I’ve been thinking a lot about loss lately.  What that means, in so many aspects of everyday life.  What it means on a grander scale.  Loss is something we all experience and have an intimate relationship with.  We each deal with it differently, as individuals, as cultures, societies, but there is not a single person that has not been touched by loss on some level.  And the spread of those levels is amazing – to some, the experience of loss is so minimal that it is not even considered; to others, it is so great that it is felt at a catastrophic level, wrenching breath from body.

I consider myself to be a somewhat logical, stable person.  Yeah, my mood can occasionally swing faster and harder than Barry Bonds on the ‘roids, but overall, I think I present myself as a pretty functional member of society.   One of the manifestations of my particular brand of depression is my ability to imagine loss – to mourn the imaginary.  A movie in which a family member dies has me in tears over the inevitable death of my own parents.  A song presents that truth that one day Tim and I will be separated similarly, and I can’t decide which would be worse, to die first, or to be left living without him, and I find myself a blubbering mess.  It’s almost comical, really, the ways in which I let myself lose control, let my imagination go crazy, and the emotionally-wrought  Becky that follows.  It doesn’t happen often, thankfully, but it almost always surprises and embarrasses me.  As if there aren’t much larger issues in the world to spend one’s emotions on.  Alas.

We took our baby girl to the pediatrician last week for her four-month checkup.  (It’s hard to believe it’s been four months already, and yet, it’s equally hard to believe we ever existed without this joyous being in our life.)  When the doctor mentioned that we could start feeding her cereal, it was like a hand reaching in and squeezing my heart.  No, we cannot start feeding her food.  To do that means admitting that the wonderful place we are at with breastfeeding will someday come to an end.  And soon!  And those half dozen times a day that I share with my bug – nurturing her in a way that only I can, as she looks up at me with those big blue eyes – would be one step closer to ending.  I refuse to transition into having a baby who eats!  And as I’ve come back to this over the last few days, I’ve slowly been coming to terms with the fact that this is what parenthood is.  It is loss.  Continual loss.  Of who that little person is right now.  Of who she was yesterday.  But it is also discovery.  Of who she will be tomorrow.  Of watching her come into her own, watching her realize she is her own being, developing and growing into what that means.  And these realizations are helping me remember to be present with her every day, every hour, every smile and giggle and wiggle, to enjoy her for who she is, and be okay with the loss of who she was yesterday.  I still don’t have any intention of starting her on food yet, we’ve got time, but I know it’s coming.  And knowing that is helping me put loss into perspective, and helping me understand that letting go, slowly, is also what parenthood is.

I, like many others out there, am my own worst critic.  This isn’t news to the 5 of you who read this and know me.  I can tear myself down quicker than a child ripping open a present on Christmas morning.  I defend this as a way to build myself up – I can be brutally honest with myself, and then figure out what needs to change or happen, what my next steps might be.  Most observers just see it as uncomfortable and overly-harsh.  And, as I’m sure more than a few of you could point out, I am often critical, with no follow-through, no next steps.  Just self-deprecation.

I bring this all up because lately I have been feeling a lack of self.  A loss of who I am, or at least, once was.  I used to be an artist, I used to be driven and engaged and creative and funky.  I used to have style, albeit a little strange.  I felt like all of my pieces fit together correctly.  Which is funny, because I don’t feel like I’ve ever felt that way, but looking back, it seems that that is who Becky of 5  or 8 years ago was.  So what changed?  I’m not sure.  Was it getting a desk job?  Turning away from the world of an artist?  That may have been a step towards this, whatever this is.  This feeling of not fitting in my own skin.

Another big change is Calliope.  73 days ago, I gave birth to a baby girl.  The most beautiful baby girl.  She is incredible and I love her more than I can even imagine putting into words.  And I had 9 months to prepare for this life change, of becoming a mother.  But I never thought about what it would mean to be a mother to a girl.  I suddenly realize what a task it could be, to raise a girl in this society, to teach her that being skinny, being blond, being all those things that the media tells us we need to be is just not so.  That beauty can be defined and imagined in countless ways.  That self-worth comes from within, not from what anyone else ever says.  These thoughts, these weighty thoughts swirl around my head as I tell her how beautiful she is, as I kiss her cheeks and pinch at her chubby little thighs.  And I realize that to be that momma, to be the momma who can instill confidence and worth, I need to feel those things about myself.  I need to work out whatever this feeling of lack is, and change it, turn it on it’s head.  I need to teach by example.  And never in my life has something seemed so important.  I want nothing more than for my daughter to grow up healthy, in every sense of the word, of knowing full well that she is worth any dream she could possibly imagine.  To never limit herself.  And so, I need to understand that about myself.  To stop limiting myself.  To get off my lazy ass and start, whatever that entails.

