Happy Birthday, Blog!

Today is this blog's third birthday! I feel like there should be cake. There should always be cake, don't you think? Not just for birthdays but in general. There should always be cake. I would bake one but I tend not to bake, as I live alone and I lack the self-control to keep from eating everything that comes out of the oven. Although if I'm honest, sometimes I don't even turn the oven on. There's no need to lie to myself. I make cookie dough for eating, not for baking.

I digress. Today my blog is three. Birthdays are a good time for self-reflection, aren't they? No? Well, too bad. To answer the question that no one has asked, I have not gone back and read my blog to commemorate the occasion. I tried that last year and had to have an extra session with my therapist to curb the ensuing bout of self-loathing. (I have evolved since placement, and I quite sincerely thank God for that.) A few minutes ago I read through the first two entries of this blog, and I decided that was enough. I don't need to go back. I know where I've been, because I was there. I will occasionally reflect on the dark days of my adoption experience, but only as a means of gauging how far I have come. Going back for more than a moment or two would accomplish nothing. I want to go forward.

I wish I could achieve that sort of psychological clarity in other areas of my life. I like to think that I possess the right mental skill-set to achieve that. Every one of my grade-school report cards mentioned my critical thinking skills (also, that I seemed to be bored a lot). The problem is that I have not yet learned to use my skills for good. I am like a teenage superhero, doing my best to save the world but occasionally using my superpowers for nefarious purposes by accident. While there may not be any comically-nicknamed villains on the streets of Mesa because of my neglect, there are consequences, and they usually involve a tearful existential crisis* in my therapist's office.

Because in addition to being untrustworthy with baked goods, something I know to be absolutely true of myself is that I am a world-class Monday morning quarterback. I don't know of anyone whose second-guessing skills rival mine, although in all fairness, I have had decades of practice. I am the Muhammad Ali of rumination. And I blame my brain.

I blame my brain for a lot of things, because pretty much every problem I've had can be traced (however tangentially) back to my brain. My brain is a jerk. Have you ever seen the scumbag brain meme? Here's my favorite:

When I found that on Pinterest, I laughed for about ten minutes. I was tired. Anyway. I blame my brain because if it didn't remember things so well, I would have less to ruminate on. Of course, my brain doesn't remember everything well, because that would be convenient and useful.

For example: I've been playing the piano since I was Roo's age, and the only song I have ever been able to memorize is "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star." So I have to scan the room before I mention my piano-playing skills. I won't tell anyone that I can play if I'm in a room with a piano, because then they'll want a demonstration, and I'll play my little song, and I can practically hear people think, "Wait, did she say she's been playing since she was three or since she was twenty-three?" It's humiliating. I can play really complicated pieces if I have sheet music, but I'm useless without it.

My brain refuses to remember the notes to a song I have played more than a thousand times, but it will remember conversations word-for-word, and it will remember them for years. This is especially detrimental for someone as socially awkward as I am. I can recall pretty much every stupid thing I've ever said, and the uncomfortable looks on the faces of the people I said them to. I can recall, and my traitorous little brain comes up with other, less-embarrassing things I could have said. Come on, brain! Why can't you come up with better things to say when I can still say them? What good is a snappy comeback three months later?

One of the things I like best about writing, particularly on the computer, is editing. Until I hit "publish," nothing is permanent or fixed. I can take as long as I need to come up with just the right combination of words. For instance, the third paragraph of this post was re-written nine times and I may edit it once more before I publish. I can mull it over, read it out loud to see how it tastes, add and subtract words and phrases and rearrange until it says exactly what I want it to say.**

I can't do that in real life. My car did not come equipped with a flux capacitor.  So while I can remember conversations I've had, and while I can think of how I could fix them, I can't actually go back. Ideally, this knowledge would keep me from constantly editing past conversations. Ideally it would keep me from looking back so desperately and with such agony.

I'm pleased that I've gotten there with adoption. It has taken me nearly all of the past three years to stop looking back and thinking of things I want to edit. For my next trick, I want to stop editing the rest of my life. I don't imagine I can live my life completely without regret. But there's a difference between regretting something, and re-living and editing it at night when you ought to be asleep. I tend to do the latter. Again, I blame my brain.

You know, I would love to say that there is a point to all of the preceding, but I confess I've quite lost track of it. Sheesh. This is embarrassing. Where was I going with all this? Blog birthday, self-reflection, scumbag brain ... hmm.

.
.
.
.
.

I think I was explaining why I don't read my own blog. Well, that'll teach me to ask and answer my own questions, won't it?

I meant to self-reflect and talk about how far I've come in three years and I ended up talking about why I should probably be seeing my therapist more often. But you know what? I kind of don't care that I ruminate a lot. Is it really the worst thing in the world? No.

