Dear Birthmom, an Honest Letter from my Side of Adoption

I wrote this to our birthmom many years ago, but the years have brought a few changes to my perspective and unfortunately tragic changes to our circumstances.

Have you ever had a letter you wanted to write, but knew you could never send it? It would be too real, too raw, too vulnerable? stir up too much drama?

What about talk to someone who is out of your life? Sometimes, I have so many things I’d like to say specifically to our daughter’s birthmom due to our unique circumstances.

This is not a letter to any birthmom.

That would be easier to write. Birthmothers make a tremendously bold choice to continue to carry a child that they will give away. With abortions so readily available and lauded as the choice of progressive womanhood, choosing to carry a child you won’t raise, is extremely selfless and loving. Not every mother chooses life for an unplanned baby. We need to encourage and celebrate those who do.

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The day I originally wrote this was National Adoption Day 2014, and my spunky lil’ punkin woke up ready for Christmas. She had been a bright light all that morning. She told us that to feel the Christmas spirit you have to stretch your arms out wide, take a deep breath, and spin. It is mornings like that which make me feel so blessed to have a chance to mother this tiny tornado, and wish I could talk to her birthmom.

Every year as soon as the first signs of spring appear, I used to start mentally preparing to write her birthday update to our birthmom, carefully crafting the letters and selecting the perfect pictures to tell the story of her year.

The first few letters came easily, I was just so grateful for this gift of an amazing child. But this last year I struggled more than usual. I always keep the letters light, warm, and open, but I have things I wish I could say to her, but never will.

Dear Birthmom,

I haven’t heard from you since she was still in the NICU, the day you planned to come back to see her one more time, but never called and never answered a call or email again. I wonder what happened and why you never spoke to us again.

As quickly as I fell in love with her in the hospital, I wonder how in the world you had the strength to walk out of that hospital without her? She has your ears, you know. The first time I saw her yawn, I could see your mouth in hers.

The days have sometimes been VERY long. There were long nights, too. But man, these years have been short.

When she was three, she would lay in bed with me in the mornings and tell me her dreams, her dreams of being a bear trainer and a circus clown, and I’m awed by your sacrifice that built my family.

So many times, I’ve wanted to call you or send a picture so many times, hoping to catch the way joy sparkles in her with my clumsy iPhone camera. But just like my phone’s lousy ability to capture the truth of her beauty, a picture wouldn’t capture her spirit either. Although this video is one of my favorites from a few years ago.

[youtube=http://youtu.be/6OBRmF4taQQ]

Sometimes, despite my immense gratitude for your sacrifice, I’ve been really angry with you.

You put cocaine into her tiny body, and I couldn’t stop you. When I learned that she had been born early due to drugs and didn’t know if she was okay, I sank to the floor in the middle of the hallway at school. Some of my students mocked my tears as I was introduced to the frantic, helplessness of motherhood only seconds in.

Later, while the hospital scanned for brain damage, I held her tiny head, nearly shaking in anxiety for her. Thankfully, despite being premature and some early breathing difficulties, she seems mostly wonderfully normal, but faces many unique struggles, including ADHD.

We can’t know the future battles she may face due to the alcohol, cigarettes, and drugs.

We already see the devastation of ADHD and how it affects her education, her behavior, her self-esteem. Were drugs the cause? I don’t know, but likely were part of the equation.

But I don’t spend too much time worrying about blame. I can’t. I have to parent her through the storms resulting from your choices. Together we try to move forward instead of looking back. But I wish she didn’t have to go through these things.

I pray to forgive your failures that she has to live with, but it’s hard when I see her struggle.

I do believe you wanted to do better for yourself and for her, but didn’t have the capacity. Life had wounded you, and those wounds proved too powerful for you. Your parents had left indelible marks on your life that you did your best not to leave on your children.

I also know that I might have eaten healthier and made better choice during pregnancy, but have failed her a million times since. I’m not a perfect mother either.

But, I don’t understand not wanting to know her. I have emailed a few times, willing to keep communication open. Not one reply. There are moments that I felt like a mother might be the one person who might be able to share my joy in all the tiny, insignificant, earth-shattering, wonderful things she does.

Then, I wonder if you would have understood, did you have that mothering instinct?

