Retrospect

The stroll to kindergarten class

2011-04-02T08:50:00.000-07:00

As I was walking in the woods this morning, I was replaying my mind, the time when I began my love affair with long solitary walks. Along a suburban sidewalk in Springboro Ohio, towards Jonathon Wright elementary kindergarten class, I learned to love walking. When I see a small child of five, I am utterly astounded my mother allowed me to walk, on my own, 4 blocks a little before noon to get to class. But alas, she did, and in that short year from fall to spring, I learned to love a nice long walk and had some interesting adventures.

I must have been enrolled in afternoon half day kindergarten, back in the day before pre-school, daycare, and working mothers changed all that. And sometime after lunch, I would set out with my backpack to make my way a half a mile, cross the street 3 times, walk 4-5 blocks to the back of the school complex and cut through the playground before arriving at one of the three classrooms. I don't remember my teacher, vaguely recall my carpet square and the milk cooler, but each crack in the sidewalk, flower patch and fence is strongly imprinted in my mind. Now, I wasn't always alone. My best friend Timmy convinced his mother on occasion to walk with me, and there was a little girl 2 blocks on the way that sometimes joined me as well. But for the most part by the age of six, I took pleasure in my solitary 1/2 mile journey, even with a few dramatic events.

One afternoon, I was on my way to school with my doll for the very exciting 'Show and Tell'. Once I made it to the end of block one, I looked both ways (twice) and cross street number one and made a left turn. At the corner ranch house, they had a fenced in yard that took up most of the corner. The fence was one of those five foot gray weathered one's with a gate one can not see through. Behind the fence and the gate was a very loud barking dog, that I had never seen, because the fence was taller than my five year old self. As I tromped across the street, singing to myself and swinging my doll low and behold a HUGE dog (if it wasn't a st. bernard - it will forever be in my brain) jumped on top of me and knocked me over. He wrestled the doll away from me and I remember little else, because I took off like a rocket and was home before I knew it, crying the whole way. I haven't the slightest idea if that doll or I ever made it to show and tell that afternoon. But I do recall, I kept walking to school but changed my route by one block to avoid that house.

Another afternoon, on a gray winter day that was foggy and so cold our breath could be seen, Timmy and I started passing our friend house two blocks up the street. On days previous a girl from our class would come traipsing out, cross the street and join us. But this afternoon, I must have been cranky, tired, or fiercely jealous, because we started being mean to the girl before she even crossed the street. Maybe we refused to wait for her to cross, maybe we called her a name, I am unsure, but I know that I felt guilt later for something I said. Anyway, the five year old kindergarten girl was mad by the time she finally crossed the street, because as soon as she did, she came up to me, grabbed my arm and bit me. Did I get bitten by the dog, no; but the girl, yes! It hurt, I cried, and by the time Timmy and I arrived carrying on to the kindergarten teacher, the teacher just had to take off my puffy winter coat to look. I mean how in the world can a kindergarten girl hurt another wearing a winter coat? There were bite marks on my arm and I recall the teachers being utterly astonished the girl could bite with the power of vampirism. Brew haha went on with no clear outcomes other than, I continued to walk to school.

Another afternoon, later in the spring when the flowers and trees were blooming in suburbia, I was stung by a yellow jacket. I returned home and the next school day kept on walking. I discovered birds, dirt, lawns and the joys of open air which wasn't in my backyard. One afternoon, on my way home from kindergarten, I stopped at a friends garage and they convinced me to bring home a kitten. Every day walking to school and home from school brought new adventures. When we moved the summer before my second grade year, one of my first trips off the block was to the elementary school. And one of my first injuries was on the way home from that trip, but I walked to school and back (0.6 miles away, up a huge hill to and down the same hill home) for five more years. And it did me good; mom, it did me good.

A small private affair means you are not invited

2011-02-13T08:25:00.000-08:00

My mother says that death brings out the worst in people. From my experience I kinda believe that is true. My mother would know more than I, and I kinda consider her an expert in all things morose. I'll leave the long explanation of that to another post, but suffice it to say my mother and father are experts on funerals, cemeteries and many things post earthly existence. She also brings most of the 'death' news like a living obit section, multi-media style. This week, she brought me news I was standing-by for.

Sadly this week, my sister-in-law's father, lost his battle with cancer. He had been in the care of hospice for some time, and the family did have time to prepare. I was planning on travelling 3 hours west to show my support when the time finally came. Along with the news of his passing this week though, came the news that I was not invited. The exclusion of the event came with this statement 'We are planning a small, private, family service.'

Now one might think I am family but alas, you don't know my sister-in-law! Since the moment my brother met her, family definitely means 'hers'. So after receiving this rejection via carefully phrased statements from my mother, followed by emails of proof and be laboring all the details, I was stuck with my 'worst self' reaction of pissed off!