The fact is that I have come really, super far in the past three years. I am a different person entirely. I am a happy person. There was a time when I thought I would never be able to say that about myself, but I'm saying it now and it's true. I am happy. I am happy almost all the time, and sometimes I am really ridiculously happy and people probably want to punch me in the face for it. My life is quite far from perfect, but that feels so unimportant to me. Far from perfect is still pretty rad.***

I'm not where I thought I'd be at this point in my life, and that's not a bad thing. I think I've ended up where I needed to be. I believe that God has a plan for me that's a lot greater than anything I could ever come up with. I know that when I've trusted Him in the past, amazing things have happened. I trust Him now get me where I need to be next.

I'm not the same woman who started blogging three years ago and I wouldn't be her again for anything in the world. It makes me wonder how much more awesome I'm going to be three years from now. I can't wait :)
****






*I am proud to say that my therapist decided last December that I am a sane, functional adult, and I only see him four or five times a year now, just to check in. I could probably see him less often but I've decided it's good for him to see someone who is happy and doing well, even if it's only seasonally, because I know that his office deals with a lot of sexual deviants, and I feel like he probably needs the occasional mental hand sanitizer to keep from crying himself to sleep at night.

**This doesn't mean that I am proud of everything I have ever written. I think most of this blog is crap. But everything I have posted here was, at one point, exactly what I wanted to say and I felt pretty good about it at the time. Even if I'd never say it now and am now in fact slightly ashamed of having wanted to say it ever.

***Sorry about that. Two weeks ago I caught myself using the word "rad" and I don't know where it came from but it's like a virus. I can't seem to stop using it. I counted a few days ago and I described more than nine different people and things as "really rad." I think I need help.

****I was pretty stupid to say that everything I've posted on my blog was, at the time, exactly what I wanted to say. It's not even true. I'm not happy with the conclusion of this post and no amount of mulling has fixed it. The smart thing to do would be to think about it for a while and come back to this post, but if I don't hit "publish" today the post's point, such as it is, would be moot. What I should have said is that everything I've posted on my blog was good enough at the time.
Also, I feel like I should apologize for the sheer volume of my footnotes today. I'm not going to, but I still feel like I should.

In Which Jill Counts Her Blessings in a Roundabout Sort of Way

I haven't blogged in a while. I haven't had much to say. I'm not comfortable with blogging just for the sake of blogging. I think that if I don't have anything to say, I should keep quiet lest I prove that I don't have anything to say.

I don't have anything adoption-specific to say today, but I do need to whine, and I don't see my therapist, John, until next week. This month is our 6th anniversary. I should buy him a present. Six years is ... what, wood or iron or something, right? I miss John. I used to see him a lot more but he's decided that I am a functional adult - or, at the very least, that I'm no more messed up than the average American - and so I only see him a few times a year now.

That's okay, I guess. I mean, I am busy. I pretty much live at the library now. I got a really nice promotion so I work full-time and I have benefits and everything. I also have a desk now, and an official Maricopa County ID badge. Also, to answer the question that people always want to ask about working for the government, no, this does not get me out of jury duty. I got a summons for November 1st.

Anyway.

Part of why I haven't posted is that I've been sort of a bear lately. Well, not all the time. I mean, I've been a bear quite a bit lately, but I've also had plenty of those overwhelmed, sobbing-on-the-couch moments, so I've been like a bear with a mood disorder. I blame the calendar - it's October. I always get depressed in October.

Part of it is my birthday (this Sunday, if you were wondering), which is usually not a particularly happy occasion, and part of it is what my birthday represents - another step further away from the life I thought I'd have, and another step closer to dying alone in a house full of cats. Except that I'm allergic to cats, so they would have to be robot cats, which concerns me, because what do you do if your robot cats don't get along? Can they be re-programmed? Should I get a robot dog to keep them in line? So many questions.

In addition, I can think of no less than twelve years when weird or bad things happened on or around my birthday. Car accidents, panic attacks, deaths, hospitalizations, 9-hour solo shifts at the hair salon ... and, most notably, a positive pregnancy test. Happy birthday, right?

Every year I think, this year will be different - nothing bad is going to happen, and my birthday will be a happy day. I am very nearly always proven wrong. Good things have happened - the first birthday I had after placement was made quite happy by a great visit with Roo and her family - but it seems like it's rare that I can shake what I have come to refer to as my birthday curse.

All week I've been waiting for something to happen. Nothing too bad yet - although I did find out the other day that a man I greatly admire has a girlfriend who is roughly half my size and has limbs like a stick insect. But that's okay. In twenty years, those stick-insect arms will probably become brittle and arthritic, and my chubby arms and I will have a house full of robot cats for company.

I digress.

While nothing catastrophic has occurred, a lot of little things have gone wrong. I could list them, but I'm trying not to dwell on them, because when a lot of little things add up, they're something big. Like library fines. Twenty cents per book per day for an overdue fine doesn't seem like much, but if you have eight books that are two weeks late, you've got a fine of more than twenty dollars, as I explained to an irate patron today.

