I can think of a few off the top of my head.

• The picture of me first holding the Munchkin.
• There’s a shot of Munchkin and my husband (then fiance) at our first visit that sits in a special place in my heart.
• A group picture of me with my friends, including D, at my baby shower (for my oldest son) in which we are both pregnant.
• A picture of the Munchkin with her hands on my pregnant belly.
• Munchkin and my oldest son meeting for the first time. They’re both SCREAMING their heads off. Kids.
• A picture of Munchkin and I sitting in the grass playing one visit near Easter.
• The Easter Bunny  picture. Oh, that’s a funny one.
• An early morning picture take in the Poconos.
• Speaking of the Poconos, the picture of the Munchkin pulling my son on a sled is way up on the list.
• Probably all of the pictures I took of us at D & M’s wedding.

Those are (mostly) in chronological order.

I don’t know. It’s hard to pick a favorite. Maybe I’ll just go with the sled picture.

Why? I mean, I can’t even see the Munchkin’s face. It’s not a particularly amazing composition. It’s just a random action shot in a series of shots. Right?

Do you see my oldest son’s face? Other than those munchable cheeks, do you see that smile? Do you see his eyes, lit up with the glee of a little brother adoring his older sister? Do you see my only daughter bonding with one of her many brothers? Do you realize that is something that, according to the rest of the world including the agency through whom I placed, thinks shouldn’t have happened or, perhaps, couldn’t have ever happened?

This picture epitomizes why I work so hard in this open adoption. It’s as much for the Munchkin as it is for my sons. My sons have a right to know and love and be known by and be loved by their older, only sister. The Munchkin has a right to know and love and be known by and be loved by two more of her brothers. They have a right to bicker, pick on each other and generally not get along as siblings do. They have a right to hug, love on, cuddle and laugh together. I will do anything and everything with my ethical, boundary-respecting power to make sure that smiles like my older son’s in the above shown picture keep happening, to make sure that my daughter has moments like these to store up.

And, of course, I benefit in the fact that my heart swells to three times it size every time my children are all in the same room. Or, in cases like this one, general space.

That’s right. I had to mention adoption during an interview for a job.

How is this my life? How has adoption woven itself into absolutely every aspect of my life? Where is my breathing room? My space? My right to privacy? Of course, I say this all slightly tongue in cheek. For various reasons all of these questions come back to me and the choices I have made.

Adoption has woven itself into absolutely every aspect of my life because the act of relinquishing a child changes everything about a birth parent’s life, present tense and future. In fact, one could argue that the act of relinquishing also shades the past, not necessarily changing it but changing the view of it. My future was permanently changed by placing the Munchkin for adoption. In some ways that’s an obvious statement. I’m not parenting my daughter. In some ways, the changes were hidden and are only discovered with each step I take forward in this life. (Such as having to talk about adoption in a job interview. What?) I can’t get away from adoption. Nor do I want to exactly. My daughter is a huge part of me, of my heart. Her story, our story together, has shaped me in so many ways. From my journey toward peace (which was necessary even before placement, some might argue) to the decisions I have made post-placement. Adoption has shaped me, for better and worse.

As far as my privacy, most bloggers understand. I chose to share my story. I chose to write about it. I chose to put myself out there, even when the trolls came knocking. Even when people got jealous and lashed out even though they were just angry about their own circumstances. Even when I wanted to hole up within myself and ignore everything going on in my life. I’ve lived this journey in a very public manner. I don’t always talk about every aspect as some parts of the story are not mine, specifically, to tell. (You don’t need to know why Munchkin’s parents adopted. You just need to know how that made me feel (which I promise to address eventually), that my daughter is well loved and that D is happier than I’ve ever seen her.) But I talk about many things. I enjoy it. It is a form of therapy for me. And the continuous feedback that I’m helping people realize that while open adoption can be great, it’s not an easy road. It’s not always the answer. It has some ethical concerns. And it needs reformed just like every other aspect of the adoption industry. I like being part of that even if my own privacy is compromised at times.