After fuming a little, I spent some time trying to figure out why it angered me to be excluded from a funeral for a man I hardly knew. After all, it's her choice; her call. But still, the emotional reaction bugged me until I worked it out. The working-it-out took place during a long walk in the woods. I began thinking of Harry Potter who was scarred in his infancy by the 'one-who-shall-not-be-named'. (Stay with me here) Even after Harry receives his schooling, masters his magic, escapes the horror of his youth, get's pals, and wins some battles against Voldemort and his posse - it all comes down to that blasted scar of his forehead. I was thinking that many scars inflicted in our youth remain with us and represent pivotal battles, don't you think? The scar that hurts my brain at times (and is hidden by kicking bangs most others) is one of rejection and exclusion.

I was a middle child and I looked up to my older brother very much. He was the classic hero child in the family dynamic. And mainly he lived up to that post with good grades, excellent sportsmanship, popularity and tall-dark-and-handsome looks. Really by the time that I was 3 and he was off to kindergarten, I had given up on ever catching up to him or being cool enough to be his bud. And that mantra of 'you are not cool enough, old enough, (anything) enough' has stayed with me. This type of thing probably stays with most middle children.

My brother once off to college, pretty much never looked back and from that moment went forth to define his life without his family. He is successful, lives in a nice house, has 2 wonderfully perfect children, a picture perfect life and...I truly am not cool enough to fit in to it. I'm not really country club material. Now, those are his choices, and really I have only made small little attempts to be closer to him over the years. But on the walk, the other day, I was thinking that even after childhood, I might have spent some unconscious time and energy trying to live up.

The brother's wife really does represent all the things that I (and possibly my whole family) was not. She's blond and blue eyed (we are all dark), from a wealthy family (we:lower-middle class), excessively polite (hmmm: not rude just casual) and very particular (we shop garage sales and brag about it). The sister-in-law is the kind of person who lives with an empty living room for 2 years, because she knows exactly the couch she wants and sits on the floor until my brother has saved enough money for that brown leather sofa. True story. She controls every single aspect of her life - including how she will accept love. Here's an example. Early in their marriage, my sister-in-law points out to my mother a silverware set that she wants. The sister-in-law then proceeds to tell my mother, that she would like my parents to gift her one fork or spoon a year (if that is all they can afford) until the set is acquired in completion. No magazine subscriptions, no scarf, no cash, please, instead 'this silver dessert fork' and please check my registry. There is one way 'in' for her - only one kind of love accepted - and it is through this particularly chosen object. Now, through the years my mother's patience and kindness has worked it's way into some kind of relationship. But it has been a journey.

She is the gate keeper for my brother, and as he provides for them and their way of living, he must subscribe to all of it. They have been married for longer now than he ever lived under my parents roof. Any possibility of a relationship with him pretty much went out the window the moment they chose the wedding party. They have never made any qualms about it - sorority sisters and fraternity brothers are simply better than real ones! Now what amazed me is that I still cared. It surprised me that after 20 plus years, I found myself still wanting to have a relationship with him. I had to admit to myself there were still decisions I made and life choices which were unconsciously focused on trying to live up to him or those like him. That I'm not cool enough, or rich enough, or polite enough, or blond enough; still resonates. Do I really still projected that? I was surprised that a rejection from him could still ignite the scar. But...

I thank him for pointing it out. The scar is unique and a part of who I am. My childhood was lovely for what it was and what it made me. I wish he and his lovely wife a beautiful life, and in my heart hope they can 'put their lives back to some semblance of normal' as he stated in his email. But I will close with this = what he calls normal and what I call normal are worlds apart.

Newpaper Articles

2010-02-12T08:03:00.001-08:00

I have inherited a bunch of my grandparent's ephemera. Somehow along the line (oh age 34), I became the family historian and keeper of these things. I have old catholic readers (1894), cabinet cards, vintage postcards, train tickets and newspaper articles. There is a group of newspaper articles which came from my great-grandmother (that would be my paternal grandmother's mother). They don't take up too much room, so I can't seem to part with the stack of "Polly's Pointers" from the Cincinnati Post circa 1964. But there is one auspicious or nefarious cut out of "The Doctor Replies" which intrigues me and make me wonder why would a lady save only one article like this? It goes like this (caps kept as printed as well as parenthesis);

"Every once in a while, the question comes up whether a blood test can be made to determine the parentage of a child. The first question today is typical.

QUESTION: Please tell me if there is any way of establishing the parentage of a child. Would a blood test prove a certain man is the father of a child or not? Mrs W.