And today, I did.  I took a first step.  A small step, but one forward, which is the only way to go.  Today I took her shopping.  Not at a big box store, not at the mall, where all the trends are set, where a season is defined by what’s “hot”.  No, we went to a thrift store.  I picked out a few random pieces of clothing, she helped me decide which seemed right for me, and then we were done.  My whole life I shopped at thrift stores.  Going to one was a special time for my mum and I, and I grew up loving them.  But somewhere in the last 5 years I lost that desire to go hunting for finds.  I’ve been taking the easy way out, letting the shiny store windows tell me what to wear.  But no more.  This love of thrift stores is something I want to pass down to my daughter, and it started today.

A new show debuted on ABC last week – Find My Family.  The premise, according to the show’s site, is simply “to bring families together”.   With the help of a dedicated team of researchers, hosts guide people searching for lost loved ones through the emotional journeys that will change their lives forever. On national television.  Yeah, that’s appropriate.  Is there nowhere that reality television will stop, no line at which producers will stop short and say “Hmm, maybe this isn’t really fitting for a national audience”?

Commercials have promoted searching for birth parents as well as long lost siblings.  I can’t speak to long lost siblings, but I do know that the search and potential reunion between a child and birth parent is an extremely loaded and emotional journey.  It is a series of months or even years filled with hope and then disappointment, dreams and then nightmares, questions, histories, hugs, tears, fulfillment, and insecurities.  To simplify this search into an hour long program, to belittle the journey, to bottle it into the predictable routine of 44 minutes of programming plus 16 minutes of commercials belies not only the producers lack of sympathy, but also their willingness to take advantage of someone so desperate to find answers to their questions.  It falsely glorifies this reunion, which can often be hurtful, harmful, and nothing short of life-shattering.

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I was reunited with my birth parents over ten years ago.  Which is hard to believe because my relationship with both my birth mother and birth father still feel new and raw.  We are still learning about one another, trying to figure each other out, to understand choices made, to accept personalities, to find room in our hearts and homes for this new family, to look beyond the often awkward interactions to try to see who the other really is, beyond the qualifiers of “birth mother”, “birth father”, or “birth daughter”.  Will we ever become completely comfortable with one another?  I don’t know.  I certainly hope so, but I can’t say for certain.

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I can see some positives to this show, I understand the opportunity tis might afford someone – the resources made available to participants, the time and money and expertise in seeking out lost people.  It may be their only real chance, their last chance, to find answers.  But the sacrifice you would make, to have to share your story, in cliff note version, to a judgmental audience, is not one I can wrap my head around as being “worth it”.  And you may read this and think that I am being overly judgmental, so let me leave you with this last little tidbit about the show….  After 50 minutes invested in someone’s story of loss, the reunion is held in a manmade field, with perfect lighting and weather.  There is a small hill with a path leading to the top, where a picturesque tree stands alone against the horizon.  The reunion inevitable always takes place here, under this tree.  Which, I shit you not, is called “The Family Tree”. {Groan………}

This isn’t about helping people.  This isn’t about individuals who have suffered enough.  This is about ratings.  This is about the next marketable product, and each person on the show is just that, a product.

Or: Navigating the unchartered waters of adoption, the relationships that ensue, and the lack of definition within newfound family as I create a family of my own.

One thing that has been made repeatedly apparent to me as an adoptee who has been reunited with birth families is the lack of guidance or precedent available. What exactly is the relationship you have with your birthmom? Or birthdad? Is there such a thing as being too close, too open? When are you being too aloof and distant? How do you integrate whole new sets of family into a life you’ve been living for years? How do you integrate whole new sets of family into the sets you already have? Guess what! No one can answer these questions for you. And most days, even you can’t. Unfortunately, in the past ten years since meeting my birthparents, I am often only made aware of where the boundaries are when I cross them, or don’t come near enough. Basically, when I’ve somehow upset someone, or someone has upset me, in trying to figure this tangle all out.

Girl Time
For the most part, I have been much closer with my birthmom. As a child, envisioning being reunited, I always pictured meeting her. I guess part of that was encouraged by the fact that I knew there was interest in her meeting me too, thus, no fear of rejection. And maybe part of it was playing into the fairly biased stereotype that single women who put their children up for adoption due so in part because of the father being a deadbeat who doesn’t want to be part of the picture. Whatever the reasons, I would daydream about meeting her often – what she would look like, how she would react to seeing me for the first time, would we hug, laugh, cry, etc etc. Once we met we kept in close contact, and she has been extremely generous in sharing her life and her story with me. (At times, I feel too much so, but that is a whole other post….) We’ve gotten together countless times over the years, making day trips to visit one another, traveling to a common point for a girls’ weekend, even going overseas together, sharing an amazing trip to a land new to us both. Our interests run in a very similar vein, which has made it easy to bond over common interests such as theatre, books, and a continual quest for peace within one’s self. I often introduce her to others as my godmother, because we both find that to be a fitting description of the role she plays in my life.

