Adoption Awareness: Meet Jill

I've been excited all month to introduce you to Jill.  I've followed her blog for something like a year now, and emailed her back and forth on occasion--enough to know she's the real deal.  Personally, I think Jill is amazing, but part of her amazing-ness is that she'd never say that herself.  I have a huge amount of respect for anyone who is able to be a positive voice in the world, but when that positive voice is connected Herculean amounts of personal sacrifice and strength, I sit up and take notice...  And that is exactly what happened the first time I read Jill's blog.  

When it comes to adoption, I sometimes think I've seen it all.  I've been connected to the adoption world in one form or another for 15 years.  In addition to being an adoptive parent, I've worked in adoptions with adoptive parents, with birth parents, and with adoptees.  I've worked with all kinds of families and individuals in all kinds of circumstances.  I've worked with legal and adoption professionals creating international adoption legislation, and with government bodies protecting the rights of birth parents and adoptees.  But instead of feeling like I've seen it all, adoption teaches me that each story is as personal as the lives that are touched by adoption.

Such is the case with Jill.  Her story is what it is (amazing!) because it is real.  It is my privilege to introduce you to Jill and Roo, (Roo is Jill's blog name for her beautiful baby).  Also, be sure to check out a link at the end of the post to another Adoption Awareness Month post by Jill on a different blog, and a link to Jill's own blog.)

Jill

My name is Jill. I’ve had people ask me, “What’s Jill short for?” And

I usually tell them, “Well, her mother’s not very tall, either.”

Telling people about myself used to be fairly straightforward – my

name, my age, my education and employment status. When I was forced

into a getting-to-know-you situation, often at church or in school, I

had a hard time coming up with interesting things to say about myself.

I had lived a distinctly unexceptional life. Now, I am a birth mother,

by definition exceptional. One percent of unplanned pregnancies result

in an adoption. I know all kinds of statistics like that now. I didn’t

used to.

It seems incredible to me that only four years ago, adoption was

something I only ever thought about in the context of highways and zoo

animals. I knew that my mother had been adopted, but it was a

non-issue. If I happened to be thinking about a disease with a genetic

element, I’d remember that I don’t share any DNA with my mom’s family.

But I can’t say I ever spent a lot of time thinking about that kind of

thing. I’m happy to report that I don’t often have occasion to

consider genetic diseases.

Today, adoption is as much a part of me as my curly hair or my

right-handedness. It’s not the first thing I think about when I wake

up or the last thing I think about before I fall asleep at night. But

not a day passes where I don’t think about Roo and, by extension,

adoption.

Adoption has changed my life. I feel stupid saying something so

obvious, but it’s true. For openers, I used to be a mother, and now

I’m not. Even if I still was, I would be different, because having a

baby changes you and who you are. It’s a good change, but it’s

permanent. Having a baby, and then placing that baby, changes your

life even more. I knew that it would, and that scared me. But I still

chose to place, because adoption wasn’t about me. It was about my

little Roo and what was best for her.

I expected to be changed in the obvious ways – going from motherhood

to childlessness is a heck of a shift. I expected that I would grieve

and hurt. But I didn’t expect all the little things that birth

motherhood would change. There are a lot of little things I never

thought about before. I want to mention just a few of them today.

I’d always had a good answer when people asked me about work or

school. After I placed Roo, I had a year of unemployment I couldn’t

really explain without getting into the whole unplanned pregnancy

thing, which isn’t something you want to do in a job interview, for

instance. In an interview, I could say, “I wasn’t actively seeking

employment,” but that doesn’t fly in a social setting. People want to

know why. Sometimes I used the economy as an excuse, and I’d tell

people I just couldn’t find a job. I thought that they didn’t need to

know that I couldn’t find a job because I wasn’t looking for one.

Any time I go to urgent care (which doesn’t happen too often), I have

to fill out a form, and one of the questions asks if I’ve ever had

surgery. My most recent surgery was a c-section. Nurses see that and

ask about my baby. I can tell them she’s darling and clever and happy,

but it feels deceitful to let them think she’s mine. At the same time,

it doesn't feel right to tell every health-care professional I ever

meet that I placed a child for adoption.

