Just Another Day In Paradise

My Mother’s Day wasn’t perfect. The weekend brought rain and snot. At one point, I found myself huddled in a car with a crying, snotty Baby Girl and a crying, cold Joseph, watching the soccer game that Joseph was supposed to be playing in (I kind of deserved this, since I had completely underestimated how cold it was—it is NOT supposed to be 35 degrees in May—and had forgotten to bring gloves or a hat for Joseph). I didn’t get to sleep in on Mother’s Day, as I’ve learned that me sleeping in only leads to a grumpy husband who didn’t get enough sleep, and then no-one is happy. So I got up with the kids, bright and early. I didn’t get the tulips I wanted, even though I sent my husband an e-mail that said, “FYI, I like tulips.” Apparently the message was too subtle. I changed my outfit twice before going to church and still had massive amounts of snot on my shirt when we arrived. We ate out at restaurant for lunch, but between a squirmy baby who had missed her nap and a hyper 5 year old who literally *jumped* out of his chair four times, I didn’t get to eat my food until it was cold. There was laundry to be done, a house to be cleaned, and dinner to be made. And nobody else volunteered to take over those duties.

So, my Mother’s Day wasn’t perfect. But I chose to love it anyway.

I chose to love it because I know full well that there are too many women who ache to be mothers and are struggling on their journey to get there. Woman who will spend Mother’s day trying desperately to forget that the one thing they want—to have a baby to snuggle and kiss and rock to sleep at night—seems to be only a distant dream that will never become a reality. Women who have lost babies who were part of them, if only for the briefest moment in time. I know this because I was one of those women. And so I chose to love the snot and the tears and the laundry and the chaos because they are part and parcel of this amazing gift called motherhood.

I chose to love it because my son has another mother, his Ethiopian first mother, who didn’t get to see him jump off of chairs today. As grateful as I am for the joy that this amazing little boy brings into my life and as much as it physically takes my breath away when I think about the prospect of not having him here, I will never forget that my joy comes at the expense of another mother’s loss. I wish I could reach out to his first mother to tell her that Joseph is safe, and he is happy, and he is loved. Oh, how he is loved. But I can’t. And so I chose to love the day and this boy and all his energy to honor the sacrifice his birthmother made. And I chose to love the day because I am heartbreakingly aware of how, with just the smallest twist of fate, I would not have had the chance to hug this little boy and watch him jump off chairs, and see him grow up before my eyes.

I chose to love it because, all over the world, there are mothers who can’t feed their children or keep them warm or keep them sheltered from the rain. On my Mother’s Day, I got to give my children food without thinking twice about how I would make this happen. I got to clothe them, and when they were cold, we got to snuggle in a car, protected from the rain. And when they were sick, I got to wipe their noses with a clean cloth and give them medicine to ease their pain and tuck them into warm beds. I got to give them warm bathes and clean clothes. I got to keep them safe. So I chose to love the day because I know how extraordinarily lucky I am to be able to give those gifts to my children and how many mothers would do anything to be able to do these simple things for theirs.

I chose to love the day anyway because behind the joys of motherhood, there is a sadness that always lingers in the shadows. I miss my mom. I miss her smile and oh, how I miss her voice. Her voice, the one that had the ability to make me feel safe and warm and loved all over. I miss that feeling, the one of complete and utter unconditional love that only a mom can evoke. I miss her profoundly and deeply and achingly. And yet the grief is bittersweet. The bitterness is obvious. The sweetness is the clarity that such a loss brings about the brevity of life. That clarity shapes my days. I chose to love the day because I truly understand, down to my very core, that these moments with my children are excruciatingly, breathtakingly brief.

I chose to love my Mother’s Day. Though it wasn't perfect, it was full of moments that were oh-so-sweet. I woke up to Joseph spontaneously shouting, “Happy Mothers’ Day!” with no one to remind him to do so (remember, my husband was still sleeping). My baby girl woke up and smiled at me with her two new teeth peeking out. My husband presented me with a Dairy Queen cake which I had also requested (okay, so truth be told, my e-mail actually read: “FYI I like tulips and Dairy Queen cake.” He just went for the cake part instead of the tulips part). I felt my mom’s presence in church. At dinner that night, Joseph insisted I get the first piece of cake and crawled over into my lap to give me a kiss. I got to hug my children and watch them play and to put them to bed with full bellies, clean pajamas, and warm blankets. My day wasn’t perfect. But it was more than I deserved. And it was more than enough.

Way Back When: The Journey Through Infertility

Although I haven’t been blogging for long, I have always loved writing. One of the reasons I wanted to start this blog was to have a place to collect the things I write about, past, present, and future. With that in mind, I’m going to share some of the essays that I wrote before I started this blog.

