choose. I hope they have good families who care to help them out. I know what it's like to feel alone and like no one's excited about your baby. It's a terrible feeling and I wouldn't wish it on anyone. I hate the thought that any of those girls might feel that rotten. I never would have had that kind of compassion before this experience. I've changed a lot since I had Roo and since I placed her.

It was strange not seeing all of my Roo things in my bedroom last night. The room felt too big. The walls were in the right place, but there was an odd sense of spatial distortion, like there was more space than I could see. In one sense, it's nice to have everything packed away neatly. It kind of makes things easier. But then, it kind of makes things harder, too. I miss seeing Roo's toys and jammies and blankies in my room. They were familiar things and they made me think of a sweet, lovely time in my life. I am more keenly aware of their absence than I could have predicted.

Maybe that's part of why this morning was so hard for me. It can't have helped to have my familiar surroundings packed up. I don't mean to keep obsessing about this morning but it's a worry for me. If I can't figure out why today was so hard, I might do poorly again the next time I present. I don't want to risk that. Today was bad enough. I'm just glad the second class went easier.

I still felt strange after the second class, though, so I went up the street (and up and up and up) to the zoo. There's nothing quite like the zoo to put things in perspective. It was a beautiful, clear, cool day, and the air was invigorating. I headed immediately for the new Komodo dragon exhibit, but the weather was a bit too cool for them. One of them (the male, I think) was on display in a little warming room. Komodo dragons are amazing creatures. They are so large, so powerful. They are capable of running around 10 miles per hour in short bursts. This one wasn't running. He didn't need to. His movements were slow but deliberate (except when he snatched a white mouse from a dish). If he'd run around his enclosure, he might have slipped on a branch or a rock. But he took his time moving, assessing his surroundings and very purposely placing his claws on sticks and sand. His movements were slow, but sure.



The glass was a bit foggy (it must have been warm in his little room!) but I spent a good 20 minutes watching him anyway, and taking a few pictures. I decided there is a lesson to be learned from the Komodo dragon. My life seems to be going nowhere at the moment. I am moving forward so slowly, I hardly seem to be moving at all. But I am trying to make progress. And I think that as long as my progress is deliberate, careful and planned, I'll be okay. I won't make any missteps. I won't get hurt. I'll be cautious, placing my metaphorical claws on sturdy objects. I might not get where I'm going very quickly, but if I'm patient, I'll get there. It's only a matter of time. And if there's one thing I have in spades, it's time.

Speaking, and Happiness

It feels strange not to be blogging every day. I feel as though I'm forgetting something important.

I spoke at group tonight, as scheduled. Only a few people came, which sort of irritated me. That nasty little insecure part of my brain thinks it's because no one likes me and no one wanted to hear anything I had to say. I sit and listen to everyone else talk every single week and no one could be bothered to come the one week I'm actually going to say something?

On top of that, one woman in group just had her baby and placed her a few days ago, and another gave birth a few hours before group, so the people who were there were excited to talk about those women. There was talk of going to visit one of them in the hospital. Part of me wanted to say, "Fine, y'all go see her, I'll just go home since no one cares about me anyway." No one was very excited when Roo was born. No one jumped to come visit me at the hospital and tell me I was wonderful and brave.

I hate it when I get that way. I hate feeling small and insecure and unimportant and petty and jealous. But I felt that way just the same. I was super nervous. I'm a bit odd when it comes to public speaking. I could comfortably address the entire United Nations, but put me in a room with a handful of people with whom I am acquainted, and I panic. I don't like people staring at me and analyzing my every word. I don't like being the center of attention. I cried a few times. I knew I would. I passed around pictures. Everyone said Roo was beautiful (not really news to me, but always nice to hear). After I spoke, we all sat around and talked for a while. It was nice to talk. I don't get a lot of human interaction. It's easy to forget how nice it is to talk to people about silly little things and to laugh and ... relax. I'm not very good at relaxing. I'm good at being lazy, but that's not the same thing. Even when I'm being lazy, I'm not relaxed.

I always worry when I open up to people like I did tonight. My experience has been that when I open up to people, they decide they don't like me, or they use something I've told them against me. That sort of experience isn't too good for the old self-esteem, and mine was never great to begin with. It was strange to open up, to be myself, and have people tell me they like me, that they think I am clever and funny. My first instinct is to brush them off, assuming they're lying to be kind. I decided I'm going to try something new, though. I think that when I get a compliment, I'm going to repeat it to myself until I start to believe it.