But I don't want to focus on my ruined Crock Pot meal, or my three new bruises, four scrapes and blood blister. I want to forget that my electricity went out while I was at work the other day and I had to replace the contents of my refrigerator. And I am not even going to get into how many stupid mistakes I made at work this week (27) or how many times people swore at me (2). I don't want to get so shortsighted that these individual twenty-cent fines are all I can see.

Because a year from now, when I'm panicking about turning 29, I'm not going to care about any of that. I probably won't remember any of it. It's not going to make a difference. It's not important. Two years from now, when I'm sobbing into my breakfast cereal over my lost youth on my thirtieth birthday, I won't remember this year, or next year. Ten years from now ... well, ten years from now I'll be pushing 40, and that's scary. But the little things are going to fall away and I'll probably have ruined so many Crock Pot meals that I'll have learned to like them that way and I'll be able to do my job in my sleep and maybe I won't bruise so easily as I get older. But what's important to me right now, and what will be important to me next year and the next year and in ten years and every year after that, is that the Unexpected Birthday Occurrence of 2008 brought me Roo, and that I placed her for adoption, and that it is the best thing I have ever done.

There's some vaguely cheesy quote out there about how this thing and that don't matter but what matters is that you make a difference in the life of a child. I'm too lazy for Google right now. But it's true, isn't it? None of this, not the Stick Insect Girl or the Crock Pot and certainly not the robot cats, none of it will matter in the long run. What matters is Roo. I feel cheesier than a fondue pot for saying so, but what matters is that I made a difference in her life (and the life of her family) - and that she's made a difference in mine.

And nothing, not even a lifetime of bad birthdays, can take that away.

Hey, maybe John was right. Maybe I am functional after all :)

(Birth) Mother's Day

Warning: I'm happy. If you're not happy, this will probably make you throw up a little. Everyone is entitled to their unhappiness. Very often it's justified. I'm not going to judge. But I am happy, and I would hate to be responsible for someone being sick. So, read on with caution.

I had most of a post written up yesterday about Birth Mother's Day. I didn't like most of it. It felt like a repeat of what I wrote last year. I think Birth Mother's Day is a lovely idea, but I don't really need it. I'm comfortable sitting through the odes to motherhood recited at church with a secret smile. I don't particularly celebrate Mother's Day, though, either. Not for myself. I try to do something nice for my own mother, to let her know how amazingly blessed I am to be her daughter.

Y'all, my mom is awesome. Even if you discount the fact that I was her fourth child in six years, and made her violently ill during pregnancy, and weighed much closer to nine pounds at birth than I'm sure she was really comfortable with, she's still an amazing woman. I think that even years from now, if I have several children of my own, it won't feel right to celebrate Mother's Day for myself. It's her holiday, not mine. Only if I were to be as awesome as she is could I feel comfortable calling the day my own. And I've got a long way to go to be as awesome as my mom.

She gave me flowers today - daisies, my favorite. Red gerbera daisies, specifically, which are my favorite favorite (and she always remembers that), and after our family dinner tonight, after hours of talking and laughing and enjoying one another's company, when I gave her a big hug and wished her a happy Mother's Day, she whispered "You, too," because she gets it. My mom gets it.

She was there for those weeks when I was a mother, and I think she cherishes them nearly as much as I do. I believe this about her: No matter how many other children I end up having, when she wishes me a happy Mother's Day, she'll remember Roo. I don't know if that's true of anyone else, but it's true of her.

I love you, Mom.

***

Even though I don't make a big deal of Birth Mother's Day, yesterday P and M sent me five - FIVE! - videos of Roo being darling - singing and talking to her mama and generally being fantastically cute. How awesome is that? P and M are so thoughtful. Five videos is an embarrassment of riches. I am a spoiled girl. So, even though I had to work, and our computers were down and patrons were a little crabby about it, and I had a headache, I ended up having a very happy Birth Mother's Day after all.

And I had a happy Mother's Day as well. Maybe it's because I've found my happy place with adoption, but it was absolutely painless. Whereas last year I think I mostly thought of Mother's Day in terms of my lack (or my lack from the year before when I was pregnant), this year I thought of my own mother, and then I thought of Roo. I'm not her mommy, but I did grow her a body and find her family, and that counts enough for me. I've felt a mother's love. For the first time, today, while I was in church, listening to a talk about motherhood and charity and love, I realized that I will find a way to be happy if I never have more children. Because I had Roo, and I love her, and if it needs to be, it can be enough.

That sounds a bit maudlin. I don't mean for it to. Yesterday and today were both happy, hopeful days. I've been quite ridiculously happy all week, actually. New Roo videos made me even happier. I am so well-adjusted, it's disgusting. I have unofficially graduated from therapy. John has marked me as "as needed" in my file. We've run out of things to discuss. It feels amazing. Most of my session with him the other day consisted of eating Red Vines and talking about how amazing I am (and I am not even kidding). Although considering I still paid for the hour, John probably has the last laugh there.