This past spring, though, there was a bit of a meltdown, which led to a questioning of her role in my life. A questioning on her part, I might add, not mine. And this is just one of the many (MANY) sticky areas that comes with adoption, which is unique and different for every single person. I felt that our relationship was pretty stable. We talked on the phone with some regularity, emailed, wrote, and visited whenever our lives would permit. I am, admittedly, one of those people who gets easily distracted by the life in front of them, sometimes neglecting the lives of those they love that are physically farther away, for no other reason than I don’t see them on a regular basis and fall out of habit of keeping in contact. Lame, I know. Well, this had happened some with Birthmom. And when I dropped the news on her – over the phone, I might add – that she was going to a grandma….. well, things got quiet. And awkward. And ended up with her emailing me the next day, confessing feelings of confusion as to where she fits in my life, and the life of this child. Is she part of my family? Is she her own family, that I sort of belong to? Do we just flit in and out of each other’s lives? It was a tough email to read and process. And once again, questions with no answers.

The best I could and have come up with since that time is that yes, I absolutely see her as family. But how that is defined is completely fluid and ever-changing. And is something that we both need to reevaluate with some regularity to ensure that both our needs are being met. How we (my husband and I) are going to introduce our child to her is yet to be determined. What will she want to be called? What role does she see herself playing in this little monkey’s life? I don’t know, and I don’t think she does either. But we have both come to terms with letting such decisions breathe, keeping it open and loose, and letting what feels right inform us as we go. (I know, so hippie-dippie. But really, with so much of this, it’s about feeling things out….) Only time will really tell if this is a workable solution. And if not, we’ll regroup, try to think of what comes next, and proceed with caution as we continue to redefine this relationship. This amazing, wonderful, confusing, emotional, hard, sweet relationship.

A Man’s World
My relationship with my birthdad has been much more…. scarce. (As such, this section will be much shorter, and filled with many more unanswered questions.) He’s shown some interest, as have I, but we have both been hesitant over the years, tentative in our outreach. We’ve gotten together around holidays every year or so, and always enjoy our time together, but somehow that does not lead to more frequent contact. I know that he feels unsure of how to proceed, and I do too. And I’m ok with this casual relationship we’ve developed. For the most part. Most of the time. But in the times when I wish we had more, I’m uncertain of how to make that happen, of what that next step is. It’s so much harder with men. So much harder to read. Emotions don’t play into it nearly as much, and neither do outpourings of the heart, which leaves me a little lost and unsure. Not that I need outpourings, mind you, I really don’t. But without some sort of hint or indication that he wants more also, it’s hard to determine where we stand or if we wish to stand closer, and so we continue on, keeping each other at arm’s length.

He knows I’m pregnant, and has expressed heartfelt congratulations. And sometimes I think to myself “You’re going to be a granddad”, but I know that’s not really true. He’s not, cause I don’t think he sees himself as even a dad, or birthdad. Did he father a child? Yes. Does he care for said child very much? Yes. Has he ever reached out in a way that would indicate paternal instinct? No, not really. But then again, I don’t know him that well, so this whole post might be entirely unfair. It’ll be interesting to see how he interacts with the monkey. I am trying very hard to be better about keeping in touch with people, now that it’s not just me, but my family, and he is one of the people I am most hopeful about furthering our bond. As for what his role is? I could only guess at how he might answer that. I think he could only guess at an answer. And that’s ok. For the most part. Most of the time.

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*No, I cannot help myself when it comes to a bad pun. Consider yourself warned.

So, here we are again, it’s been 2 months, and nothing. I’ve been accused of creating an orphan blog. Which I think is fairly ironic, considering that one of my main goals in starting this was to have a platform to write about adoption and families, and in doing so, try to make some sense of the multitude of family that I have due to my reconciliations with both maternal and paternal biological families.

I recently came across this blog post and found myself nodding along quite a bit. Not with all the nonprofit hub-bub, but the larger idea, about fear of failing. And thus, a lack of starting. I am notoriously guilty of this. Holy crap, am I guilty of this. My brain is always whirring with ideas, things i want to make and write and share and create. I carry a small sketchbook with me at all times to capture ideas, to scribble and visualize, etc. But I would say only 5% of any of my ideas make it into production. And that’s just sad. Pathetic, even. I have this blog set up, easy as pie, just waiting for me to give it life, to add content and thoughts, to create stories. I have no excuse for not posting more often. And ok, I have been busy, what with the gestating, but it’s not as if this hasn’t just created more ideas over the last 8 months. It has! So many ideas! Now I just need to act on them, need to stop thinking so much, and stop being afraid.

How does our identity develop? How much is of our own making, and how much is at the hands of outside forces? And is there any way to distinguish between the two? How are we each set on our path?