So here goes: I am amazing. I am an amazing person and I have done amazing things and I am a better person for it.

I'm still not sure I believe it. I want to believe it. I want to be happy. I'm not sure I've ever wanted that before. Depression has always been normal for me - not just normal, but comfortable and familiar and consistent, like mental Tupperware. I didn't like being depressed but I was used to it, and it was hard to want to be happy because I didn't think I could be. I think I'm starting to believe that I can be happy - I want to be happy, and I can get there. I do know that I am almost happy now. It's funny, because I've never had less to be happy about in my life, but I've never been happier. It's nice to be happy. I want to keep it up.

Church Presentation

A few weeks ago I got an e-mail from an LDSFS Agency Representative. She wanted to know if I would be willing to speak about adoption during the third hour of church at her building - it's the fifth Sunday, so it's combined Priesthood and Relief Society. I said of course, I'd love to.

I'm not sure what I was thinking. I think I was thinking that since I've presented in schools a bunch of times, church wouldn't be a problem. Also, the AR was Susan, and I really like Susan. How could I say no? I couldn't. And I wasn't really too concerned about presenting until yesterday. And then I started to panic.

Presenting at schools is one thing. I've got my story down - what parts to play up, what to gloss over, what jokes I'll make, that sort of thing. I've gotten good at keeping religion out of it. And as odd as it sounds (since religion plays such a huge part of my story), I wasn't sure how I'd do. Faced with speaking in a dedicated church building, to church members who would (I hope) actually be listening, I found myself feeling dreadfully unprepared. I panicked. I wasn't sure what to say. With such a different audience than I'm used to, it seemed appropriate to alter the way I tell my story. And I wasn't sure how.

I stayed up until 4:30am, trying to type out my thoughts, editing and re-writing and trying to figure out what to say all over again. I had to downplay things I emphasize in school presentations, figure out what religious aspects to mention and when. And honestly, I think I did a horrible job this afternoon. Then again, I always feel like I do a horrible job of presenting. I feel like I get up there and ramble on and on and overshare and talk too fast and mumble and use too many big words. I must have done okay, though. Several people thanked me for sharing.

The thanks always make me uncomfortable. I don't want people thinking I do presentations for acclaim or attention. I'm sure it sounds odd, considering how openly I blog about things and how much I enjoy public speaking, but I don't necessarily like a lot of attention. Or, I guess what I mean is that I don't like people to think that I seek out attention. I know some birth moms who want to do presentations because they want to talk about themselves and have everyone think they're wonderful and brave and selfless. That's just not me. I talk because I think my story is a good example of ... well, several things, really. One is that it's never too late to make the right decision. The other is that adoption can be an amazing blessing, and that when making the decision, it's what's best for the baby that's most important, not what's going to be easiest for the mom.

I'm rambling again. See, this is what I'm afraid I do when I speak. Blah, blah, blah, me, me, me, no real substance. But Susan said I did great, and told me in no uncertain terms to stop second-guessing myself. See why I like her? She didn't give me a simpering, "Oh, you did amazing! You're wonderful!" Just a straight to the point, "You were great. Don't say you weren't." Susan is awesome (hi, Susan!).

I think it was good for me to shake things up a bit, to talk in a different setting to a different audience. I'm glad I did it. I think people got it. Some of them were crying, anyway, which I try to take as a good thing.

It was sort of a relief to be able to tell the whole story, really. I've always felt that my story lacks something important when I leave religion out. Talking today got me excited (a little, anyway) to speak at the birth mother group on Wednesday. I've never told my story there before, and I wasn't really looking forward to it before, but I'm at least not dreading it now. I think that'll be my toughest audience yet.

National Adoption Month is almost over, which would make me sad except that December is Roo Adoption Month. Her adoption will be finalized, she'll be sealed to her family, and she'll be blessed in church. I am super excited! I can't wait until Roo is theirs officially and for good. It will be such a blessing for all of us. And I'm looking forward to doing a presentation after all that's happened. I feel like it gives my story more of an ending, if you could call it that. More of a conclusion, or a place to stop talking anyway. As it is, I mention visits and openness and sort of trail off. At least in church today I could end with my testimony. Then my mom talked about what it was like for her, especially as an adult adoptee. She did great. My mom is awesome (hi, Mom!). It was nerve-wracking, but I'm glad I did it.