Being happy makes for a boring blog, doesn't it? I've meant to post again all week but I couldn't think of much to say besides "I'm happy, life's good," and that makes for a short post. I am working on finishing up Roo's story. I have probably forty-something unfinished posts on a variety of other topics. I'll get to them eventually. I do have some sort-of exciting news to share in a few days (I'm excited about it, anyway). I am far from done blogging about adoption. I think, even if I do get to the point where I don't have anything left to say but how happy I am, I'll keep posting just that a few times a month, because I think people need to read it.

In short: I totally double-dipped on the mothering holidays, I'll probably be blogging forever, and I am happy. Very happy. The end :)

Good Grief

My father died on a Tuesday. It was a glorious, sunny day in September, probably too hot for most of you but I'm cold-blooded and had things been different, I'd have been outdoors soaking up all that lovely sunshine. Instead, I was inside a hospice room standing next to my father's bed while he drew his last labored breath. It was one of the most surreal moments of my entire life. It was painful, but also oddly peaceful. I can't account for the calm that I felt as I called my brother and sister on the phone to give them the news. I can't explain the evenness of my temper in the hours that followed. I think it was a gift from God.

But it was fleeting. The next several weeks were excruciating. I hadn't experienced that kind of grief before, and it was unnerving. One moment I was watching a Dodgers game on TV, the next moment I was curled in the fetal position on the couch, sobbing to the point of hyperventilation. I'd go from laughter to tears to laughter again, then to a sort of numb emotionlessness. This cycle repeated several times a day. I pretty much stopped eating, and I lost 15 lbs in 18 days (which I don't recommend).

In the throes of this crushing grief, I made a few poor choices. One of them was to attempt to repair my relationship with H, which is how I ended up with a positive pregnancy test six weeks after my dad died.

It felt like too much to handle. As if it weren't enough to be jobless and single and to have just lost my father. Now I had a pregnancy to deal with as well. I thought more than once that if God only gives us what He knows we can handle, He must have me confused with someone else.

But there was a blessing to my pregnancy as well. It was a new sort of grief, something else to think about when I woke up in the morning, and it proved to be a most welcome distraction. I had a reason to eat again. I had to eat! I knew how crucial the first few weeks and months are for the developing baby. I ate again, and I ate well.

Food wasn't the only thing to think about, of course. There were a lot of things to work through with my pregnancy. My grief for my father was still mixed in there, but it wasn't as high on my priority list. I had these moments where I missed my father something awful, but always things seemed to come back to my pregnancy and the baby and what I was going to do. Then I had Roo, and that was its own adjustment, and then I placed Roo. I placed her on the anniversary of my father's death. My grief was mixed once more. After placement, my grief was much more selfish. I missed my dad, but I was so wrapped up in the pain of placement that it didn't signify. I pushed it down to deal with it at a later time

I find that, now that I'm in such a good place with adoption, the grief over my father that I've suppressed for so long is pushing its way back to the surface. I feel a little ridiculous at times - he's been gone for nearly three years. how is it that I still have these moments of such exquisite grief? It's not as though he's any more dead now than he was then. Still I find myself every now and then crying to the point of dehydration because I miss my daddy so very much.

Of course, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Grief never goes away. The final stage of grief is acceptance, not elimination. I mean, just the other day I got distracted by some newborn Roo photos and I had a twenty-second gasping, sobbing fit and nearly hyperventilated.

Then I was fine. But I've spent a lot of time working on getting to fine with things with Roo. I don't suppose I've put as much work in on mourning my father. I'm taking a writing class this semester, and I find that I mention my father in every single journal entry. I'll think of something he used to say to me, or something we used to do together, or wonder what he would have thought of this or that. I'm surprised at how much pain I've still got stuffed down there. I find myself putting off the homework for my writing class because I know it's going to end with me sobbing on the sofa. The sofa itself probably doesn't help. It's the one from my mom's house, the sofa my dad was sitting on when he lost consciousness. He'd had a stroke, but we didn't know it yet. We thought when he sat down he was just going to take a nap, but when my mom went to wake him to ask about his pain, he wouldn't wake.

Sometimes I hate my sofa.

I sort of hate that I've come so far with my grief over placing Roo only to slip back a few notches on the grief scale with my dad. It seems unfair that I should have to go through some of these emotions again. I think that part of me thought that my pregnancy sort of took the place of my grief, and that I wouldn't have to process it. Clearly, I was mistaken. It really stinks.

I hate that he died. I hate that he's not here now, that I can't show him pictures of Roo or get his opinion on politics or music or school or anything else. He's been gone for 2 1/2 years now but I still find new things that I've never done on my own before. Taxes, for instance. My current job is the first I've had since before he died, and I've never had to do my taxes on my own. I use the easy form, but I do not have a head for that kind of paperwork, and in any case I always felt better when my dad looked things over before I mailed them off.

