Just And Best

I very niavely thought that because God led us here, and took care of all the details, and heard my cries—whether they were loud or whispered—that everyone would approve of our story.

Maybe approve isn’t the right word? 

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I didn’t think I would have to explain our decisions to open others eyes. I didn’t dream that after answering years of thoughtless questions about the quality of my eggs, uterus,  and our sexual positions—that I would now have to defend the love I have for my child. I didn’t think people would actually ask me if I love him—my miracle boy—my baby.

Do I love him?

So much so that I can’t think of it directly.

I can barely make it through the day now, but if I narrow in on the love that takes shape around our son, I don’t think I could handle the smallest daily task. Like staring into the sun, or holding my breath too long, I’d become blind and dizzy for this kid whose giggles makes me forget how hard it was to find him.

joy.

I’ve heard a lot of strange things over the last few years about our infertility and adoption. People asking if we love him. People sharing their opinions on IVF, foster care, accidental pregnancies, and international adoptions. People being surprised that we would stand infront of a bullet for him, the same way biological parents would for their children. Even surprised at how we dress him, assuming that because he didn’t come from my bones that I wouldn’t put him in the nicest clothes we can, yes, I’m being serious—someone actually said that to me.

But the most surprising thing was displayed in an Instagram DM a few weeks ago.

“I like to replace “adopt” with “buy poor persons baby”, because it’s true and reorients the discussion.”

Reorients it to what?

To be clear, the message was not sent directly to me—but was sent to another blogger who documents her gruesome infertility journey in great detail. This blogger posts pictures of shots, bruises, dollar amounts, and diagnoses in a very open and vulnerable way. She opens the door for others to see just how hard it is for some women to start their families—how hard these children are fought for, how desperately they are wanted. In her sharing she does an incredible service to shed light on what true infertility looks like, especially the world of IVF.

Someone responded to one of her stories with that remark.

And this message was sent to her as a dig to the women who walk away from the needles, who walk away from the doctors appointments, and fertility specialists. It was intended to look down on the women who’ve studied egg and sperm pamphlets that you would need a medical degree to understand, and then look for children who have already been born, or will be born—I didn’t know that people considered adoption as failure, or a less than option, or an easy way out, or a back up plan.

If they only knew.

In another message she explained that she was the true fighter, more altruistic to motherhood..she didn’t “buy” anyone else’s child…no. She would fight the good fight and pay top dollar for her own.

My eyes crossed as they stumbled over these words that felt like a cruel joke or something from a skit. They are kidding, right? They took in air while they typed this, neurons fired across their  brain and they never stopped to question if it was a good idea. Not pausing to consider the damage, or the ignorance, or the hurt? Why would they…maybe they just don’t know.

Am I less of a woman to you?

Less of a mother? Not quite as real as the birth giver, womb carrier, but not a stand in either. My motherhood is more permanent than ever before, but still not as a “real” as you’d like to believe.

Am I the stand in mother you see? Am I the place holder until she comes back?

Some just walk around saying just adopt, never considering the just in jest and not thinking a suggestion of such is a slap in the face to some. But the sum of that some is just that.

Less than you’d think but more than they are willing to be.

Am I a mother to you?

What do you see when you look at me?

There are about 1.5 million adopted children in the United States, which is only 2% of the population, or one out of every 50 children.

I can remember when I read the above statistic I was stunned. That’s it? That’s all? Only 2% of the population? Why does it seem like so much more? But then I guess it doesn’t seem like more at all when people say things like the aforementioned DM.

Recently, scientist compared the bonding hormone that is released when you give birth to a biological child to the hormones of an adoptive couple. It was the same. The study showed the amygdala—the almond shape nodules that sit behind our pituarity gland—is responsible for processing our emotions, memories, and fears; it lit up in the same pattern for adoptive parents as it did for biological parents. I’m no scientist, but I suppose this explains the joyful sensation that starts in my chest and spreads throughout my whole body when I pick up son from school.

Whether that study existed or not, I couldn’t imagine looking at him any other way.

He is my home.

In the beginning of our forever, just a month or so after our son moved home with us—I found myself in an awkward situation. Never shying away from these instances, I leaned in to make sure I was understanding what was being said to me. I called one of my dearest friends who’d also adopted her children to make sure I understood the string of under-handed comments.  

“They think I’m what…half a mom? “Yes,” she replied.

“People think I don’t love him as much as they love their children?” “Yes”, she said.

“I will have to defend my adoration for this boy forever?”

“That’s right”, she confirmed.

What I find laughable in women receiving this sort of criticism, is that it is only reserved for the infertiles. You would never walk up to a woman who has two children and miscarried her third to say, “Just adopt!”

As a society I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anyone question a mother’s love for her surprise pregnancy, so why do we question the love of an adoptive parent? Adoptions are not surprises, they are the longed for destination.

And just how did we end up at this place where we criticize each other for how we find our babies? Who is more of a mother to you? The stronger mother? The more noble woman? Who would be more deserving of our praise and who do you consider the lesser of us?

The one who stands up day after day, injecting hormones and blood thinners into her body to sustain a pregnancy. The one whose conception had nothing to do with nature and every bit to do with modern medicine. Or the woman who opened her home to a child who deserves to be a families first choice and not a back-up plan.

Who are we to you?

What lies just beyond the bruised stomachs and drained bank accounts of couples who stay on the IVF bull until they are bucked off—and just beyond the women who turn to adoption or foster care—is hope.

Hope lives just down the street from pain, just around the corner from heartache where we all think we are doomed to live with grief forever. These other women and myself—we are still the same.

We have fought ruthlessly for motherhood. Whether you see it or not.

We longed for our children so deeply that at the first sign of struggle or rejection, we didn’t cower away or give up—but we chased our children with out abandon—no matter what the battle path looked like.

We stay the course until a child has filled our arms.

Blood tests and home studies, transfer days and adoption days, miscarriages and foster care. We are here. We’ve earned every stretch mark, gray hair, and messy home where children’s laughter echos from our hallways.

So again, I ask, am I a mother to you? Who is the best of us?

Is she a better mother than me because her child came from her bones?

Or maybe, if we could all stop to inhale the beauty of it all, we would see that the best of us, is found in the breath of our children.