ANSWER: The blood of human beings can be classified in various "groups". It is know that these groups are inherited in certain definite ways. Consequently by testing (that is testing for groups) the blood of child, mother and father it is SOMETIMES possible to report that one of the two grownups could NOT have been a parent of that particular child. Testing the blood, however, can NEVER show that a certain man was the father, it can demonstrate in certain cases that he was not."

Oh Dr Jordan, with your face imaged right here, never say never right! Made me laugh. Of the other questions and answers listed that day, none were from a Mrs L which would have been my great-grandmother and none from Mrs. C my grandmother soooo, the question for me is - who was sooooo curious? Obviously my grandma G or my great-grandma S had something to hide or something to find out. Also, if my grandma G got this stack of items from her own mother, why did she choose not to part with this article.

There is one question that day about coronary thrombosis, maybe I am reading too much into this? Anyway, I am off to iron some shirt - which I NEVER do - and consequently which my great-grandmother did all her life, for strangers, to earn money.

Injuries

2010-02-12T08:01:00.000-08:00

There is a large list of injuries either I or one of my three brothers incurred over the course of our childhood. If I think of all the stitches we as a group had over the course of our young lives - it would astonish most. My mother used to brag that we never broke any bones. I once broke a finger, but I think she was referring to casts and I got a splint; so maybe it didn't count.

I thought stitches, concussions and burns were just a normal part of life, until I had my daughter. My daughter has never more than scrapped up her knee. No stitches, no broken bones, no concussions, no second degree burns. It is not due to some protective mother either. She is just a cautious child by nature. She also lacks a dare-devil and physically rambunctious older brother. She doesn't climb tall trees and jump on frozen beds of ponds. She has a different nature and perspective. After she scrapped her knee learning to ride her bike at age five; she put aside the bike all together. I begged her to try and conquer the fear, she simply would have none of it.

I, on the other hand, was a tom-boy. I was also unsupervised a lot. Which brings me to the second point - not only did I get hurt a lot - I witnessed a lot of my brother's traumatic injuries. If you have siblings and you were raised in a family where there was some ownership of one another - you'll know - it can be just more traumatic to see your sibling’s bleed than to bleed yourself. You don't have the privileges that adrenalin and shock give you to numb the pain. Holding your brother's hand while the ambulance comes can be an event in itself. Having to decide to run home and tell; or stay and hold the hand is quite another event altogether. My brother's and I lived exciting adventurous lives and man do I have some doozies to tell.

In the meantime; here is my partial list of the major ones with this note - I refer to my brothers as D1, K2, P3 which by interpretation means "D" for the first initial of the first name and "1" for being the oldest brother.

D1: Plate glass window head
Me: Bicycle chin
Me; 2nd Burn
K2: Fire hydrant stitches
D1: Concussion sledding
K2: Concussion stairs
P3: Stuck in the mud
P3: Horrid surgery
D1: Appendix

In reference D1 is 3 years older than me; K2 is 18 months older than me (I often refer to him as my kid brother) and P3 is 3 years younger than me (my baby brother).

Death of a Salesman

2010-02-12T07:59:00.000-08:00

My daughter is working on her summer reading assignments, one of which is Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman. After reading it, one quote/scene sticks with me:

LINDA: But what about your father?
BIFF: (lamely) Well, I meant him too.
HAPPY: He admires Pop.
LINDA: Biff, dear, if you don't have any feeling for him, then you can't have any feeling for me.
BIFF: Sure, I can Mom.
LINDA: No. You can't just come to see me, because I love him. (With a threat, but only a threat of tears) He's the dearest man in the world to me, and I won't have anyone making him feel unwanted and low and blue. You've got to make up your mind now, darling, there's no leeway any more. Either he's your father and you pay him that respect, or else you're not to come here. I know he's not easy to get along with - nobody knows that better than me - but...

This brought a point home to me today concerning my own relationship with my parents. Not embracing everything my father is, but still loving my mother causes a conflict in both my mother and I. Since my parents have been together since before they were 20, they are hardly separate people. If there is a definition of a couple, it includes them. Who my mother is as a person, has as much to do with her decisions to make their marriage work than practically everything else about her. Not only is it difficult for me to completely embrace her without including him; but she simply refuses to let me do it. She will not allow me to love her and reject him.

This has been our lifelong battle; our unending dance. She is not a separate person from him. She won't allow me to love her and be truthful about what he is at the same time. It's not a blindness on her part or a blunt refusal to see him in his weaknesses. It may not even be her manipulation for us to see him as she does. It's a dysfunctional protectiveness, a defiance to the world. If you love me; you have to love him; because he and I are one. She is as much protecting him from our hurtful views of him, as she is shielding her heart from our love unless we see him the way she does.

