Adoption is not for the faint of heart. So in a weird way, I’m grateful for infertility for busting my ass. Don’t get me wrong, I’d undo the whole f*** thing if I could, but it taught me something. It taught me that I had only had one shot at this life and I had to work like a sumamabitch to find happiness. Before things fell apart, I was pretty arrogant. Not in an obnoxious, unconscious way, but in the way that I just assumed that I would get anything I wanted just cause I was I could will it to happen. I know, so very anti-THE SECRET of me. So bad Buddhist of me. I had a real envy of “those” people who had everything I didn’t.
When I finally got around to loosening my white knuckled grip on what I thought I should have had, life became a bit easier. I didn’t “let go”, I didn’t “give up my dream”, I just made the decision that I was going to keep breathing no matter what happened. I came to the conclusion that some things I could not control. I’m not going to pretend that my life would have been better or worse, it was just going to be different. We hung in there five more minutes so to speak and brought home a beautiful little boy. We just celebrated his 2nd birthday. I threw a little party for him at a local community centre. I know he doesn’t care about presents or parties, but I was so happy to do it. I enjoyed seeing the little kids with balloons tied to their tiny chairs, I enjoyed singing happy birthday and delivering cupcakes. I enjoyed seeing him jump up and down in the bouncy castle. His grandparents bought him a blue push car and he was so excited when it was all put together and he could get in and beep the horn. It was a wonderful weekend. Full of shrieks of laughter and tears of exhaustion and blue iced cupcakes. I left the play gym to get something and the Precious cried out running and I picked him up. And here I thought, he was too busy to even notice I had left. He wanted his mummy. This time, his separation anxiety wasn’t annoying or inconvenient, it was gratifying. To be missed.
I’d imagine these silly little things for so long, you know, when I was in 2ww waits, my belly aching with swollen ovaries. Walking in the forest talking to my imagined babies to be, treading as carefully as possible, thinking positive thoughts. I thought of names and designed nurseries. I had imagined a lifetime of milestones with every embryo transferred. So, like my mother before me, I’m going to celebrate every birthday of the Precious’ life til he leaves home.
Still, I wasn’t actually there for his birth into this world. I know who was though. I got an email from his birthmother a couple days before the actual day. It was quite lovely actually, but there was that bittersweetness present. But I was planning a party. I got to see his face when I gave him a mylar balloon – so overjoyed at that simple thing. If that had been the only gift, he would have been delighted with just that. He just wanted us – and the balloon. So I was happy and I felt gratitude, but someone else was hurting.
I need to clarify that I’m not upset, I’m just saying that that’s the way it is. There are so many different circumstances, but adoptive parents carry gratitude that they were fortunate enough to become parents because someone else relinquished the right to raise a child they gave birth to. Or even perhaps there was no parent alive. I read on someone’s post that adoptive parents have all the power, yet there is also a great responsibility. I know my son didn’t just appear out of the ether, he came from somewhere and I know that one day, maybe even sooner that I think, we’re going to have some explaining to do. Words have to be chosen carefully. This is why I say adoption is not for the faint of heart. We carry the story of the beginning of their lives like a hidden gem. I read him a story telling him that the night he was born the polar bears danced. Not true, but what do I know. There was another road his life could have taken, an alternate life.
It’s not for me to say whether it would have been better or worse. Just different.