Tuesday, June 21, 2011

It's never really finished...

The thing with adoption is it's never really completed.  If you give birth to a baby, you go to all your doctor appointments, you eat right, take your prenatal vitamins, go into labor, deliver the baby, name him/her, take the child home, and fall into a sleep-deprived routine for the next 18 to 20 years.  And that child is yours, only yours, always-has-been yours, always-will-be yours.

Adoption is not like that, whether "closed" (very rare now) or "open" or somewhere in between.  My children, much as they are mine, will never be only mine, never be always-have-been mine, never even be always-will-be mine.  Yes, I am "Mom".  But they have first moms out there.  Those young women will never stop being my children's moms.  They were mom first.  They carried my children, felt them move, gave up overpowering addictions for a time to protect them, gave birth to them, parented the best they could, and then relinquished them.  I don't know what kind of pain, guilt, grief goes into saying, "Just take him with you."

I will never be my children's only mom.  There will come a day when they say, "You aren't my real mom!"  I've already heard, "I want to go live with my tummy mom!"  There will come a day when they want to meet their first moms again.  I don't dread it, any more than I dread them growing up, but I know it will be emotional and painful and messy.  I pray I will be kind and confident and loving and open -- and then back off and give everyone some space!

I am not my children's only mom now.  Their moms show up, now and then.  Sometimes sober, sometimes not so much so.  Sometimes in the news.  Sometimes on the inmate list.  Sometimes clean and happy with plans for a future.  And I never know what to do.  Do I "protect" my children by refusing contact that comes only sporadically?  Do I "selfishly" keep my children from building a relationship with their real moms?  Damned if I do, damned if I don't.  There's no easy answer.

Adoption is never really finished...

Monday, June 20, 2011

Gardening -- maybe

Tomorrow being the official start of summer, I finally planted squash (much to Derrick's dismay).  He had already planted corn, insisting that this year it would grow tall enough to produce something.  I think we could live out of garden entirely if we didn't mind subsisting on onions, mint, and tiny raspberries.  I thought we had potatoes last year.  I had planted potatoes.  But when I dug up what should have been new potatoes, it was only the leavings from my neighbor's cat.  I regretted not purchasing the bow-and-arrow set that read: "WARNING: Do not aim at people or animals.  Not even at cats."

Saturday, June 18, 2011

The Apple

The apple was mealy and bland.  The kind that your teeth press into a bit before they finally pierce the skin, the kind that mushes between your teeth.  It was the most delicious apple I’ve ever tasted.  I had hepatitis and could hardly eat anything.  All I wanted was an apple.  Every day all I could think of was how good an apple would feel between my teeth, how the juice would fill my mouth and run down my chin, how I would crunch each tangy bite.  But apples weren’t in season.  My dad spent all day looking for one and finally paid three dollars for the only apple in the whole city.  Thanks, Dad.