We all have to love each other through her. It's a strange circle hard to describe to outsiders but it goes like this:

DAUGHTER: How's dad?
MOTHER: He's doing well dear. He loves you, ya know.
DAUGHTER: Tell him I love him.
MOTHER: I will dear.
DAUGHTER: How's my brother.
MOTHER: Well he's been so busy lately. I told him about your news. He was so pleased to hear. Did you know...

None of us siblings communicate to one another. Birthday cards with a signature and "pass the stuffing" around her holiday meals is about all there is when it comes to direct communication. This is her doing. Don't get me wrong, when we all lived at home, we all interacted and chatted quite a bit. But slowly as we left home, we learned the order of things. So in keeping; rejecting my brothers is not allowed either.

In the last few years, I did intentionally cut off contact with one of my brothers. It happens to be the brother they see quite often. Since her way of communication if to pass all the news (hate/love/angry/grievance) through her; it has been relatively easy for her to overcome.

She might be thinking that this coping strategy has worked. But silently she knows she must outlive most of us or there would be no family. Also, I wonder if she fears that I might up and decide to stop communicating with her at all. It might come to that one day. My reasons; well that's another post.

Item 1: Injury; Splitting my Chin

2009-07-24T06:18:00.000-07:00

It was a week after we moved into our new house and a week or two before starting school. My kid brother and I decided to ride our bikes up to the elementary school in order to check out the school and playground at our leisure. It was a hot August day and our older brother was going to play baseball in the empty lot at the end of our street with the new neighborhood boys.

Our new house was at the end and bottom of the subdivision. We lived in a cul-de-sac and in order to get out of the neighborhood you had to literally go up. About two blocks from our street there was this enormous hill lined with "pretty little houses all in a row". At the age of seven that hill was enormous. Even after living there for 15 years, being able to pedal up that hill without having to walk the bike was a major accomplishment. When skateboarding became huge in the 80's, even the dare-devils didn't start from the top.

So after my kid brother and I had played on each piece of playground equipment and peaked in all the windows to the classrooms which would become our second home; we headed home. The school was about 10 blocks from our house; there were nice sidewalks; the same five houses in various colors and small trees in everyone's yard. A typical newly designed 70's suburb. It was a great neighborhood to grow up in.

My brother had recently conquered the no hands method of biking and was showing off. He is 18 months older than me and 18 months younger than my oldest brother, so every developmental milestone was used as competitive fodder in our world. I still remember fondly the first time I beat him up. I kid you not; this closeness in age still gives me an unhealthy does of ageism. At the age of 7; it would still be a year or more before I mastered the hands free method of riding my bike. So in this competitive spirit, my brother and I approached the hill. We were new to the neighborhood and didn't realize that simply coasting down this hill could get you to speeds of over 40 mph. He went first about a car length ahead of me. I pedaled so I would pass him up.

At the end of the hill, you'd hit the dip and then proceed to a smaller graded hill that would slow you down a bit. I didn't see the pot-hole. Even after it happened, I had no idea why I was shot like a cannon over my bike. I can hardly imagine the projectory or velocity; but my kid brother watched most of it occur. My front bike tire hit the pot hole and slowed down but I kept going over the handlebars. For one moment I was a flying superhero. Then I landed right on my face; well, on my chin actually. I got up and started walking towards my brother. I tasted blood on my lip and started to cry. I was crying because I busted my lip.

I began walking towards home as my brother ran ahead. As I approached the ball "field" some kid ran up to me and said something about my chin. I reached up and that's when my fingers went straight through. This was back in the day before 911. It's true; there used to be no 911. Mother's everywhere had police, fire and poison numbers right next to the phone. Not only that; but parents used to drive their children to the emergency room with all kinds of horrid injuries. Well at least my mother did. Actually I think my mother drove me to the doctor's office - the pediatrician - who told us to head on up the road to the emergency room.

I ended up with a slew of stitches. All in a row across my chin and a few in my lip. If I run my tongue over my lip right now, I can still feel the bump. If I scrunch up my chin it's hard to see the scar now. It used to be a lot more prominent and kids would ask me about it every once in a while. "I flew off my bike at the end of Victoria and landed on my chin" was my reply. No sensible child would have pedaled down that hill!

Part 5: Adoption; The relinquishment

2009-07-21T18:24:00.000-07:00

The morning I relinquished my son, between the LDS Family Services counselor visits and my mother’s arrival for the day, I had some pure alone time with my son to prepare. I had learned the birth father, my legal husband, had signed the papers and now it was my turn - my turn to relinquish. All the preparation, all the planning and counseling could not have prepared me for this one intense moment. For one moment while holding Rory, I knew that he was mine. He was perfect and he was mine.

My counselor came into hospital room where I had spent four days. My mother sat close. I sat in a chair by the window and held my son in my lap. On the other side was a trusted staff member from LDS family services, and I believe the hospital counselor. There were five of us in a tiny circle with papers to sign and legal words to listen to or read out loud. I never took my eyes off of my son. He slept peacefully in perfection. Prayers were said, words were heard and paper after paper was signed until the last one. By the time we were finished, Rory was soaked in our tears and in our love.

