Shut Up with Your Politics…

It grates on a very tender nerve to hear people talk so assuredly about the wrongs of abortion. Often those same people speak with the same glazed-over assurance that adoption is the most amazing thing imaginable.

Shut up.

I’ve said before that I’d always make the choice of life for myself. I’ve never had an abortion and previously couldn’t fathom the mental abuse I’d suffer through my own inner workings to go through with it. But there’s no way in hell I think that I can assume every sexually active woman on the planet to be capable of going through adoption, abortion, nor motherhood. No, abstinence will not catch on with religious extremists as the voice of that option. Who has the insight on every human being’s psyche, upbringing, and ability to ever stick their neck out to make such a pompous and arrogant assertion of what they should/shouldn’t do in various situations.

Before reading a word I had to say in prior blogs, I’m sure some soul thought little of the aftermath for birthmothers. They probably thought little beyond their own ill-informed opinion and what the adoption industry (yes, wrap you noodle around the idea of an industry of babies and paying parents-to-be) has painted as the most glorious process next to planned births. I’m not out to paint adoption as a bad thing. SO many birthmoms have had extraordinary experiences and either enjoy their open interactions with their child or have moved on after a closed adoption. But there are a lot that don’t. Then there’s the consideration of how adoptees cope with it. There are many factors that play into the process that have jack squat to do with what your favorite public figure has to say on the subject.

If you’ve never been there, or only have a piece of a story to base your opinion off of….just hush with your very loud and very assured sounding politically fueled opinions of a situation that people deal with in innumerable ways. Not knowing how a woman may impact that child by raising it, or how a new family is suited for dealing with adoptee emotion, or what the overall social impact of that child’s rearing on others they encounter in the unsupervised parts of their life. “Perfect” parents have raised perfect monsters. Shut up with the assured political babble.

Finalization

It’s getting close to Christmas, New Years, and Max’s adoption finalization.

A new family is celebrating their first Christmas with their first child. There will be photos filled with his big brown eyes and chubby cheeked smiles. He’ll have toys coming out of his ears.

I’m wondering what it would have been like to have him propped in my lap as his sister and brother bounced around the living room opening gifts and “helping” him open his.  I’m smiling and nodding through my daughter’s upbeat speculation on what baby boy will be getting from Santa.

Constant bittersweetness is….nauseating. It’s a constant balancing act of wonderful pluses and sorrowful minuses. I happen to have a personality that resents repetition, so this repeated adjusting on perspective of this entire situation is wearing on my being.

The regret and grieving comes and goes. The joy and relief does, too.

Again, I find myself letting my inner circle of friends know that one thing that isn’t advertised about adoption that very much should be is the constant hurt and healing. As much as I harp on those negative feelings, they are getting more manageable. It’s just tough having them repeatedly. It’s a fight I wasn’t fully aware I was going to be warring this way.

And as the season of togetherness and family settles in, it’s a different kind of poison on my heart. To see how tall and beautiful my daughter has gotten this year. Seeing my oldest son has  grown unimaginably handsome. The progress I’ve seen my eldest children take has made it hard to realize that I will only see such change in Max through distant snapshots of his life as it’s already passed.

I try really hard not to overanalyze and not to be exceedingly critical. My eyes zoom in on cute shots and see ill fitting car seat restraints and car keys lying too close to his eager little hands. Things that are probably circumstantial, but as any mom knows can become problematic in an instant…and who am I, now, to say anything? It’s so hard not knowing what is while IT IS. It’s always going to be in past tense for me.

I love him more each month that passes. I wish the best for him more and more each day. And each day he’s closer to [legally] being the child of another mother and father. This six month period after relinquishment is one where you feel the tugs of “your baby” being lessened as “their baby” begins tolling like church bells in your head.