I lack a traditional birth narrative. There are no heartwarming post-delivery images or cherished recollections of my partner gazing at me with admiration, captivated by the profound experience of childbirth. While the days we adopted our children may stand as defining moments for my partner, those occasions feel less extraordinary than the physical act of giving birth.
I often worry that in the midst of life’s chaos—especially during those moments when I lose my composure, like when I’m tackling heaps of laundry in my pajamas at 6 p.m.—my partner might see just a woman in loungewear, not the one who endured immense challenges to bring our family together. I fear that without a pivotal moment to reflect on, he may struggle to reconnect with his feelings for me amid my less glamorous days.
With no baby pictures or memories of first smiles, steps, or words, our journey has been vastly different. Our children joined us at ages 4 ½ and 5, and their past is a mix of mysteries, hardships, and trauma. When I feel my patience waning with their behavior, I can’t help but wonder if I would be more understanding if I had nurtured them during their infancy. I’ve never experienced the sleepless nights with a crying baby, and I question whether I’d handle their tantrums at age 7 better if I had cared for them as toddlers.
I lack adorable anecdotes about preparing for their arrival, decorating nurseries, or selecting names. We had only two months to prepare for our first child and a mere three weeks for the second. Given the uncertainty surrounding their early years, we’ve rewritten their stories. I often say, “If I had carried you, I would have sung lullabies every night.” We rock them to sleep now, imagining the moments we missed, whispering about how we would have kissed their tiny cheeks.
Therapists often suggest that these narratives can be healing, but I find no solace, nor do I believe my children do. I scan their faces, searching for any hint of the sadness I feel, as they grapple with a sense of loss that many have never known, despite the love and stability we provide.
While I may not have a birth story, I have much to be thankful for. I have a supportive partner who stood by me through the waves of grief from infertility. My two children have imparted more lessons about resilience and compassion than I could have imagined. My journey into motherhood and my capacity to love children not birthed from me connect me to women facing infertility, parents seeking to share their love with foster children, and couples who are patiently awaiting adoption placements.
I recognize my blessings and understand I should express gratitude. I could neatly package this reflection with a bow and a hashtag, but I can’t shake the longing for a more conventional family narrative. If you find yourself in a similar space—grateful yet yearning for something you may never attain—you are not alone. Perhaps together we can navigate this complex emotional landscape.
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Summary: This piece reflects on the absence of a traditional birth story in the context of adoption and the complexities that come with it. While the author grapples with feelings of loss and longing for a more typical family narrative, they also acknowledge the love and resilience fostered through their unique journey.