After we composed ourselves, the adoptive parents arrived in the room. They were beaming, they radiated. I presented the basket to my son’s parents, a last round of photos was taken, some gifts were given to me from the parents and our things were gathered up. The adoptive parents, the adoption counselors, the hospital staff, my mother, my son and I headed for the hospital exit. To all those around us it appeared the end of a long journey. But for me, it marked the start of my own journey, a journey I would take alone.

I held my son, gave embraces good bye, and on the paved entrance of the hospital two cars were pulled up. One car was for me; the other my son. His in front, mine behind. My son was placed in his car seat in the adoptive parent’s car. I was wheeled to my mother’s car. A nurse was there to help me. Doors were closed all around. Something tore inside of my soul. A cry, a wail, a roar came out of no-where. I was shocked it was me.

I don’t know if the adoptive parents heard, I don’t know how my mother kept herself composed but driving away from the hospital and from my son had to be the most injured moment I had ever had. Within the short span of hours, I had faced my greatest triumph and my greatest pain.

Part 4: Adoption; The birth and hospital stay

2009-07-21T17:57:00.000-07:00

The week before my son was born, I was preparing for everything. I went to Babies’R’Us and filled a basket with newborn diapers, outfits, booties, formula, bottles and everything else I might need if the birth-father decided not to sign. That way, if I came home from the hospital with my son, I’d have a few days worth of supplies. I figured I’d bring the Moses-type basket to the hospital and give it to the adoptive parents if all things went according to plan. A dear friend offered to buy a car seat and place it in my garage just in case. She promised to remove it, before I came home, if the birth-father signed. That entire week, I would fall asleep staring at the gift (or supply) basket.

I left work on Friday knowing that I would be on maternity leave until January. I would return to work divorced and without a child. That Saturday morning, my daughter and I went to LDS Family Services to meet the adoptive parent who had flown in. When we met them in person, I was overflowing with love for them, but they were still holding back a bit. Later that day they were to meet the birth father. They brought little gifts for my daughter and I.

My mother came on Sunday, the day before the scheduled C-section, planning to spend at least a week. I even went to church Sunday morning and taught my nursery class. I had made arrangements for my daughter to get to school Monday morning. I woke up Monday to the alarm and my mom and I loaded into the car at 5:30 am. I had tried to pre-plan every moment and possible need so the moments driving to the hospital were strangely stress free. This day was going to set into motion life changing events and it seemed wrong to be stress-free if that makes any sense.

We arrived at the hospital and checked in. The medical preparations started and my counselor arrived. He had his plans for the day as the adoptive parents were his charge. The hospital would not allow the adoptive parents to be in the operating room, and although I was disappointed at that, I was pleased they would be there. I was wheeled into the sterile cold operating room and my mother joined me later. Quiet morning and cold procedure ended when they lifted my son from me. He had reddish hair even at birth and the first thing I thought was how pleased my paternal grand-mother would be that he had inherited our shared Scottish gene. She had passed away, the year before and her birthday was the next day Halloween. She and I had both been red heads. The name I had chosen for him, Rory, is a combination of my name and the birth father’s name. Rory also means red king and was completely fitting. My son was so beautiful, healthy and perfect. The staff went to clean him up and finished my procedure. I later learned, the adoptive parents got to watch his first bath.

In the recovery room, my son was brought to me. I was holding him when the adoptive parents came in, and we all comfortably chatted about how gorgeous and perfect he was. The nurses didn’t quite know how to act with so many adults focusing on the positives of the situation. I was brought to my room, at the end of a maternity ward hallway. The hospital staff had taken some special precautions to keep my stay drama free. I was able to have my own room and I remember special signs on the door. No one was going to wander down the hall and peek in. Prior to my stay I had to make a list of approved visitors.

Within a few hours the adoptive parents came in my room to visit and we had our first group photos. I remember the adoptive mom (J) got a cell phone call and later my mother and I decided it must have been her work or family calling to find out how things were going. They were much more nervous than I was. When I look at the first pictures we took as a group, and the last pictures we took in the hospital, it is clear how nervous and anxious they were. Did they just watch their son’s first moments or would this time away from work be another hope lost?

I spent four days in the hospital with my son. There were various reasons for this including:
• Adoption waiting times in Ohio call for a certain amount of time between the birth and the official relinquishment or signing of the papers.
• The longest stay medically covered after a C-section is 4 days, so I was going to be staying in the hospital.
• I insisted my newborn son not go to a foster home from the hospital, which is what would have occurred normally. The adoptive parents could not have taken him from the hospital to their hotel room, so he stayed with me.
• I wanted time to say goodbye. Then again, not knowing if the birth father would relinquish, I was not about to let my son go, until he was in the arms of his new parents.