My car needed new brake pads. I had to pay for it. I've never done that before. My dad took care of our cars. We'd go to a tire place for flat repair and rotation, but he did everything else. Now I always feel like I'm being ripped off when I take my car to a shop, because I have only a vague idea of how much parts cost. I wish I'd paid more attention when my dad showed me how to do routine maintenance. It kills me that I can't change my own oil. I know he showed me once. Why didn't I pay more attention?

I suppose I thought he'd always be there, that I could ask him to show me again some day. I think I thought that about a lot of things. It's why I don't remember the stories he told very well. I thought I'd hear them again. I didn't ask for his opinion on a college major because I thought I could ask later. I didn't know there wouldn't be a later. Who would have thought he'd die so young? And of a brain tumor, no less. Who the heck gets a brain tumor?

My father did. He was very zen about it, too, which sort of irritated me. "Why not me?" he asked. "I'm not so special that I can't get cancer." But to me, he was. He was special. He was my daddy.

He still is. And I miss him.

Sisters

My sister called me a few weeks ago.

That's not a newsflash. She calls on a somewhat regular basis and we'll talk for a while, usually until one of her children attempts to do bodily harm to one of the other two. It's good to talk. I don't know why, but my sister and I get along at least a thousand times better on the phone than we do in person. Perhaps it's something residual from childhood, when I lived to annoy her, and she lived to let me know how annoying she found me. In person, we are awkward personified.

But on the phone it's easier. Maybe it's the thousands of miles between us, the knowledge that if one of us says something stupid, it's easy to avoid each other until the stupidity wears off. On the phone, we can be grown-ups. We can pretend that things between us have always been sunshine and ponies.

I'm told that when I was very young, we got along just fine. My sister didn't like to share things, but I was cute and little and only capable of being a certain kind of annoying. But we shared a room, and the older we got, the less comfortable that room became. We are two very different people, my sister and I. All I wanted in the world was to be just like her. All she wanted was to be left alone. I've lost track of how many hurtful words were exchanged, but I do know exactly how much of my therapy has been spent with me sobbing and asking John (my therapist) why my big sister couldn't just love me.

But I have an excellent therapist. He helped me to get past so much and understand that I didn't have to hold on to the past - I could let go, I needed to let go, and I would be happier when I did. I let go. I finally felt like I was in a really good place with my sister. I no longer cared if she ever changed. I was happy with me, and I was happy with her.

Then I got pregnant.

I don't remember how much I've said before about my sister's reaction to my pregnancy. I'm pretty sure I've mentioned that she was not in the "I'll support you no matter what" camp. She made a half-joking offer to adopt my baby, and then spent the next several months telling me via e-mail why my baby deserved better than to have me as a mother. Thousands of dollars of therapy flew out the window. It was like I was seven years old again, crying to my mother that my sister had hurt my feelings. (My mother was unwilling as ever to take sides.)

If I thought that placement would ease that particular pain, I was wrong. I was in the lowest place I'd ever been, and I needed love and support more than ever. Instead, what I got (from my sister and the younger of my brothers) was that I'd done the quote-unquote right thing, and I needed to move on.

My depression turned to rage, especially when my sister announced her pregnancy. It took every iota of self-control I possessed to keep from throwing her words right back at her - "I know you think you're attached to this baby because you're pregnant, but ..." being among my favorites. When my niece turned nine weeks old, I fought the beast within me to keep from calling and shouting to my sister, "You've had nine weeks with her. Was it enough for you? Can you possibly begin to imagine not being her mother after this? Why don't you hand your baby to another couple to raise, right now, after two months, and tell me that the so-called right choice should have been clear and easy."

I didn't. I am immensely proud of that fact. No good would have come of it. A few months later my sister sent me e-mail with a sort of apology for her behavior. I don't want to get into it, because it's private, but suffice it to say that her apology irritated me almost more than that for which she apologized. Apparently, e-mail isn't any better than in person for us. It's a telephone call or nothing.

My sister came to the valley for a visit in September. It was marginally less awkward than usual. We did bond a bit during several phone calls about my mother's lightening-fast engagement and wedding. I suppose that the incomprehensibility of my mother's behavior was the common ground we needed to sort of start over. I remembered what I'd learned in therapy, and I decided I could start over as many times as I needed to.

I digress. That's not what I wanted to write about. I love my big sister. We're in a good place now, I think - unless, of course, she reads my blog (doubtful but still possible), and the preceding hurt her feelings. I hope it didn't. It honestly wasn't meant to. There have been enough hurt feelings between us over the years that I'm certainly not aiming to add to them. I really do love my sister. I'm not mad anymore. The past is past. This post was supposed to be a happy thing about something that meant a lot to me, and now I'm just blathering, aren't I?

Again, I digress.

