It's May 10th, 2020.
Several things of particular interest to me on this day.
First of all, I've grown to detest obligatory holidays. I feel super cynical there, and I get the reason behind the "days", but I feel like showing and telling people how they're important shouldn't just be limited to one day. I haven't always been like this, and it has swallowed up birthdays and most holidays, except Christmas, and that's probably for another post... but, there we are.
It's Mother's Day. So, of course, so much gratitude and nostalgia and all the things- for my mom, my stepmom, my grandmamas, and sisters, and the women mamas in my life. Undeniably I love and am more than thankful for the breath they have puffed into me, in ways words cannot give life to.
Also, I'm about to be a grom. A grandma. WOW. My baby is about to be a mother- Mother's Day, in that sense, is rockin' my world right about now. You'll see more about that in the weeks to come, I'm sure.
Additionally, on this day, I would like to point out that this holiday's celebratory direction isn't limited to- and sometimes doesn't include, I guess- one who gave birth. Birth mother, yes. Biological mother, ok. "Maternal history" on medical forms, sure, if you know that stuff. But I've had 40+ years of real-life nature vs nurture. 40+ years of a grand sociology/ psychology experiment in which my family and I are a primary case study.
Biology is big- and "bio" might even mean "life," but blood, in my opinion, only laid the groundwork. The plans were drawn, DNA decided, genetics coded, and all that science-y stuff. Punnett squares came to fruition based on the last few letters of the alphabet and how they paired together; God stitched his fabric of living things in only His way, marrying His beauty and His plan with science. All of these facts, these truths are incontestable, in my opinion.
But then there's this other side, this subjective piece. Nurture. Learned behavior.
(***let me insert here this caviat: I'm not a scientist, a psychologist, a behavior specialist (though I've played one in the classroom before haha), or any kind of person that would even remotely resemble a genius, so everything I'm thinking and/ or writing is simply conjecture here.)
I am (was?) adopted. It happened when I was 5 weeks old, closed, through an agency. 46 years ago today, actually- May 10th is my adoption day, my "gotcha" day, my "you were chosen" day, etc. etc. etc... To most of the people reading this, this is not a news flash. It's a part of who I am. It's not an excuse for anything, an explanation for anything, it just- well- it just IS. I've never NOT known, my parents have always woven it into my story. It was one of those things I always just knew. I never felt neglected or abandoned; conversely, "CHOSEN" or overly special weren't things I could relate to, either.
So, a small piece of today's blog is to highlight and marvel at the God-wonder that is the concept of "nurture."
It is uncanny the similarities between my mother, aunt Millicent, grandmother Lady and myself. No biological connection exists between myself and my maternal "lineage," yet language, tone of voice, quirks, physical features, expressions, gestures, and mannerisms between the four of us are startling. Also hard to fathom is that of the resemblance of my sisters and me, to each other and to our mom. Again, no blood between siblings, and only one of us is biologically Mom's. We have oddly similar mannerisms, vocal tonality, and people have even stated that Katie and I can't possibly be adopted: "but you guys are exactly alike!!" Friends claim that Katie and I look and sound alike, and that "oh my gosh could you be any more your mom's kid?!?!"
Fascinating, and in no way can I attempt to unpack that other than to say it's God's design, and we have really learned so much from each other... so much that it has beCOME us.
Nurture. Behavior. Learning. Adapting.
Adopting.
Mostly, today's reflection is directed toward birth moms who have selected placing their children up for adoption, for whatever reason.
The way I see it, one can rationalize or explain what happens as a result of an unplanned pregnancy many ways, in both positive and more judgmental lights. "She was too selfish and didn't want to ruin her lifestyle," "she was too young," "she didn't have enough money," "she was raped and the thought of seeing his face every day was too much," or "but her health..." Regardless of the circumstances, arguments could be made for adoption, abortion, or raising the child. Myriad situations and countless conversations can be had, on both sides, and that's not what this is about.
