My friend Nate - well, my now friend, formerly my teacher, then my director and now my friend said to me that I was a “born stage manager.” He said that after seeing me organize and take care of a group of actors and friends while stage-managing RENT. I was the one that people were able to come to if they needed anything. Half the time, I had what they needed in my purse, which is now referred to as my magic Mary Poppins carpetbag. If someone was not feeling well I checked on them, and I randomly asked people if they were well or needed anything. I also nagged. A lot.
The thing is that every time Nate says to me, “You’re a born stage manager” my mind says, “No, I was a born mother.” It makes me a little sad. I don’t know why, so I have been thinking on it. I decided yesterday that the best description would be that I have unrequited mothers instinct.
I know I was raised to be a mother. I always expected to be a mother. At twenty-two, I had baby fever. I was working in an OB/GYN/Pediatrician’s office, and the pregnant women came in and the newborns came in: I wanted a baby.
A baby!
Babies are so sweet and tiny and helpless.
A baby!
Then it hit me: We don’t have babies, we have people, and these people grow up. They become annoying and unruly. They make their own decisions and create their own life. They become mothers and fathers, doctors, teachers and store clerks. Or they become criminals, thieves, rapists, and murders. It sounds ridiculous that I had never thought of having children in this way, but I hadn’t.
On the verge of a panic attack brought on by this realization, I called my Mother. She laughed when she realized I was just coming to terms with this fact of life. She talked me down and told me that I have plenty of time to deal with all of it. Right then and there, I decided I needed a lot of time to toy with the idea of becoming a parent. I did not want to sign up for that any time soon, if ever.
Then I fell down my first set of stairs. At twenty-three years old, I started dealing with physical limitations, and they carry on to this very day. I have a hard time lifting things and standing for any length. There are times when a simple sneeze will throw my back out. I am flat for days or weeks in the aftermath of such a sneeze.
Kids don’t go on pause when Mommy can’t walk.
Now, at thirty-four, I find myself going back to the pregnant me of eighteen. Very early on in my pregnancy (it might have even been the moment there were two lines on the first of nine pregnancy tests), I knew I was going to place this baby for adoption. As a mother, you want to give your child the best life you can. I knew the way to do that would be to give him a mother and a father: a stable home, a happy marriage, security.
I loved being pregnant. I loved feeling him kick and do somersaults. I would lie in bed at night and not sleep. I wouldn’t let him sleep, either; I would give him a shove and make him be awake with me, and I would talk to him. I told him all the things that he needed to know about me, all the things I wanted him to have in his life. I would ask him every night if I made the right choice. Every day, I asked myself, my child, and God. I made the decision to place him for adoption every day.
The process of choosing his family was easy. There were six families in the first packet, but none were right. In the second, there was no connection. The third included a doctor and a lawyer - nope.
Then, the sixth.
I read it one time and never considered anyone else for him. David and Delaina. They were meant to be a family.
I wanted to be there the moment the couple found out they were having a baby, so my social worker let me talk on speaker phone when he placed the call. I got to share that with them. Such an indescribable blessing to be able to create a family. My mom and I actually got to meet them, too. Honestly, I do not remember much; it was hugs and smiles as well as awkward and scary.
My mom and sister were there when I gave birth. It was childbirth, and I remember everything: there is way too much to type here, trust me. When he was cleaned up, swaddled, and placed on my chest, my mom and I looked at him and then at each other. We both said, “He looks like Dave.”
Meant to be.
The days after he was born were the hardest days in my life, and probably my mother’s, as well. I wanted him. I didn’t want to sign the papers. No. He was my son, I loved him, and that is enough. Isn’t it?
It isn’t.
It took me four days to finally sign the adoption papers. My brothers flew in, my sisters were there, and my mom needed them because she wanted to keep him, too. She knew if she gave me the slightest inkling that she wanted him, I wouldn’t sign. So she called in backup. We were selfish, we wanted to have that beautiful soul for ourselves. In the end, I made the right decision; it was meant to be, I had made a family.
Life goes on. I moved forward. To try and count the tears and describe the wrenching in my heart would be impossible. I was tethered to my son, but life goes on and that tether stretches thinner and thinner. Now as we move closer to his eighteenth birthday, when he could possibly choose to meet me, the tether is contracting again. I am a mother. I will always be a mother. I am not a mom.
What do I do with those unrequited maternal instincts? I take care of those around me. I make sure people have what they need and feel well. I love my cats. I nag Derek. I take care of him, too. I get sad. I get relieved when I see a mom changing a poopy diaper on the floor of a mini van in the Target parking lot. I talk about it.
People have told me that I could do it. Derek would be there, and I know he would be a great Dad. It could work out. However, parenthood is not a dress rehearsal or a new outfit. I can’t return it if it isn’t working out well at all. If, eventually, I cannot bend over to pick up a baby, or toddler, or five year old, how am I to be a mother? Or what if the day comes when I can’t walk at all? What would we do then? I would lay on the couch and still have unrequited maternal instincts, except now I have a very unhappy child in the house as well.