My sister called me a few weeks ago. We shot the proverbial breeze for a few minutes. Then something happened that hit me like a Taser. My sister asked me about Roo. She wanted to know how my visit went, and how Roo was doing. I don't think my sister has ever once asked me for this kind of specific information. I hardly knew what to say. I had so many questions I wanted to fire back at her - why was she asking? Why now? Had she read any of my blog? Was she taking uppers? Did seeing her own little girl grow and change help her to see a sliver of what placement had cost me? Did she feel bad for being like everyone else and pretending I never had a baby at all? I bit them back. I decided I didn't need to know.

I answered her questions - what words Roo knows, how well she's walking, how happy she is, what a great visit we had. It was fantastic - it was glorious! I could hear my niece jabbering in the background, and I asked my sister about her little girl. I talked about my baby, she talked about hers. Just like we were two normal people. Like there had never been any awkwardness between us. Like we were dear old friends.

Like sisters.

June 2009, Part Four: the End of the Line

I wanted more than anything in the world for my baby to get out of my belly. My entire body hurt all the time. I was so tired of being pregnant! I felt massive, like a beached whale. Moving was agony. I went downstairs in the morning and only went upstairs once a day when it was time for bed. One day I went downstairs but forgot my mobile phone upstairs. I cried when I realized it. I cried over a lot of things. A TV commercial for antidepressants made me cry because the people in it looked sad.

I wanted my baby to be born but I still worried like a worrying worrywart. I secretly felt that my baby deserved more than I could give her but that I wasn’t brave enough to trust her care to those who could give it to her. Was I too selfish and immature to me a mother? Would I depend too much on my mother? What if I was a horrible mother? What if I just couldn’t do it? I was going to have this teeny-tiny, helpless little person completely dependent on me for everything – on me and me alone.

I was overwhelmed. I felt like I couldn’t do it. I wanted my baby to have everything in the world, to be happy and know that she was loved, completely and totally. I wanted her to be safe and secure and comfortable. I didn’t ever want her to feel scared or worried or sad, and I knew I couldn’t control that. It scared me. And there were so many things I couldn’t control! SIDS and car accidents and random violence and whooping cough and so many other things … what if something awful happened to her? I hated the thought that I wouldn’t be sealed to her, that something could happen to her and she’d be lost to me forever. I get all teary just thinking about it now!

I loved my baby more than anything, and I prayed that it would be enough. More than once I lamented to my therapist that things would be so much easier if some nice man would take pity on me and marry me. I suggested marrying a man who needed a green card, or a gay man who wanted to get his parents off his back. My therapist said that was a bad idea. He never has had a sense of humor, that man.

It came down to this: I knew deep down that my baby deserved so much better than me. But I was too selfish. I admitted it. I knew myself. I love too much, too quickly, too deeply. I knew that I would set eyes on my baby girl and never want to let her go. I’d told myself before that I’d decide for sure what to do with my little girl once she was born, but I was lying to myself. I knew I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t possibly not be this little girl’s mommy.

My due date came … and went. I was never one of those women who want to deliver early. I wanted my baby in for the full 40 weeks. But past 40 weeks? I knew I was going to be crabby until she came out. Being past due is perfectly normal, but I was a million percent sure of both the date of my last period and the day I’d gotten pregnant. I was done cooking.

I don't know what I expected on my due date, really. Trumpets and fanfare, maybe. The beginning of labor. A party. A phone call. A migraine. Anything. Nothing happened. Nothing was ever going to happen that day, and I knew it all along.

To take my mind off things, my mother took me to see the movie "Up." I wrote about that *here*. I'd expected a fun little cartoon but it turned out to be quite a tearjerker. I couldn't imagine how devastating it would be to get the news that Carl and Ellie got. That sort of shock should have pushed me towards adoption, but it had the opposite effect. My baby seemed more precious than ever, and I thought to myself that I simply couldn't bear it if I lost the one good thing I had going in my life.

And, I thought, how could anyone ever love my little girl as much as I did? I couldn't fathom it, so I pushed it from my mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blah blah blah

I feel like I’ve been wasting bandwidth lately with my blog. I haven’t had much to say of any use lately. I feel like my brain isn’t working as well as it once did.

I had it in my head that I was going to get back to telling my story – the one I started, about my pregnancy and everything. But I couldn’t remember a few things I wanted to talk about, so I went back to the private blog I kept during my pregnancy. I read through some of what I wrote. It depressed me. I found what I was looking for, though, so I went back to my blog archives, to see where I’d left off. Which proved to be something of a mistake. I read through what I wrote right after placement, and it took me back. It was like being there – or then, rather – all over again. I lost it. I cried.

I couldn’t finish what I started writing. I just couldn’t. Even though what I was writing about had nothing to do with the night I placed.

So I changed my tactic. I felt like I needed to finish up a few things to do with H’s mother. So I started to write about that. The words weren’t coming out like I wanted them to. I wasn’t making sense. And reading back through the harassing e-mail I got, I cried again.