Perhaps, that instinct is what encouraged you to give her away? Because you did bring her into the world. You gave her life. Not every woman would make that choice.

Maybe you never answered an email because a single word to me would open a floodgate of regret. Maybe your heart had a hole, shaped just her size. I didn’t want to remind you what you’ve lost. That’s why I stopped emailing so long ago.

Dear Birthmom, the letter I never wrote to her, the letter she will never read, with all the raw realities of living on this side of adoption. Click To Tweet

Every time she calls me “Mommy” my heart wants to burst.

When she was four, she and I were talking about her adoption and if babies remembering being born. I asked if she remembered her “real” mom. I don’t know why that word came out of my mouth, because I always use “birth” mom to describe you. Maybe it still doesn’t seem possible that she is mine.

But, you know what, she looked right at me and said, “You’re my real mom.” And I am. I’ve been branded in snot, puke, poop, and hugs. I’ve played dress up and tea party, and had to discipline her when watching her chubby cheeks stained with tears was breaking my heart.

I am her REAL mom. I've been branded in snot, poop, and hugs. I've paid my dues over late nights and discipline battles. I'm just not her birthmom. #Adoption made me a mother. Click To Tweet

I’m as real as it gets, but you’re still a part of her, too.

I try not to worry about how she’ll feel in the future. She’ll probably be curious, but I don’t know how it will affect her.  She will always have a hole in her heart for the people who gave her away. I pray I’m doing my job so well, it will be only a tiny thimble space of emptiness that won’t ever bother her.

But I wonder if she’ll ever come looking for your family.

Will she turn toward your family, aching to know why you gave her away? Part of me doesn’t want her to need you, but I want to be OK with her loving you, too. Our hearts aren’t limited in how many people we can love.

I tell her that God always meant her for our family, that she grew in my heart as part of His plan for her. Yet, during those teen years, will she ever yell, “You’re not my real mom!” at me? I pray that she doesn’t ever feel like that, or even if she does, that we’ll both know she didn’t really mean it.

And I’m celebrating her and our family. Daddy made traditional Belgian waffles, so delicious they didn’t even need syrup. We’re gonna stay in our jammies until lunch time.

We’re having a pillow fight. We’ve never had one before. I handed her the pillow and walloped her. Her eyes got wide with surprise, she was allowed to hit me? Then the laughter started to bubble up bursting into huge giggles, dissolving into giant guffaws as we bashed and bonked, great reckless pillow fun.

And you’re missing it. You’ll never know how her tiny, baby chuckles could fill a whole room with laughter. You’ll never see her jaw drop in amazement when she learns something new.

When I wrote to you each year, I worried over ever word, wanting you to be happy you chose us to raise her, wanting you to agree that I’ve been the best mom I could be for her.

But I worry you’ll judge her height and weight and worry about our diet. I worry that you’ll hate her haircut or the mural I painstakingly painted on her bedroom wall.

I wonder if you’d approve of the deep faith she is developing.

But, you gave her up because you couldn’t take care of you, why does your opinion matter so much to me?

But it does, I’m sad that I never got to share her with you at all.

For all the times I prayed that you would change and become someone she would someday be proud to know, I wish I had prayed for you harder. I wonder if I could have made a difference. Was there anything I could have done?

I wonder if letting her go left such a huge hole in your heart, that you never recovered. You did the right thing for her. We’re far from perfect, but she has a stable home, a family that adores her, and close friends who practically live at our house.

But she misses you. She wishes she could have met you. She says she has two moms in her heart. And I struggle to not tell her the whole truth of you. She doesn’t need to know right now, if ever.

I’m grateful but wonder if you knew what an amazingly special kid you were missing.

We both grieve the relationship that will never come now. It’s taken a year since I learned of your passing for me to even be able to revise this letter.

I pictured you at her college graduation or wedding, coming back into her life. I’m sure she did too. She talks about how she had wanted to meet you. I kept the blanket you knit for her. It’s safe and tucked away for her to treasure when she it old enough to be careful with it. Even more precious now that it is the last tangible thing you ever gave her.

On rough days, I struggle with feeling good enough to be her mother and thankful for God’s grace and sanctification. We’re both works in progress.

In the end, I hope you knew how much she is loved. I am doing my best to give her a hope and a plan for her future.