And so, of course, I’m sure the managing editor at the newspaper was thinking, “What the heck is she writing for AdoptionBlogs for,” as he wrote down the URL. I’m sure he went to the site later, read it and thought, … well, who knows what he thought. Perhaps he has no connection to adoption. Maybe he believed a stereotype or two about the type of mother who “gives away” her baby and maybe I shattered some of that just by being who I am. Maybe he’s an adoptee. Maybe he’s an adoptive parents. Maybe he’s a birth parent. I don’t know. All I know is that when I took the job at the news station in 2004, I didn’t tell anyone about my daughter until after I left the station.

Not this time.

I’ve worked through my guilt, my shame. Sure, those things still hang around and pop up from time to time but I don’t feel dirty telling new people that I have a daughter whom I love dearly who is being raised by adoptive parents that I chose for her. I don’t launch into divorce issues or my journey or any drama… unless prompted. But the truth is that she’s a part of my life. If this job sticks around, someone from work will meet my daughter. Someone from work will see her picture on my desk or in my house. Someone from work will ask. And I will tell.

And life will go on.

I mention the Christmas pajamas because I found a fabulous deal (though it’s still more than I like to pay for pajamas at $13.99) at JC Penney. Button up pajamas have a soft spot in my heart. They look like little old men in their button up jammies even if those same jammies have Santa Claus and reindeer. (Or, like my favorite pair of my oldest son’s button up jammies, bull frogs and bulldogs. Too fun!) I bought the boys their two pair of green Christmas jammies.

But they also had a pink pair that matched.

I really hate moments like this particular one. I was just shopping for Christmas jammies. In fact, it was on my mind because my husband works on Christmas Eve this year. We decided yesterday that he would take their Christmas Eve presents (jammies and a book) to the Fire Department with him that morning. We will stop after Christmas Eve service so that they boys can open their Christmas Eve presents with both of us. So, I was feeling all happy-snappy with our intelligent forethought and ordering the jammies this morning.

And bam! Adoption issues! In my face!

I’d really like to go shopping, online or in store, and not be reminded that I placed my only living daughter for adoption. I’d like to buy things like Christmas jammies or Halloween costumes without being reminded that there’s always something missing. Of course, I think that wish is all for naught as, really, I don’t ever stop thinking of her so why would I when doing something as simple as shopping. Right? Right.

I think all of this is in the front of my brain as of late due to the time of year. And the fact that I just turned down a potential visit. D invited us out to celebrate Halloween and JD’s birthday. Unfortunately, my husband is out of vacation days (and actually starts a new class that week). While I recently made the trip out there by myself for D’s wedding, I don’t feel particularly “up” to taking both boys by myself on the turnpike. (I loathe the Pennsylvania turnpike. I also owe them $28.00 for screwing up an EZ Pass on the previously mentioned trip.) I have no problem driving 80 by myself but the turnpike hates me as much as I hate it. Alone with two boys makes it three times as worse. Did I mention that my night vision has been deteriorating horribly? I’m a mess.

Thankfully, D understood and, as it happened, their plans changed anyway. But still, I had to send the initial, “I’m sorry, we can’t do it,” email without knowing that their plans had changed. Turning down a visit is a strange thing. I was so insanely glad to have been invited. I remember lamenting that we never had a Halloween together. I felt it keenly again this year when a catalog arrived in the mail with a little girl dressed as Dorothy on the front pulling a wagon with a Scarecrow and a Lion smiling at me on the front cover. This year, while initially intending to have them dress as firefighters, the boys are going as Buzz Lightyear and Woody. So, of course, we’re missing a Jessie. (Whereas last year they were Sebastian and Flounder and we were missing an Ariel.) It felt weird to admit my personal limitations and say no to this visit, one I have dreamed about before. It’s hard at times to find the balance of being a present birth mother and being the mother in this immediate family unit. When do I put her above my needs or my parented kids’ needs? When do I put my parented kids’ needs above her? Above my own? Where is this balance and how do I find it? These are rhetorical questions as I think I do an okay job. I’ve made mistakes over the years as have my daughter’s adoptive parents in trying to find this particular balance. I think we’re in an okay place right now, being honest about our own immediate family needs with finding a way to incorporate the need(s) for our children to interact and to be present in one another’s lives.