I decided I'd turn my pent-up energy into something positive, and write something for birth moms about how to find the right family, or something for families to help them know what birth moms might look for in a profile. I got writer's block. The words weren't coming out right and I wasn't making sense.

I thought then that maybe I’d just write about how much I missed Roo. But I’ve done so much of that. Sometimes it feels like that’s all I do. I write about how much I miss her, or I whine about how people stink sometimes. I’m getting sick of myself.

What to do? I don’t know anymore. I know I need to finish telling my story, about my pregnancy and how I came to choose adoption. I need to do it for Roo. It’s her story as much as it is mine. But how can I finish when it hurts so much? I’m sick of hurting.

I miss Roo like crazy. There, I said it. I haven't seen her in over a month and I don't know when I'm going to see her again and I hate that. I wish I could just hold her for an hour or two, I think I'd feel better. I've been trying to console myself with pictures and videos, but they're all at least two weeks old. I want to see her now. I want to see how she's changed and grown in two weeks. I want to kiss her soft cheeks and rock her until she falls asleep in my arms.

I miss being her mommy. Crazy as it sounds, I also sort of miss the first couple of weeks right after placement. I was spoiled then - I got pictures and e-mail almost every day. It's harder now, not getting pictures and updates as often. In some of the adoption education stuff I've done I've heard couples or ARs ask about pictures and letters, and how much is too much. I don't know if there could be too much. I don't think there's such a thing as too much.

It's so hard to communicate effectively as a birth mom. There always worries and concerns. You don't want to be pushy or obnoxious intrusive or be seen as a burden, as someone else who needs taking care of. You don't want to be inconsiderate of an adoptive couple by bothering them all the time for pictures or information. Me, for instance, I don't even call P and M, even though I have their number. I always feel like calling would be rude because what if I call at a bad time? I don't want them to feel like they have to talk to me just because I called. I don't know when's a good time or a bad time, especially with 2 small children in the house. So I stick to e-mail.

We need to have a special birth mom group meeting to talk about communication. Adoption forms relationships unlike any others. It's hard to know what's appropriate and what's just obnoxious. I wonder if I err too much on the side of caution. And then I worry that I'm coming off as passive-aggressive by blogging about things instead of talking about them with people. I hope not.

But the fact is that I am probably the least confrontative person on the planet. I shared a dorm with a roommate who didn't ever clean up or bathe or do laundry because I didn't want to hurt her feelings or offend her by saying anything. I worry that because my mouth works faster than my brain, I'm going to say the wrong thing and ruin the few decent relationships I have in my life.

I've been in therapy for four years. You'd think I'd have things figured out better by now. And when I go to see John and he asks how things are going, I can't think of anything to say. When I'm there, I feel pretty good, like things are going well. It's only later that I think of things I need to talk about. I've tried writing things down and taking the list with me to therapy, but I get there and I look at my list and I feel stupid, or that the things I wrote down are stupid, so I don't talk about things. Part of it is that my therapist is a member of a different church, and I worry that if I say the wrong thing, he'll think less of my church or LDSFS or something like that.

I am so glad I get to go to the temple soon. I have so much going on in my head that I feel more and more every day that I really need the peace and comfort that the temple brings. I wish I could go today. Maybe I'd get some answers.

Final Thoughts on H

I wanted to get out my "What I wish I could say to H" list and drop the subject for a while - and I will - but I had a few more thoughts on the whole sordid affair, and I have learned something, and I want to process that before I stick H back in my subconscious where he belongs.

I thought that something must be wrong with me, to have this sudden compulsion to look him up on-line. It had been two months and I hadn't cared a bit whether he was even alive or not. I thought that my actions were a sign I hadn't made any progress and that I had, in fact, been moving backwards. But I think I've got it figured out now. I think he came to my mind precisely because I have been making progress. Working through some of my issues with H are a sign that I'm moving forward. Were I not, I'd still be pretending he didn't exist.

What it came down to, I think, is that I needed to know three things about H. I wanted to know 1) if he ever seemed to think about or tangentially mention me or Roo, 2) whether he had changed at all - could he have been a good father after all? - and 3) whether he was seeing someone new.

The first is understandable. He hasn't contacted me since August 22nd. He never once asked me how Roo was, if she was healthy, how the birth went, or if she had any horrible defects from his alcohol-drenched DNA. The second is likewise reasonable. I haven't seen the man in a year now, when he pushed me out the door for saying no. Although what little communication has taken place this year hasn't been encouraging, I had this morbid curiosity about whether he has decided to grow up yet. And the third, I think, is perfectly normal for any woman who's been dumped. Has he found someone better yet? Does she look like me? Why her and not me? Et cetera. I hate that insecurity.

The answer to the first question seems to be maybe, just a little bit. Once specifically in the beginning of September and never again. Good to know where his priorities and affections lie: in the liquor department. The answer to the second is no, he hasn't changed a bit. I'm disappointed but not surprised. And the answer to the third seems to be a no as well. Did I screw him up emotionally? Good, I hope so. No less than he did to me.