Outreach Presentations

Today's post might be a little incoherent, so allow me to apologize in advance. I didn't get enough sleep last night and exhaustion messes with my language skills.

I had to get up early this morning, but it was worth it because I got to do more presentations! I spoke to four classes today at a high school in Tempe. I was a little sick of myself by the fourth class but I think overall it went very well.

I don't know if I've ever really explained presentations before. We (me and S, or S and whoever's speaking) go to classes in child development or social work or whatever it is they're calling home ec these days. Any class where childbirth and infancy is discussed, pretty much. S will briefly explain what LDSFS does and then a birth mother (me, in this case) tells her story, about her pregnancy and how and why she chose adoption. S will briefly discuss how the birth mother's story dispels a lot of adoption myths out there, and then an adoptive couple (or, usually, just an adoptive mom) will talk about how they chose adoption and what led them to it, and how they met their kids' birth moms, and what placement was like. Then there's a bit of time for questions before S points out a few more misconceptions.

I'm never sure how much any of the kids are getting out of it. I'm reasonably certain that most of them at least learn that adoptions these days are open, and that openness is awesome, and that adopted kids aren't scarred for life.

I don't mean to brag, but I think I do a pretty good job of presenting. I can be sort of quiet at times but when I'm speaking to a group, I get rather animated and funny and I don't think anyone gets bored by my story. It helps that the filter between my brain and my mouth shuts down when I'm telling my story, and I blurt out odd things that, if nothing else, put people at ease. My story isn't a fun, happy one at the beginning. I don't want things to get too heavy. I'm not going to lie or gloss over the hell that was the first weeks after placement. But I try to emphasize that I got over the pain, that I'm happy now for the first time in my life. That I love Roo more than anyone else on earth, and that I did this for her.

If I'm honest, I do these presentations for myself as much as for anyone else's benefit. Not for attention or acclaim or admiration. For catharsis, for peace. I find it therapeutic. Every time I tell my story it gets a little easier and a little less painful. Sometimes I'll actually listen to myself talk and I think, yes, someone might learn from my story. This might be helpful. I hope it's helpful. I know that presenting has helped me.

There are certain parts of my story I won't tell in presentations. Some things are too sacred to me, too special to repeat to just anyone. I'm always aware when I'm presenting that it's not just my story I'm telling, it's Roo's. I try to do her justice. I want to make sure she knows how amazing her story is. I want her to be proud of me someday, proud that I am her birth mother, happy that I chose this for her, that I did this for her. I know I'm happy I chose adoption for Roo. I think it's the only good thing I've ever done in my life.

I am just so thankful for the chance I have to speak to people about adoption. It is a wonderful thing, and the world needs to know it!

Birthday

If you look at any of my past birthdays, today was comparatively rather strange. It was the least birthday-like of any birthday I've had. And yet, in some ways, today was the best birthday I've ever had.

I think that a big part of it is that I had no expectations for today. I knew that today wasn't going to be the day I'd planned, so I figured, whatever happens, happens.

I got up early to do another school presentation. I spoke to two classes at Campo Verde High School this morning. There were 5 students in the first class and 3 in the second. This was the first time I'd spoken to such a small group. I was a little intimidated at first but once I got used to it I found I enjoyed the change. It felt slightly less formal and slightly more comfortable. I think I did a better job today than yesterday. I know I enjoyed myself more. I'm really starting to love doing school presentations.

After the presentation, S took me out to lunch. We went to Denny's and my lunch was free because it was my birthday. We haven't really just had time to talk about things in a while, so it was good to catch up.

I felt pretty good when I got home. I finished my laundry and relaxed for a while. Even though I'd already gotten a few bigger things for my birthday, my mom likes for me to have something to open, so she got me a few things, including this handbag that I've wanted for a month but didn't feel I could justify buying. Then my mother and I went to Jo-Ann for a bit of fabric and then to Red Robin for dinner. I had a coupon for a free burger for my birthday.

This sounds like the dullest day ever, honestly, but I think dull was sort of a good thing. And the only parts of my day that weren't particularly dull were also not particularly cheerful. I miss my dad, and because I'd spoken about adoption earlier I really, really missed Roo. I can't even begin to explain how much I missed her. I've tried to distract myself with a TV show or two and that's helped a bit. I'm not sobbing desperately like I was earlier today in Jo-Ann when I happened upon the baby shower favor section. I stood there for about five whole minutes, crying silently and feeling terribly sorry for myself.