It’s just difficult at times to say no when you really, really want to say yes.

And so, you see, even an event as simple as finding Christmas pajamas on sale turns out to be a big trip down the self-inspection highway. I just needed two pair of matching Christmas pajamas. Suddenly I found myself doubting my decisions and so deeply missing my daughter.

And it’s not even Christmas morning yet.

1. She is an important voice, a realistic voice. Furthermore, she is a voice that shows that change is possible. Her own views changed over time, chronicled in black and white on her blog. She promotes change. She is change.

2. She helped me so much, probably without knowing it, make sense of my own adoption journey. Sure. She’s an adoptive mom. Sure. I’m a birth mom. We should be as different as night and day. But we’re not. She didn’t point fingers. She wasn’t judgmental. She encouraged me. She met me with open arms. She has been an inspiration even when the going was tough, dark and lonely. She accepted my two-liner venting emails about all that was going on and put a positive spin on things. Or vented with me. Or laughed at the audacity of it all. Without her, I don’t know where I’d be. (There are others that have had an equal hand in shaping my journey but, well, Dawn is love. The end.)

3. Dawn is awesome. If she ends up winning the overall contest, in which the prize is $1000, she is donating her winnings to Ethica. I read that and felt warm and fuzzy. Promoting change is as easy as sharing your story, honestly and openly. Promoting change is as easy as helping people learn about themselves by learning about yourself in a public forum. Promoting change doesn’t have to be big and scary. Promoting change starts here and now.

It is my opinion that Dawn’s blog embodies what the adoption blogosphere should be working toward: honestly accepting the challenges that face us and working toward ethical goals. We’ll all make mistakes along the way but we can do it.

If you believe we can do it, go vote for Dawn’s blog, This Woman’s Work, in the Best Adoption Blog contest over at The Bump. Registration is NOT required. As far as we know, you may vote more than once. Do so. Let’s have the winner of this category be the one who has worked the hardest for ethical adoption reform. It only makes sense.

(If you’re unfamiliar with Dawn’s adoption story, you’re not really reading the right blogs. But, even still, she’s paraphrased it all into a handy post for newcomers. Check it out.)

She was not intended, not expected. Her sudden, painful loss shook us both. Neither my husband nor I knew what to do with the knowledge that we had created a life we would never hold. We’d never hear her laughter. Never chase her through the leaves on a beautiful fall day. No memories other than that physical loss, the physical pain.

I read over some quotes about miscarriage today. I don’t like any of them. Nothing seems to say what I feel, how it feels to remember a child that I never held. Some people expect, since we weren’t trying to conceive and didn’t intend to get pregnant with our Rose that we didn’t love her, that we should somehow be glad that she left us so quickly. I never understood this line of thinking; I have loved all of my children from the moment I found out about their existence. How could I not? I don’t blame people for thinking this way but I always find myself being defensive. I have always loved and will always love the lot of my children, wherever they may be.

Perhaps, more than a quote, the song “I Will Remember You” works for me on days like today, days like her due date that was never reached, days like the day we found out about her and lost her all in the same quick breath.

I will remember you
Will you remember me
Don’t let your life pass you by
Weep not for the memories.