This one is about infertility and loss. Some people may think it’s too personal of an essay to share, but I would quietly disagree. Too many people are affected by infertility, pregnancy loss, and just loss in general. And yet we talk about it too little.

I wrote this essay way back in 2004, right after I lost my mom and less than a year before we adopted Joseph. Although it was not a hard decision for us to choose to adopt (I had always dreamed of adopting at least one of my children and Anders and both thought it silly to waste time and emotional energy on treatment for infertility when there were so many children who needed homes), it *was* extraordinarily hard to come to terms with the fact that I might not also get to carry and give birth to a child.

I know now that things unfolded exactly as they were meant to. I wouldn’t change a thing, even if it meant experiencing every single broken heart all over again. Without a doubt, this is the family I was meant to have and it brings tears to my eyes to envision a world without my Joseph in it. And yet. The grief I experienced way back then was real, and grueling, and pervasive. To ignore or deny that would be to discredit the pain of all those who continue to struggle on their journey to parenthood. With that in mind, here’s what I had to say back then:

I have read the impact of infertility can be compared to losing a loved one. When I first read this, I thought it was a hyperbole; that infertility could never bring as much pain as losing someone you love with all your heart. I was wrong. I know, because in the past year, I lost my 53 year old mom to cancer and, in the same year, have realized that my dreams of conceiving a child will likely never be realized.

To those who have never experienced the emotions of infertility, it may be hard to see the comparison. It became crystal clear to me one night as I was sitting at a football game, surrounded by a new mom and an expectant mom. The game was spent reveling in the miracle of childbirth, chatting about where the best place to give birth might be, comparing the best buys for strollers and baby gates.

To many, this may not seem like a hard situation. For me, it was tough.

I was at the beginning of a new treatment cycle, and was still working through the fact that my last attempt to conceive a child, like the thirty before it, had not worked. With only one treatment cycle to go before we officially stopped trying to conceive, I was in mourning. Mourning for the little baby that I had always dreamed of growing inside me. Mourning for the infant that would have had my husband's eyes and my nose. Mourning the feeling of a tiny newborn, one that I had helped create, sleeping in my arms.

If it is still hard to imagine how difficult this situation might be, maybe I can compare it to losing my mom. Except, instead of the huge outpouring of love and support I got when I lost my mom, imagine if nobody acknowledged her death. Imagine that every day was Mother's Day, and everywhere I turned, someone was talking about what he was going to buy his mom. Imagine that I was sitting at that football game, a few days after my mom died, and my two friends spent the entire game talking about their moms; what they were going to do with their moms the next day, how much joy their moms brought to their life, how they couldn't imagine their lives without their moms. Tough situation, right? That's what infertility is like.

When I lost my mom, I couldn't imagine how life could go on. I had so many dreams for our future together. My mom taught me everything I know about life, and I needed her desperately for all I had yet to learn. As time passes, I am slowly learning that life does go on; that there is happiness here. It's not a bad life...it’s just a different one than I had imagined.

Grieving a loved one is a process of sorting through all your hopes for the future, and slowly untangling that person from those dreams. In the same way, experiencing infertility requires a slow release of the dreams that you had of conceiving, carrying, and giving birth to a child. It doesn't mean you can't have a child. It just means that you may have to untangle your hopes of conceiving from your dreams of being a parent.

As my husband and I let go of our plans to conceive a child, we are pulled in the direction of adoption. I can't help but feel that my son or daughter is out there, waiting patiently for us to help him or her find the way home.

Infertility *is* losing someone you love. I have loved my unborn biological child for as long as I can remember. It is heart-breaking that I will never get to meet her. But mourning also requires moving past the "should be" and learning to live in "what is". Should I get to have my mom as my guide for many more years to come? Yes. Should she have gotten to meet her grandchildren? Absolutely. Should I be able to experience the wonder of a child growing inside of me? You bet. But there is no "should be". Grieving is a process of letting go of the "should bes" to make room for what is.

There are good things here, too. I am a much stronger person than I was a year ago. I have learned the value of my amazing husband, my beautiful friends, and my supportive family. I see with amazing clarity how precious life truly is. I have very little fear left, for the things I feared the most are coming true, and I am still standing. My compassion for those who are suffering has deepened, and I am no longer afraid to comfort them. I have patience for the small trials we go through each day, because I know how hard life can be. I can see God's fingerprints everywhere. I have met many angels in my journey, most them disguised as people here on earth. I am grateful for the truths that have been revealed to me.


Yet, through it all, I grieve.

"There will come a time when you believe everything is finished. That will be the beginning."

-- Louis L'Amour