"A child born to another woman
calls me Mommy. The magnitude of that
tragedy and the depth of that privilege is not lost on me." ~Jody Landers
Today I celebrate my
second Mother's Day. I'm still trying to
wrap my brain around that, because I never expected to be a mom (but that's another blog post). Today I also celebrate another woman who is a
mother too, though many would not recognize or honor her in such a way.
In today's North
American social climate, adoption is an accepted, beautiful thing - at least
from the adoptive family's side. Though
there was a time when a stigma would have been attached to it, nothing could
have been further from the scene of Toby's homecoming at two days old. There were smiles so big that, had they
generated electricity, could have powered a small town. There were screams and squeals of
excitement. Phones rang non-stop and
text messages flew through cyberspace at warp speed. I'm guessing more than one person among our
family and friends broke the speed limit to get to our house to see this
baby. Joy and elation abounded.
But none of those
people were present in the hospital with us over the two days between Toby's
birth and his homecoming to witness what we saw. The scene was dramatically different. The nurses and doctors didn't smile at
Elisabeth* the way they do with "normal" mothers. There was a cold, clinical feel to everything
going on around us. Voices were lowered
almost to a whisper each time we were identified as the adoptive parents. At best you could see nurses, doctors, and
caseworkers shake their heads upon discussing Elisabeth's case; at worst some
showed visible disgust for her. After
Toby had been given over to our custody and we received instructions on his
care from a medical school resident, the doctor forced a partial smile and
said, "Maybe now he will have a happy ending." Her comment was in reference to the woman
who, 48 hours earlier, gave him life and now was giving him a life.
Certainly there are
adoptions that are the result of children being removed from tragic
circumstances which inspire anger and hostility for parents who abuse in any
number of ways. But that is a separate
issue. I'm referring to the significant
number of women who find themselves in crisis pregnancies, facing some of the
most heart and gut-wrenching decisions they will ever make.
I have to say that
I've been surprised by the stark contrast in attitudes towards adoptive
families vs. the birth mothers who made the adoptions possible. The vast
majority of people who hear our story rejoice; some even put us on a saintly
pedestal. Plenty want to know and some
even dare to ask about Toby's birth mother.
Even some of the most well-meaning among the inquirers want to hear the
horrors of what his life would have been like so they can thank God that we
saved him from it, but far too many care only about the juicy details for
purposes of gossip (which is why we share only the most basic information, none
of which provide ammunition to either intentionally or unintentionally hurt our
child later). Virtually no one wants to
hear us talk about her lovingly, as a member of our family, and definitely not
as our hero. It makes family members
uncomfortable, friends feel awkward, and strangers stamp their feet in
righteous indignation. How dare we love
this woman??? We've heard people condemn
both ours and birth mothers in general for getting pregnant in the first place,
then further shame them for choosing adoption.
How could any woman just give away her
baby? What kind of person does that? Whoa! Wait a minute! Weren't you just praising God for our
adoption story? The baby we adopted is
the same baby that a woman "like that" chose to relinquish. You can't have one without the other…
I don't want to come
across as cynical or to communicate that no one in our circle of family and
friends respects and cares about our birth mother, because they do. Nor am I implying that everyone is against
birth mothers and out to bash them, because they are not. But, generally speaking, our culture does
salute adoptive parents as saviors, yet we often heap condemnation, shame,
guilt, and hopelessness on birth mothers.
When faced with an unwanted pregnancy out of wedlock, Elisabeth could
have chosen abortion; she could have ended the life of the ridiculously
handsome, energetic, vivacious little boy who calls me mommy. She could have done so quietly and secretly,
keeping her pain to herself. No one ever
had to know. (I can't help but wonder
how many of those who protest abortion, writing one-way tickets to hell for
women who go through with the procedure, have taken in a woman in a crisis
pregnancy and loved her and demonstrated to her the grace that might lead to a
different decision. How many of them
have gone a step further and actually adopted a child?) She could have chosen to keep him; and while
his life probably would not have been a complete disaster, it most likely would
not have been the greatest upbringing.
This woman dug deep into her soul and examined herself in ways that most
of us wouldn't do if someone offered us a million bucks, and in doing so
recognized her inability to be a parent to him under her life's circumstances
at the time. So she did what some would
call the unthinkable. She made a plan to
bring her child into the world, then hand him over to virtual strangers,
praying that she was making the right decision, begging God to give her peace
and assure her that she wasn't delivering him into something worse than what
she had to offer.
The reality is that
I pray every day to be more like Toby's birth mother. To embody her unselfishness. To love so sacrificially that I would choose
to put another's well-being above my own, even at the cost of utter
heartbreak. I also pray that those in
our world who turn their noses up at birth mothers, or look upon them with
disdain, would begin to shower them with grace and mercy and love. To look beyond the mistakes they have made
and validate them as the beings created in God's image that they are. To embrace them and love them all the way to
the arms of the Lord and to being able to love themselves again.
If you've walked the
path of adoption you understand. If you
haven't, you will never truly comprehend.
I am fiercely protective of our birth mother. Don't judge her, don't cause her to second
guess herself, don't criticize her, don't shame her, don’t embarrass her. Instead, be the mouth and hands of Jesus to
her. Be humbled and grateful that she
was strong enough to hold her head up and endure trial and conviction in the
court of public opinion as she was unable to hide her unwed pregnancy status. Or the fact that she left for the hospital,
but, after 18 hours of hard labor culminating in an emergency C-section, came
home empty handed, faced with the task of getting up the next day as though the
last nine months never happened.
Had you been with us
during the two days between Toby's birth and homecoming, you would have
witnessed an unimaginable mix of joy and pain.
Her pain of letting go of a little being that she truly, undeniably
loved, and the joy she felt in giving me the gift of motherhood that without
her I would never experience. My joy of
holding my baby for the first time knowing he would live and grow up in my home
with two parents who have never wanted anything more, and the absolute
devastation and guilt I felt when I walked out the hospital doors with another
woman's child. And if you knew what life
for both of us has been like for nearly two years since then you would see a
beautiful young woman healing, moving forward, relishing our letters and
pictures and sharing with us that each one increases her peace knowing that God
traded beauty for her ashes. And you
would see the moments, mostly late at night, when I cry hot tears of both
gratitude and grief, of eternal gratefulness and soul-deep empathy.
Toby has two mothers
- one who birthed him and one who parents him.
We share this honor. But the
truth is, he doesn't really belong to either of us. He is on loan from God. And God saw fit to intertwine our lives as He
writes our perfect stories - Toby's, Elisabeth's, Collins' and mine. My prayer
for her is that someday she has another child and knows the joy of little arms
around her neck and sweet kisses on her cheeks and hearing a squeaky little
voice calling her mommy. Whether she
does or doesn't is beside the point. She
already has a child. If she's not a
mother, then neither am I.
Happy Mother's Day,
Elisabeth! Yes, you are a mother too and we honor you as such. We love you!
*Elisabeth is not
our birth mother's real name; it has been changed to protect her privacy.