Still other people have said things like, “Well your younger son wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for that loss.” Not necessarily. We got pregnant shortly after Rose’s due date. I couldn’t bring myself to try to conceive during the nine months that should have belonged to her. On her due date, I gave it all up, weeping with fear over being ready, physically and emotionally. Was it too soon to be ready? I don’t know. I do know that I was guarded, so guarded, while I was pregnant with our youngest son. I was so afraid, for so long, that we’d lose him if I took a sideways breath or drank a cup of tea. I don’t know who would and who would not be here. I do know that we chose not to let our life pass us by. We celebrate the moments we have with our boys, with the Munchkin. But there are moments, like today, when we remember all that we lost that day, that very long week.

I still don’t know why I have experienced this particular loss. I do know that I will be thinking of my friends and family who have experienced pregnancy and infant losses on this particular day. We’ll be lighting a candle tonight for our Rose, for all of the babies who have left us far too soon.

I will remember.

“Don’t wait until everything is just right. It will never be perfect. There will always be challenges, obstacles and less than perfect conditions. So what. Get started now. With each step you take, you will grow stronger and stronger, more and more skilled, more and more self-confident and more and more successful.” -Mark Victor Hansen

I always find it interesting that when my husband and I were contemplating when to add a second child under our roof, people often told us, “There’s no perfect time.” It’s true, of course. If you wait for the perfect time to have a child or add another one to your family, you’ll be waiting forever. In fact, two months after we conceived our younger son, our older son started throwing horrible tantrums (never having done so before). We thought, “OH NO! What did we DO?!”

What’s more interesting, however, is that no one gave me that quote when I found myself unexpectedly pregnant with the Munchkin. It was, quite obviously, not the perfect time for two lines to appear on that stick. Life was hard. I was young. The father didn’t want to be involved and was quite angry with me at the time. I was scared. And then my health went down the tubes. “Not the perfect time” may be a slight understatement. It may be a huge understatement.

But no one gave me those comforting, encouraging words.

Everyone talked about giving her a better life, more than I had. I realize that these two particular situations are, to the naked eye, vastly different. With the decision to add another child to our family, my husband and I were financially secure, living in a home that we owned and, well, married. The last point is why I think people weren’t so quick to offer this bit of encouragement when I was pregnant with the Munchkin.

We can pretend we’re a civilization that embraces the single mother, one that celebrates her when she chooses to carry a pregnancy to term. But unless she has a ring on her finger, the celebration is short-lived. We still want to push it under the rug. We look away or we shoot daggers. I know we do those things. I was the recipient of nasty glares and, from others, the inability to make eye contact; eyes darting from my belly to my left ring finger and back again. Prior to finding myself wearing shoes that fit too tightly due to swollen ankles and feet, I had given those looks, avoided eye contact and generally passed the same judgment. Life is funny. I learned my lesson. Will society?

I find pleasure in telling young and not-so-young expectant mothers this quote, this bit of encouragement. There is no perfect time. You can always pull yourself up by your maternity pants and make the most of a difficult situation. It’s the truth. I wish more people were spreading that truth.

Sometimes it’s overwhelming to be inundated with these memories, these brief moments of time seen behind my eyes. I can’t begin to write them all down, though I desire to do so. Why can’t I? They come too quickly. One moment during the Munchkin’s pregnancy takes me to a memory of one of the boys which throws me back to another Munchkin memory. They merge and twist, dancing through my mind, in my heart.

I’m feeling it even more this fall. I am not with child. I will never again carry another baby in my womb. My days of pregnancy glow are over. I’m used to being pregnant, every other year, at this time. My heart thinks that I should be washing baby clothes, prepping newborn sized cloth diapers and finishing up a nursery. I’m having dreams of babies, not the ones I have already held in my arms. I see countless pregnant women and I feel a sense of sadness that I’ll never be among their ranks again. That feeling was only exacerbated by kidney spasms the other night which involved so much pain that I threw up. As I was doing so, I had a flash of morning sickness days gone by. And I cried, cursing the kidney which was causing the current pain and the reason why I’ll never throw up upon waking ever again.