It was only a few minutes ago, though, that I actually stopped to wonder what my day would have been like with Roo here. I had a hard time picturing it. I remember how I had things planned out in my head, but I can't picture them the way I used to be able to. I can't imagine how the day would have gone if I were a single mother. No presents, most likely, but if I had to choose I'd have Roo instead of presents. But I can't have Roo. And so I have presents instead.

Despite the crying, today was, as I said, one of the best birthdays I can remember. I don't know what that says about other birthdays I've had, but even so. At dinner, my mother wondered aloud where we would be in a year. I can't even begin to imagine it. I know where I'd like to be, but I can't control every factor that might lead me there. All I can do is my best and see where it leads me.

Story Time, Take Two

I realize this isn't exactly news, but I miss my baby. I got to tell her story twice today, and telling it always makes me miss her.

I did another school presentation today with LDSFS. I spoke to two child development classes at Gilbert High School. I don't feel like I did a great job, to be honest. I think I did better last week at MCC. S said she liked today's better. So I'm not sure.

I think part of the problem is that today I was faced with teenagers. At MCC, it was people around my age, some a bit younger, some a bit older, and some more than a bit older. But teenagers make me nervous. They've always made me nervous, even when I was a teenager. Being on a high school campus made me a little insecure, a little anxious. I felt like I was fourteen again, and I should mention here that I would never be fourteen again for anything in the world.

Teenagers are sort of a tough crowd. I don't know that they got my sense of humor, which just ruins things because I am snark personified. I tried to make things interesting (not that I feel Roo's story needs anything added to it to make it interesting) but I'm still not sure that any of the students were particularly interested in anything I had to say. I hope that one or two thought about it at least. I think maybe a couple of girls got something out of it.

I know I did. One thing I've noticed over the past couple of weeks is that the more I talk about adoption, the more comfortable I feel with it. Public speaking has never been a problem for me, and in fact when I was younger the trickier thing was shutting me up. So I was never worried about that aspect of presenting. What concerned me was the content, the emotion, the freshness of it all. I want to make sure I do the thing properly, that I do Roo and her story justice, and that I emphasize the blessings that come from putting your baby's needs first.

I think I've done that. I don't pussyfoot around the pain and heartache because I think that does a disservice to my audience. Adoption is hard and I don't see a need to pretend otherwise. But I've tried to stress that the fact that it's hard doesn't mean it's not worthwhile or right, and that I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat.

Part of the problem for me is taking God out of the picture. I find it difficult to properly explain my decision without talking about eternal families and prayer and fasting and the Holy Ghost. I hate that that's the hardest part to explain because I think it's maybe the most important part of the story. I've struggled with that. How do I describe how and why I chose P and M without mentioning religion? How do I tell people that I knew they were her family without bringing up my faith?

Fortunately (if you'd call it that) I have the H angle to play up. And he was part of it. I didn't want his problems to become Roo's problems. I didn't want her growing up around alcohol. I didn't want her to be torn between two parents who don't like each other, not knowing where her loyalties should lie or where she should call home. What a horrible thing for a child to go through! I couldn't put my sweet Roo through that kind of thing. I wanted her to grow up with a mommy and daddy who were very much in love, who would keep her safe from the bad things in the world while she is small, who would teach her to be gentle and kind and patient and good.

P and M are a bit more difficult to explain, because that was my Father in Heaven guiding me 100%. I say this with all the love in the world, but I'm not sure I'd have chosen them out of all the profiles I looked at. There was nothing extraordinary about them, nothing to jump out at me and say "Here we are! We're Roo's family!" I'm just grateful that I was in a place where I was able to be so guided in my decision. But how do I explain my choice without mentioning God?

I do the best I can, and if it's not enough for my audience, so be it. Strange as it sounds, I am not doing these presentations for the students. I am doing them for myself, and for Roo. They hurt, but they heal, too. Each time I get through Roo's story, I feel just a little bit better.

I'm speaking again tomorrow. Telling Roo's story makes me miss her. But I think a part of me is always going to miss her for as long as I live. I miss her, but it's nothing I can't handle. It's a pain that I can live with. For Roo, I am glad to live with it. She is healthy, she is happy, and she is loved. How could I not be happy too?