I spent much of that four day hospital stay with my son. When he was not with me in my room, the adoptive parents or the birth father were with him. My daughter came to visit the first evening, and held her brother in her arms. Almost every nurse on that floor was filled with love for us. Hospital staff and counselors all came into my room to whisper blessings and offer support. That hospital room was filled with love. There was one nurse; I recall, who would insist on bringing the baby to me. I am not sure if she removed my son from the adoptive parent’s arms to do so. Even though her reaction to adoption may not have been positive, her intention was pure I am sure. I made it clear to everyone that the adoptive parents were as welcome to see my son as I, but a sure way to make sure of that was having him with me. One night, everyone was gone and the nurses allowed me to keep Rory in my room. I dressed him in clothes from the basket, sang to him and watched “The Last Emperor”.

The morning of day four, my counselor had a meeting with the birth father. I knew that my husband had come to visit the baby and spent time with him. My counselor gave me minimum details about how that visit went. He had still not stated he was going to sign the relinquishment papers. He did that morning, while my son was with me and before the team came to my room.

Part 3: Adoption; The Final Days. Third Trimester

2009-07-21T13:23:00.000-07:00

My baby’s due date was in early November. I had a C-section for my daughter’s birth 9 years previous and given the situation with the adoption and my medical situation, my doctor and I agreed I should have this baby boy by C-section. My divorce date was set for mid December, a month after the due date. The doctor’s office ended up scheduling my delivery for the last week of October. It was so strange to know the exact time and day he would be born, but it did offer me the chance to make arrangements with the adoptive parents, the adoptive agency, and my friends and family. Every single day was filled with conflicting and opposing issues. I had to prepare to relinquish and prepare to keep. I thought it was the hardest time in my life. After tucking my daughter into bed every night, I would climb into bed and sing to my unborn child, hoping all the emotions and trials I was suffering would somehow not be lost. I prayed he would be happy and know that I loved him.

Knowing the date he would be born, I did the following things:

Medical: I made a birth plan with my counselor and shared it with my doctor. The hospital needed to know how I wished to handle things. Did I want to see the baby and spend time with him? (Yes) Did I want to see the birth father (No). When would I sign the papers? How or who would be there with my daughter. I planned every issue I could predetermine.

Financial: I decided I was going to take maternity leave after the baby came. I knew I would need the time to heal and I was blessed enough to work for an employer who provided it. I made calls to HR about maternity leave and knew how I was getting paid, what medical items were going to be covered and when I was expected back to work. I made a detailed budget for the time frame and asked for help for the difference. I took the maximum time I could take – no apologies. The pastor of my church who participated in LDS Family Services preparations was judgmental about this. Wouldn’t I want to return to work right away? For me the answer was no. I think he viewed the situation from the birth father’s perspective. Maybe he questioned that I wanted to somehow benefit from the birth. This really infuriated me - I shared this with my counselor and we moved on.

Mental: I made plans for support after coming home from the hospital. Not only did I plan activities, I made a list of people I could count on afterwards to be there at a moment’s notice. I pre-thought some insanity. Seriously I knew I was going to be devastated so I put time and energy into planning how I was going to get through it. For example, my mother came for the week after the baby was born, but after she returned home, I still needed her. I called her and said “Is there any way you can come back? I can’t be alone”. She came. I simply couldn’t be alone for the first month. Friends stopped by. Since they knew all the drama stuff prior to the birth, they simply sat with me and didn’t expect me to explain anything. I knew that I had a hard time asking for help – so I made certain people aware – that they needed to simply show up and be there for me – even if I didn’t ask. I could never have gotten through it if that had not been the case.

In hindsight, I was stronger during that last month than I have ever been in my life. I was more filled with love and strength than I have ever been since.

Part 2: Adoption; What I went through. Second Trimester

2009-07-21T13:18:00.000-07:00

Although we couldn't legally divorce since I was pregnant, we had begun paperwork and filings. My spouse had removed all his personal items from my home at my insistence (the house I had bought before our marriage). Since he had moved to Ohio in order to marry me, all his local friends were from our church or had been introduced to him through me. He was living with church members who had known me before him. He wanted to stay in Ohio (not return to his home state) in order to see the situation to the end. He thought I might change my mind. Once I decided to pursue adoption and he found out through my mail, it got crazy. He filed counter suits asking for full custody, child support and alimony. He was also accusing me of adultery. I was finding this out through paperwork because I could not and would not speak to him. I had a restraining order in place. He was stalking me and stealing my mail, in an attempt to find out what was happening. In retrospect I am very sympathetic. When I had decided upon the divorce, I also decided not to speak an evil word against him. I was attending church regularly, teaching in the church nursery, moving about my life visibly pregnant while saying nothing about the marriage or why our family was being torn apart. He was grieving and struggling and people wanted reasons and causes. My reasons (we were unequally yoked) didn't seem to hold a candle to his fantasized ones. Our church family was divided by the situation.