I don’t feel depressed, mind you. I am very happy with this life that we’re fumbling our way through, guessing our footsteps and falling down on occasion. I could deal without severe pain, of course, but I’ll take whatever is thrown at me so I can wake up to this life. These flashes of memory remind me of what I’ve been through to make it to this point. I almost lost my life at various points. It’s a miracle any of us, myself or these amazing children that brighten my life, are here. I know I need to start chronicling more of these instead of just floating my way through them, hoarding their beauty and their sorrow for myself. I’m learning that it’s okay that those three pregnancies and the one baby that we lost have intertwined themselves together in my memory. The truth is that their stories are inseparable. I once felt that wasn’t okay, that they each needed their own specifically unique story. While they are all very unique children, so different in so many ways, they are all touched by one another. I am learning not only to accept that fact but to celebrate it.

Because, in reality, their intertwined stories make my story what it is; they have shaped and formed me more than any other single or series of events in my life. Together we make sense, even if our togetherness spans a great distance.

“Be still when you have nothing to say; when genuine passion moves you, say what you’ve got to say, and say it hot.” – D.H. Lawerence

I’m still processing the overwhelming emotional experience that was watching my daughter’s mother remarry. I assure you that the whole of it is a good process. I just can’t quite find the words to say what I’m feeling. In fact, I don’t quite yet want to find the words. I’m enjoying the quiet peace, the place of personal understanding.

You see, to put words to it and explain it all to you, my readers, will complicate matters. I (mostly) understand how I feel about the matter and how I got to this place. I (mostly) understand the ins and outs of why this is a good thing and how it will benefit my daughter in the future despite the questions that will likely arise. I do accept that this is something that has helped me grow even though it was never imagined or expected.

But will you understand? I don’t know many adoptive parents who want to think about divorcing their spouse. I don’t know many birth parents who want to think about their child’s parents divorcing and still managing to find the good in all of it. I don’t know many people who aren’t touched by adoption who would even give an ear to what I have to say on the matter since I don’t matter all that much.

And so, when it comes down to it, the words that I am trying to locate aren’t even about how I feel. I’m merely trying to find the words to communicate what is a rather complicated matter. I know that I don’t need to do it. Even if the rest of the world never understands what has gone on in our relationship(s) or in my heart and soul, our family unit will continue forward and continue to grow in strength together. But I want to explain it, to put words to it, to share this beautiful chapter of our journey together.

I just can’t quite find the words yet.

And so, in the meantime, know that we’re all well. D and M are vacationing in Hawaii (which was not hit by the tsunami and, as such, they are safe). We’re busy. Life is good. And that, the life being good, is, well, good.

At Swagapalooza, a book was in our swag bag. It’s entitled Ignore Everybody: and 39 Other Keys to Creativity. It’s by Hugh MacLeod of Gaping Void. I wasn’t expecting much out of a free book from a guy who didn’t even present at the event. I have been pleasantly surprised. Right now I’m on point/chapter ten and I had to share it with you, my adoption journey readers.

Everybody has their own private Mount Everest they were put on this earth to climb.

The point goes on in a very encouraging manner.

You may never reach the summit; for that you will be forgiven. But if you don’t make at least one serious attempt to get above the snow line, years later you will find yourself lying on your deathbed, and all you will feel is emptiness.

I wonder exactly what my personal Mount Everest is, what I’m journeying toward. I mean, I’ve been talking about my journey toward peace and healing for quite some time. However, is that just an attempt to get past the snow line? I don’t quite know. I know what I want to do, what I want to accomplish and I even hesitate writing it now because it seems as big and scary as a mountain that is known for killing people on their way to the top.

I’ve been getting nudges, for years now, to write a book. What book, exactly, is still unsure to me. I know everyone expects me to detail my adoption story, our journey that we continue on and will continue on for years and years to come, even after Munchkin is an adult and on her own. However, having paid attention to Dawn’s trials in this same exact area, I already know some of what rejection will come my way. The claims that it isn’t my story to tell. The claims that we don’t know how the Munchkin will feel about it all later on and, as such, the story can’t be told yet. Truth be told, memoirs are actually just supposed to be a glimpse at one part of a life story and not a full conclusion on a life lived. If everyone waited until the life journey was complete to write their memoir, the genre would die right along with the people who were thinking, “I wonder if my journey is complete enough to put pen to paper today. No? Maybe tomorrow.” Too late.