How do you objectively map a person? Create a ‘field guide’ to Becky or Tim or whomever? There’s the obvious mapping tools – genetics, on the purely physiological level; Myers-Briggs, as a psychological assessment; so many other small markers we are held up against throughout our lives, even growth charts, to gauge what percentile we fit into among the general public. But in what ways can we look back (and forward), take a person into consideration, and see how they got to this point, see what direction it looks likely that they will head?

This feels stupid and pedestrian, yet so strongly impacts my thought processes and how I view so many aspects of the world. How do I ask the right questions? And maybe become a little more eloquent in the process?

I wouldn’t say that my birth dad and I have a close relationship. Perhaps respectful and distant are better adjectives. We don’t talk for months, even more than a year at times. Every year on my birthday, I receive a bouquet of flowers. We’ve had some great interactions, I’ve met much of my paternal family, but we both seem to be comfortable with keeping each other at arm’s length.

I’ve recently had a new reason to reach out, to re-establish contact. That reason is the little monkey rapidly coming to full gestation in my tummy. How do you tell someone that is barely a parent that he’s going to be a grandparent? Apparently with an email and sonogram pictures…. He took it well, maintained contact, sounded happy even. Will this be a new start to this somewhat tenuous bond? I guess time will tell. And I know a little more effort could be put forth on my part. Maybe this time I’ll follow through.

So, it’s been two months. I’m really bad at this. And wanted to acknowledge it here, in public (sorta). But life! Life has been all sorts of exciting and new and crazy and tiring. And I often have a lot of trouble balancing life! and anything else. Sorry about that. I’ll try harder.

I feel as though so much of what I have written here has been very high drama. Which is funny, considering I try very hard to live my life with as little drama involved as possible. Maybe I’ve just been fooling myself all of this time. And while I wouldn’t say my story is ‘normal’, it hasn’t all been a soap opera, either. I don’t know, maybe I just like telling the parts that lend themselves to great dramatic effect. But I want to start sharing parts that are a little less so…..
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When I was a little girl, I had this wonderful storybook. I don’t remember the name, but can still envision the front cover as though it was right here in front of me. The story was about a family of rabbits who become stuck in their house after a big snowstorm. They decide to travel out and explore, and in preparing to do so, strap snowshoes onto their feet. I don’t remember much else, just the snowshoes. And from that point on, I was fascinated by the things. I already had a deep love of all things winter, but the idea that you could walk on top of the snow just blew my mind. Every winter from there on out, I would try to make my own, usually by strapping badminton rackets to my snow boots. These ventures very rarely worked. And my brother would get annoyed that I broke yet another pair of the rackets….

I told myself repeatedly over the years that I would go snowshoeing. That I would finally get out there and do this thing that I had been dreaming of for years. Well, this afternoon, I actually did. My good friend Bethany agreed to come on this adventure with me, and after driving in circles for almost two hours, we had acquired the shoes, were parked at a state park, and were ready to go. And it was lovely! I can’t claim to have been the most graceful, but the idea of walking through the woods, up hills and then down, on snow that only animals had trekked over, created a completely joyous calm deep inside of me.

I hope to get out there some more, to explore the snowy wilderness. To float on the snow. To be that bunny rabbit, leaving home after the storm.

Tomorrow is your birthday. And I was thinking maybe, just maybe, I would have the bestest gift in all the world to give you. Or maybe I was deluding myself into thinking it could even be a remote possibility. But I was having symptoms. Actual symptoms! So, of course, I broke down and tested, again. And I failed, again. And then, because I had stated not three weeks ago even that I was going to stop thinking about it, stop obsessing, just learn to accept and be calm, I hid my failure under used tissues in the trash can. I want to be calm and accepting, but I also wanted to surprise you, to give you (us) something you would never forget, to give you this fairy-tale ending (or beginning, really). Maybe next year….
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One thing I am still coming to terms with here is how much to share. I tend to be a fairly guarded person. Letting the wall down is hard, and here I am, spilling. In fairly generic yet transparent terms. You said you didn’t mind. You had no problem with me sharing, with people knowing. But the failure isn’t on your head or in your heart, it’s on me. And that’s hard.

It’s also hard to know that 90% of the readers are people we know. The anonymity of the interwebs is a beautiful thing, and it helps me get stuff off my chest and out of my brain. Writing here has been a nice outlet. But what happens when someone reads, and feigns sympathy to my face, but behind closed doors is judgmental? And ok, I’m not giving our friends very much credit (sorry everyone), but I also feel like not too many of our friends are in similar places or have a similar mindset about all of this. But maybe that’s just my insecurity coming out…

Sorry to be so dramatic. I’m going to go ahead and blame that on the clinical depression. Everything escalates to super drama in my mind, and then I get to type it out and share, for better or for worse. So, happy birthday. Sorry I’m lame.