I feel I'm in a good place now. I'm done with him again - I have been H-free on-line for nearly a week now. It feels good. My curiosity satisfied, I can once again move on with my life. I feel I'm in a pretty good place with things now. H will always occupy a brain cell or two, simply because we are forever connected by Roo. And I think I'm finally okay with that. I'm okay with not being okay with H. Does that make any sense?

I don't care if it makes sense. It makes emotional sense. H messed with my head, and I will never be the person I was before. But it's okay. I am ready to be done with him for good, as much as it's possible. I'm done letting him hurt me in absentia. Roo and I are both so much the better without him, and I am happy with the way things have turned out overall.

So thanks, H, for the donation of your DNA. No, really, thanks. And goodbye.

I Think, Therefore I Need Therapy

I hate that I’ve been devoting so much time and mental energy to H lately. I want him out of my head. I told this to my therapist on Thursday. I explained my sudden, compulsive fit of Twitter-stalking (which I have since halted) and how I’d been unable to get H out of my mind.

John (my therapist) asked me why I thought that was. I hate it when he does that. He’s the one with all the training. How should I know why my mind works the way it does? But I told him the same things that I wrote here, about how it was H’s birthday, and how it’s been nearly a year since I’ve seen him.

“But that’s the point,” I said. “It’s been a year. Why can’t I just get him out of my brain? I don’t want him in there.”

“Well Jill, this might sound a little obvious, but you had a baby with him. Do you really think you can just forget about that?” he asked.

Yes, I told him, and I would be happy to forget. But John was right. As much as I want to forget about H forever, I can’t. We will always be connected by Roo (even though I like to pretend she has nothing to do with him and that he’s not her birth father). I can’t do anything about it. And as John pointed out, it is normal to have H in my head. We were in a relationship for nearly five months. We created a child together.

I know that, I told John. But why was H in my head now? Why couldn’t I stop thinking about him? Back of my mind? Okay. Front of my mind? Less so. I want H on the backburner. I think that it’s because of how things ended. There’s unfinished business there, things that never happened that should have, conversations that never took place, things that need to be said.

“Well, what would you say to him if he were here?” John asked me.

I thought about it for a moment. “I don’t know that I’d say anything so much as I’d kick him hard in the crotch.”

John raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, I don’t know!” I said. “There are a lot of things I’d like to say to him but I don’t know that I’d be able to get any of them out.” Which is true. I can’t think well around H. That’s probably why I ended up with him in the first place.

But still, I have this strange compulsion at times to track H down, to confront him. To text him or call him or e-mail him, to show him a picture, to say, “Look, this is your daughter. Do you care at all?” But I could never do that. I wouldn’t. I don’t want him to know her, to know anything about her. He doesn’t deserve it.

“Well,” said John, “What would you do if you ran into him somewhere, out in public?”
“I was actually thinking about that earlier today,” I confessed, “And I think I’ve decided I’d probably shriek and run in the other direction.”

John covered his eyes with a cupped hand, clearly wondering if I’d gotten anything at all out of the past four years with him.

But I honestly think I would scream and run. Either that or freeze, stand rooted to the spot while my brain runs a mile a minute, wondering if he’ll acknowledge me, if he’ll talk to me, if he’ll maybe just pretend he doesn’t see me.

I doubt very much that I’d be able to say to him any of the things he needs to hear from me – or rather, the things *I* need him to hear from me. I’m not even sure what they all are. I wish I could figure them out. Maybe then I could say them to him somehow – one of those letters you never send – and push H to the back of my mind where I want him, instead of the front of my mind where he can hurt me again.

Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch …

I’ve spent so much time processing my emotions lately that I’ve sort of lost track of the story that I was telling. So I’m going to go back to where I left off, which was the end of October, 2008.

My therapist told me something that stuck with me, something that I have repeated probably a hundred times since I heard it. I was lamenting that my life seemed to be a never ending series of horrible mistakes.

“Now, I want to stop you right there, Jill,” he said. “I need to make sure you understand something about all this. You may have made a mistake, but God doesn’t make mistakes. This baby is unplanned, but it’s not a mistake.”

I have never forgotten those words. I was shamed a bit that my therapist, who is not a member of my church, could see something that should have been so obvious to me with my knowledge of God’s plan for His children. I thought about those words, and I knew that my therapist was right. God had a very specific purpose in sending me this baby. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew that there was a greater plan for me and for my unborn child.

From that moment on, I viewed my pregnancy as a blessing. I had made a mistake, yes. Don't think that I forgot for a moment the severity of my sin. But God can make ugly things beautiful, and out of my trespass had come the most wonderful blessing. I realized what an awesome responsibility pregnancy is. I resolved to take better care of myself - I had the opportunity to nurture the tiny body I was growing for one of God's precious children.