Beginnings
Thirty-Eight years ago, I gave birth to my
son after 72 hours of labor. He was beautiful and I wanted him to be
with me always. This event occurred two months to the day after I became a resident of
St. Anne’s maternity hospital in Los Angeles, California. I had been instructed
to give the baby up for adoption.
I had every intention of following instructions. The mound
in my abdomen had grown into a huge burden. It was heavy to carry around and
awkward to maneuver. At one point “the baby” kicked so hard that I had time to count all the toes and determine that I was seeing
a right foot. It was not a magical moment as much as it was a painful moment
and it was also an awkward moment because I had been standing in back of someone
seated on a couch and when “the baby” kicked he hit her in the back of
the head with sufficient force to rock it forward. She thought I had hit her
“upside her head.” Embarrassed, I pointed to the still extended foot to which
she responded, “still” with foreboding in her voice. I left the room to find
some place where this thing could act up and not put me in danger of physical
harm.
I was fifteen years old. Just weeks away from being sixteen,
an age that sounded infinitely more mature. I begged the doctor to put age
sixteen on the birth certificate but he said he had to produce an accurate
document and that it was my own fault that I was not older when I had gotten
myself into this position, which would have been funny, if it hadn’t been
trying to shame me. I was still in the delivery stirrups-wide open to his
assault on my character and his judgment of me. Shame became a theme in my life
but I would not recognize it as such until much later.
I had a firm belief that I would not live past age 21. I’m
not sure where this idea came from but it was firmly held. In my teenaged narcissism
I figured that giving birth was a good experience to have before I died. It
was an abstract thought with no attachment to reality and no thought given to
the human being who would be orphaned if I kept “it” but who would provide
someone a lifetime of joy if I followed the instructions I had been given.
Back in the day, there was no largely available way to
predetermine gender, so expectant mothers expected babies- generic-not boys or
girls or humans with names. I do not enjoy the predetermination of babies that
technology now provides. I prefer to be surprised. However, I do feel much more comfortable addressing
the emergent being by a gendered pronoun. “It” just feels wrong. I much prefer
he or she and even before predetermination became commonplace I would use those
pronouns interchangeable just to avoid the “it” word.
I won’t use this first blog to share the “discovery” story
of how I told my parents I was pregnant and their response, except to refer you
back to the first paragraph. My residency at St. Anne’s is a part of that story. It was believed that because my condition would be confusing to
the other kids- my siblings-one brother and two sisters, all younger- I needed
to be removed from the house. It was decided that I would go on a “vacation” to
visit a friend who lived in Texas. This way when I returned as just plain `ole
me no one would be confused.
Weekly phone calls home would reinforce this plot line, and every Friday evening I
would tell each sibling, in turn, how much fun I was having in Texas. The
trauma of standing in line to use the pay phone each Friday night only
encouraged my disassociation with reality and while I was in the phone booth, I
could actually believe that just outside the door of the pay phone booth was my friend’s living room
in her home in Texas. It wasn’t a “magic place” but it was a short escape from
the reality of my life and I took it. The instructions were to convince my
siblings that I was on a short two-month visit with my friend and I was having
a great time.
I followed instructions, I went to St Anne’s I caused only a
small amount of trouble and I believed until the very moment of delivery that
this child would soon belong to people I would never know. This, again, was
back in the day when open adoption was a possibility but was discouraged by professionals, I am still unsure of what that profession is. But, they didn’t
like the idea of a continuing relationship between biological parent and
adopted child. . It was for this reason that the staff of the delivery wing of
the maternity hospital did not allow delivering mothers see the children they
delivered. However, on this day, someone was not as thorough as she should have been, and yes, back in that day most nurses were women,
Maybe it was due to the 72 hours of labor but once I looked over at the covered
bassinette and saw a tiny penis wiggling around in the folds of the blanket, I
sincerely believed that this child would be adopted. Later a counselor told me
that statistically women change their minds about adoption when they learn
they have a boy more frequently than when they know they have had a girl. I am
organizing some statistics for a future post that will tell you if that is
factual or not. Better yet, if you have those statistics, please post them here.
I was not supposed to see my son, whose name I had already
chosen although I knew that name would be
changed by the new mommy and daddy. This was also back in the day when single
people were nearly always considered unfit for adopting a child.
I had not really gotten a proper look at the owner of the
penis when I began to tell anyone who would listen that I had changed my mind.
They all responded by telling me “you all say that. Tomorrow you will feel
differently.” But I didn’t. So they allowed me to hold and feed him, thinking
that this would overwhelm me, and it did, but I didn’t change my mind. The only
thing I have ever been absolutely certain of with my whole being in my entire
existence is that I was meant to be this baby's mother. For good or ill, and there
was plenty of ill, it was my course in life, even if it did end at age 21, to
provide for this little human and to take him through the world as best I
could.
I have lived long past age 21 and my son is now an adult,
married and contemplating children, who I believe with every fiber of my being,
will be born to be my grandchildren. I will follow this post with more specific
stories about me. I want my son to post only when he is comfortable doing so and
anonymously, if he wishes it.
This is a forum for both parents and children, and I invite
you all to share your stories.
For today, this blog is born and I want to use it to wish a Happy
birthday to my beautiful boy.
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