Here’s something stupid I didn’t think about: baby weight. When you’re

pushing a stroller through the grocery store, people smile at you.

Your belly fat isn’t an issue. No baby? You get looks of disgust –

you’re part of the nation’s obesity crisis. I’ve been fat before. It

wasn’t a picnic, but I got used to stares and comments. I didn’t know

how much it would hurt to be judged for my weight when I had a good

reason for being fat. I wanted to tell rude people, “Please don’t be

mean to me. I had a baby, and I placed her for adoption and I miss her

so much.” That fat was, to me, proof that I’d grown and delivered a

baby.

Now that I’m firmly entrenched in my late twenties, one of the

getting-to-know-you questions I get is, “Do you have any kids?” The

first few times I was asked that after placement, it took me a moment

to ready an answer, and people always looked concerned that I didn’t

seem to know whether or not I’m a mother. Last year I heard a birth

mom say she answers with, “None of my own,” and I liked that answer so

I’ve been using it. But even though I have a response ready, the

question needles me a little. I’d imagine it’s more than a little

needling for couples with fertility problems as well.

That’s another thing – infertility. I don’t think I EVER gave it a

thought before I started looking into adoption. If I ever heard of an

infertile couple, I thought, “Oh, that’s too bad,” and moved on. When

I met Roo’s parents, infertility broke my heart. I love them so much,

and they are such amazing parents. I have cried more than a few times

thinking about their path to parenthood. Now when I hear about a

couple with fertility problems, it means something to me. I ache for

them a little. And instead of thinking that they should just adopt, I

think, I hope they’re open to adoption, and that they’re blessed by

it.

I think about other people more than I used to, and I think about Roo

most of all. When I found out I was pregnant, I had to shift my frame

of mind. My decisions didn’t just affect me. I had my baby to think

about as well. I suppose some part of me assumed that after placement,

I could go back to being selfish and making decisions based solely on

me. I’ve found that’s not true. Maybe if I loved Roo a little less I

could be selfish. But I still love her as much as any mother loves her

child, even if she isn’t precisely my child. It’s hard to be selfish.

I’m not saying that I don’t still stay up too late sometimes, or spend

too much time playing Angry Birds, or buy iTunes cards instead

groceries on occasion (there is food in my house, Mom, I promise). I

am plenty selfish when it suits me. But when I have important

decisions to make, I still think, how will this affect Roo? I’m not

her mother, but I did contribute half of her DNA, and she knows who I

am, and I have no reason to believe that’s going to stop when she gets

older. So when it comes to the big things, I think of my little girl.

I want her to be proud of me. I want to be someone she can look up to.

I want her to be grateful for that DNA instead of seeing it as a

burden to overcome.

My DNA isn’t something I ever thought too much about, either. But when

I wrote down my health history for Roo’s parents I thought, my gosh,

I’m a walking time bomb. Suddenly, it seemed like every bad thing in

the world ran in my family, and I wished I’d spent more time thinking

about genetic diseases. My list for Roo’s parents went through several

drafts, and one of them had the title, “Things I need to apologize

for.” If Roo gets a sniffle, or a bruise, or a scratch, I feel guilty

for not having grown her a better body. It’s ridiculous, because she’s

an exceptionally healthy little girl. I once thought that after

placement, any guilt could be left to Roo’s parents. But my guilt

never went away.

Neither did my love. It’s a strange thing, to feel a mother’s love for

a little person who isn’t mine. It’s strange, but also incredible. How

lucky is Roo that there are two women in the world with a mother’s

love for her? She will never, ever want for love. But that’s not a

surprise to me. I might not have expected a lot of what’s happened

since placement, but I’ve never once doubted that my little Roo will

be loved deeply and forever by her mom and dad.

Adoption has changed Roo’s life, too. And I am eternally grateful.

Jill was also featured recently on Chicago Now on their Adoption Awareness Month series in a post titled, "I Drove Home Without Her."  Read it.  Really.  Go...  Go now!  It's an amazing story.  

Also, check out Jill's own blog, The Happiest Sad, here.  (You can also access it anytime from Jill's button on the sidebar of my own blog.)