I did some things to protect myself emotionally during this time.

1. I gave my son a name. My spouse had been named for his father, who had been named for his father. Prior to my decisions, this baby’s name was pre-determined. By naming my child, I claimed him for my own. This was very healing for me.

2. I changed OB/GYNs. I made an appointment, told the new doctor right away, and chose a doctor whose reaction met my expectations. I chose a doctor that had a kind and professional office staff. They did treat me a bit differently during appointments but were professional and non-judgmental. I had a bad experience with my daughter’s birth so the selection of the right doctor was very important for me.

3. I saw an attorney to put the divorce proceedings in place and was honest with her about my struggles. I told her I didn’t know exactly what was going to happen. She became very protective of me – for pay .

4. I attended counseling weekly. The birth-father was also seeing a church counselor regularly.

5. I told my family and friends, separating myself from their reactions. Thankfully my parents, brothers, aunts and uncles and childhood friends were supportive. Either that or they were removed enough from me by location that they pretended support via emails, cards and phone calls. Truthfully, I was more ashamed about a second failed marriage than the baby. It had been barely over a year since my wedding reception.

6. I held close to a few people who supported me. Being open about what I was going through with a few close people was absolutely essential to my mental and physical health.

7. I kept doing all the things I had done prior to making my decisions. I had built a loving and supportive community around me, and did not deprive myself of that just because people around me were confused or disagreed with my decisions.

8. I let myself grieve my losses before my child was born.

I attended church every Sunday although it was really hard for me to see the birth-father; I had to occasionally during church services. The hardest thing for me was that he was being emotionally supported by our church family and I was not. During that time, I was beginning to tell co-workers that I was pursuing adoption.

I worked in a large office as an administrative assistant and everyone knew I was expecting. No exaggeration, I was regularly interacting with hundreds of people. Some of those co-workers were also pregnant with due dates around mine. There was no hiding my pregnancy and I didn't want to lie about the adoption. I needed to return to work after the birth! Seriously, I had to deal with the adoption 10 times a day. I felt like I was a poster-child for birthmothers - and I didn't like it - but I felt I had to be strong. It's not that I rubbed people's faces in it - but if people asked me about my plans - I told them "I am pursing adoption". People have their own reactions and thoughts about adoption and I simply decided those were their issues, not mine. It was hard to handle the initial reaction on people's faces. It was hard to face judgment and there was some. There were a group of supportive co-workers, a group of shocked co-workers and a group of whispering ones. During my pregnancy it was the verbally supportive ones that held me up.
One major event during a regular Tuesday morning at work made a huge difference in my pregnancy and adoption path: 9/11. That tragedy put things into perspective for everyone. The world grieved a major trauma during the last trimester of my pregnancy. It was hard to feel sorry for myself in that light and everyone I knew was working through post-traumatic stress. It changed all of our perspectives. Bottom-line: My personal crisis was going to end in life.

I chose the adoptive parents for my child right around this time. My counselor took my desired couple profile or what I wanted in parents and then gave me 10 letters to read which had pictures. After a counseling session, I came home with a group of profiles and letters to the birthmother. I had a strong emotional reaction to one couple, but read all the letters with intense interest. I allowed my daughter to see the pictures and read her the letters read as well. It seemed a huge decision – after all those I had already made – this seemed the hardest one of all. But it was the easiest one. I allowed myself 5 days to make a decision, but didn’t need it. I let it sink in and I felt great about the adoptive couple I chose. After I told my counselor my choice, I believe LDS Family Services had the birth-father look over the information and decide as well. There was a conference call with the couple, myself and my daughter a few weeks later. I invited them to come to Ohio for the birth. It hurt my feelings a big that they were not jumping in with both feet. My counselor talked to me about the risk and hurt they were facing.

End of September, I was also beginning to understand that LDS Family Services did not have true open adoptions. I wanted an open adoption, because I knew I was emotionally strong and mature enough to handle it and that I needed it. I was considering my 9 year old daughter's needs. Actually I didn't want to pursue the adoption through LDS Family Services because of this open adoption issue, but the birth father insisted the adoption be handled through the agency. He was not willing to state that he would support the adoption at all, but was willing to threaten he would oppose it if the adoption was not through LDS Family Services. I was panicked about facing a semi-opened adoption at best. I wanted to select the parents and offer them involvement with the final phase of pregnancy but doing that through the agency was strange. While I was praying and preparing my heart to choose an adoptive parent couple, at the same time, I was making alternate plans to keep. I had to prepare for what our future was, if his birth-father did not relinquish. One thing I knew and held onto was that I wanted the best I could offer for my un-born child.