My experience, my adoption, is a story of pure sacrifice and the definition of "true love," and if that isn't what we should celebrate on Mother's Day, I'm not sure what is, if I'm honest.
I don't know the whole story, and at age 46, it's truthfully difficult to discern at this point what I actually know and what I have fantasized or created in my own mind. "Truths" surrounding her scenario that I have told myself. I know she was young (15 or 16), I know he was Catholic, and I know he had red hair. And that's it.
Some things I've made up or thought to be true, I don't even know: his family doesn't know she had me? He doesn't know about me? I was born in Virginia? He was older than she was?
It was a closed adoption. She went through the Children's Home Society of North Carolina, in Greensboro, and so did my parents when they wanted a baby. (super cool to note: Mom has the journal she was writing at the time of my adoption... REALLY heart-filling to go back and read that... i love those snapshots into our before-my-memory life). I was placed into foster care from my birth on March 30 1974, I was in a foster home until May 10 1974 (my name was Jessica), and at that time Mom and Dad picked me up and I became theirs.
That was 2 days before Mother's Day in 1974, so what a gift for Jim and Cynthia, right?
But Mother's Day 1974 may not have been a celebration for my actual biological mom. Or it may have, I cannot begin to know how she must have felt.
Around her, mothers were probably being honored. Her mom, possibly, even, got cards and/ or gifts. Weeks before, though, my bio mom had gone through labor, given birth, and had given the baby to a nurse to be taken out of the room and not brought back.
I don't know what the circumstances were. I actually started to type "I wasn't there," but I kinda was. Ha.
I have, however, given birth three times, and I have had pregnancy and mama hormones and emotions coursing through my body, during and post-pregnancy.
There's no way she went through what she did- handing her baby to a nurse...while afterbirth pain-wracked, body-torn, bloody, breast-swollen and milk-dried... without feeling something. Without loss. Without grief. Without doubt. Without questions.
I think of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane- "let this cup pass..."
My birth mom is not Jesus; I'm not being blasphemous or ignorant. And her suffering at the time of my birth and her handing me over isn't in any way as grievous as Christ's. I'm just saying, when I think of that level of dread, that fear, that doubt, those gut-panging what-ifs, those questions... it makes me think only one thing: sacrifice. She took it so I wouldn't have to. She lost so I could have. She died a little so I could live. She gave so I could receive.
And really, y'all, her situation may not have looked at all like that- she may have been glad to give me up. She may have been relieved. I get that. She may have done it so she could go on to live a life she couldn't have as a mother. I know. But I don't.
Regardless, though, birthing a child is not a small feat, and does not happen without its share of connection and emotion, even if they're "just" scientific in origin. Something happens when you grow a human in your own body, and experience the excruciating pain of bringing her from your womb to this air, to this outside life. And then to know that you, as the bringer of that tiny person into this world, won't share in her life? You'll hand her to someone else to have the cake and the phone slams and the boyfriends and the grades and the fights and the college tuition and the grombeebees?
Something ginormous happens, I am sure even to the coldest and unfeeling women, in that moment of birth, and then in the moment of the physical handing-over of that baby that becomes... in that single second...not your baby anymore.
To you, birth mama, whomever and wherever you are:
On this day in 1974, you were probably almost body-healed, and maybe still sore. You were no doubt home, with your family, perhaps your mom had gotten celebratory flowers. Your pain from having recently given birth, I'm sure wafted in and out, reminding you of your choices, good and bad. I wonder if you think of May 10th, if you even knew I had been placed, and if you ever found out just what your sacrifice did for my family and for me.
Mother's Day, in my opinion, isn't just for the ones who changed diapers.
Mother's Day, in my opinion, isn't just for the ones with dark circles, the ones who can't sleep.
Mother's Day, in my opinion, is about the sacrifices, no matter what they look like.
This day, birth Mom, is for you, and for so many others just like you.
nous vous saluons, mamans... God bless...
jml
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