Then there’s the problem of knowing what I want to say. Or, rather, not knowing what I want to say. Or, really, if I get to the heart of the matter, being afraid of the reactions of people for simply saying what it is that I have to say. My adoption story and journey aren’t pleasing to either the super pro-adoption camp who believe that all babies conceived out of wedlock should be given to more deserving couples or the super anti-adoption camp who believe that adoption is inherently evil and should be abolished at all costs. This is, of course, because I am not an extremist and live my reality somewhere between the two ideas. Parts of my story do speak to the absolute and immediate need for adoption reform. The way I was lied to and subtly coerced by the unethical agency through which I placed are exactly what I want to see changed. However, other parts of my story do speak to the wonders of open adoption. I have many a moment, many a conversation that really end up making the long, arduous and grief-laden road worth the bruised knees and broken heart of my travels.

Of course, as I argue these thoughts with myself, I come back to a very important point of which I try to remind others writing on the topic of adoption, be it in blog or forum form: my story does not negate, dismiss or diminish someone else’s story; it is my own. As such, I really shouldn’t care what the extremists from either side think of my story. (Nor do I on a normal basis. But the book idea is scary!) I really shouldn’t even care what the everyday Jane and Joe Schmoe think. This should just be about me, my story and pen and paper. Or, fingers and keyboard. The truth is, I don’t know exactly how I want to portray my story. Truthfully, obviously. Honestly. With passion. But what to say. How to say it. And how to portray it. I just don’t know as of yet.

Maybe I’ll figure it out by the time I finish this book. I don’t know.

Nearly five years ago, FireDad and I got married in a beautifully decorated church in front of our families and our friends. Standing up with me on my side of the church were people who had already had a part in shaping my life. At the time, we thought we were very “cutting edge” as D, my daughter’s adoptive mother, donned a red bridesmaid dress and posed for wedding party photographs. Having her present on a day, in a moment that shaped my life seemed right. The adoption of my daughter had been such a driving force in my life and D’s presence in my life changed who I was, who I would become. It felt right to have her there. We laughed about how people were shocked that she would be in my wedding. It just felt right for us; a friendship formed over a moment that changed the both of our lives forever.

This weekend I drove her to her hair appointment. I made sure she ate a spoon of peanut butter as her blood sugar was crashing because she only ate Lucky Charms all day. I got her caffeinated to help with the headache. I helped set out the wine, busied the children while she attended to other things and generally helped out with a moment that would change her life. My daughter’s mom remarried in the most beautiful wedding ceremony I have ever been blessed to attend this past Saturday. Beautiful vows were exchanged, kisses were given and butterflies were released. Tears kept escaping from my eyes. They weren’t tears of sadness. They were tears of joy. I haven’t seen D so happy in years.

If you had told me on my own wedding day that I would, nearly five years later, help D out as her unofficial matron of honor on her wedding day, I would have laughed at you. We both would have laughed at you. No amount of foresight could have predicted any of this journey. And yet, there we were.

Five years ago I felt honored and blessed to have her by my side. Two days ago I felt honored and blessed to help out and watch her begin this new journey of her own. And, while I didn’t imagine it to be so, her wedding was also a defining moment in my own life journey. I didn’t exchange vows, of course, but I’m now part of a new family. Watching their love, their joy and their devotion to each other as a family filled my heart so full. I am excited for this part of our journey. And I am happy to be traveling it with someone I consider one of my very best friends.

Five years ago.

Two days ago.

Congrats, D & M. May you have a lifetime of love and laughter… because it’s so good to see you laugh again, D.