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.)
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| 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.)