Part 1: Adoption; How I decided. First Trimester

2009-07-21T13:15:00.000-07:00

At the end of March 2001, after just turning 32, I found out I was pregnant. I was married with a daughter (from my first marriage) who had just turned 9. I had a good job, a house, a car, was active in my church and had all the trimmings of a life which was built for just such a joyful occasion. As soon as we found out, my husband and I called our families to share the good news and started preparing for the joyful event. Congratulations from family, church friends and co-workers flooded in. That is why I couldn't understand why I wasn't thrilled with the news of my pregnancy. I was trying to process in my heart and mind why everything seemed wrong and hiding my shock and grief from everyone. One moment I'd be fantasizing about the nursery and the next; silently crying in the shower. The truth for me was that I was in a bad marriage and felt that after the birth; circumstances were not going to magically change for the better. I was still going to be solely supporting the family, struggling to keep a marriage together and raising my 9 year old daughter unaided. I had gotten married the summer before, after meeting my spouse online. He had moved to Ohio, we had gotten married and he had started to integrate into the life I had built for my daughter. The marriage was full of financial and emotional issues but we shared a religious faith that taught us our faith was the only thing we needed in order to "stay together forever".

I had been divorced from my daughter's father for over 7 years and was regularly driving half-way to meet with her father's family to "exchange" visitation. During these drives, I would often process my feelings and make plans for the new baby. My husband's instability scared me and his emotional immaturity was a huge burden. Not only was I carrying a child, I was carrying him. I was holding our life together and I couldn't pretend that something would magically change once our child was born. After two months, I realized my current marriage could not lead to happiness and that my husband was not prepared to be a partner, let alone a parent. Realization was only a first step, and deciding what to do about it was quite another thing altogether. Before the end of my first trimester I had decided to get a divorce. The reasons for that were many and my un-born child's future was part of that decision.

Deciding to end the marriage was phase one. Deciding for adoption was the second phase. Since I had been a single mother and divorced, I knew what child-support, visitation and split families was all about. Just as I was facing the reality of a bad marriage, I was also facing the realities of what divorce would mean for this unborn child. I did not take the decision to divorce lightly because I realized what that meant for my un-born child. For me, getting married and getting pregnant was part of "the fantasy" and getting a divorce and deciding on adoption was facing reality. The first time I considered adoption was during a phone call with a friend. I was explaining my decision to end my marriage and she mentioned a second impending decision. At the time I didn't consciously process that decision (keep/adopt) but in my heart I knew what she was referring to and it broke my heart.

During the first trimester I had some bleeding and ended up having an out-patient procedure to stop the bleeding. For these reasons I knew the baby was growing fine but had lots of anxieties which I focused towards taking care of the baby as best I could physically. At the beginning of the second trimester, I had an amniocentesis in order to rule out a genetic defect my husband's first born child faced. The son from his first marriage was a year older than my daughter and had physical and mental birth defects. It was during this procedure I learned the baby was definitely a boy. We later learned the baby did not carry any genetic defect. My husband was there for the procedure and the news, even though he knew I was seeking a divorce. In Ohio, law prohibits divorce when the woman is pregnant. I had filed for a divorce and had begun the legal separation process. My husband was unprepared and grieving. He was not ready to face the realities I was presenting. He was still very much caught up in magical thinking when the doctors told us the child was a boy. He carried a hope that somehow things would work out and we'd make things work. He insisted we attend counseling sessions under the churches umbrella. I agreed to attend counseling but I did not have marriage counseling in mind. During my first individual counseling session with LDS Family Services, I confessed I was considering adoption.

My heart had been prepared for considering adoption in many ways. First, I had volunteered at a Crisis Pregnancy Center for over 8 years where we presented adoption as an alternative to abortion. Secondly I had close friends who were unable to conceive who had pursued adoption. I told my counselor during that first session that although I personally could consider adoption, I could never do it, because of my 9 year old daughter. It was inconceivable to cause her injury and trauma by introducing the idea that I wanted to "give up" the baby. My counselor and I prayed together and for two weeks after; I prayed and immerged myself in preparation and decision making once again. Later, I took my daughter to a counseling session (adoption was not spoken of) and a few days after introduced the idea of adoption to her at home. If she was not okay with adoption, I was not going to pursue it. In retrospect I see that was a huge burden to place on a child. My daughter saw through to my heart though and knew I loved this unborn child as much as I loved her. That was important to me. She also understood that I was getting a divorce and knew what that had meant to her life. She and I held each other and decided to pursue adoption. In that embrace there was only one family member missing - the father and my husband.