Having given birth to three babies—and kind of obviously, thus having been pregnant three gestations’ worth in order to do so—I’m an adoptive mother who does not pine for the chance to experience pregnancy. My pregnancies included more than my fair share of vomiting and nausea and depression. I was healthy each time and relatively unworried, so they were good pregnancies. Still, I do not look at pregnant women and wish to return into my body during those months. Just to be clear, I’m so glad and grateful I had the opportunity to house those people (in my condo, as my friend Karen deemed her bump).
Totally and entirely selfishly, any feeling of would-that-I-had-carried-Saskia is, for me, quite unusual. These days, at three, now that we are well beyond the most critical breastfeeding window (when indeed, I did wish I could just feed her all by myself) I don’t think sadly about not having carried or birthed her so much.
Sometimes, it surprises me, though, that wistfulness.
We read a picture book called Grow Babies this week and the line about how at birth “you already know your mother’s voice” always makes me feel sad. I think about how Saskia knew her mother’s voice—the smells and rhythms and whatever else was familiar about her surroundings—and then she was abruptly introduced to a whole other mother’s voice—and our sounds and sights and rhythms and surroundings, unawares. Three big brothers and a bustling household—that was a lot to be introduced to in such a hurry.
Saskia and I went to visit her cousin, Ian, and Ian’s mom (my sister), Emily and dad, Tom. Any day now—Emily’s 38 weeks pregnant and Ian arrived early so we feel collectively on edge—a baby brother and second son will arrive.
I was reminded of how Emily’s relationship with baby boy two (name as yet not quite determined; there should be some surprises, yes?) is so well underway. Duly surprised by wistfulness, I was, not so much wishing for that for me but wishing for that for Saskia-and-me or maybe more so for her, if that makes any sense. I know with bedrock certainty that my not having carried her into this world does not minimize my love for her whatsoever. If anything, my heart bursts even larger sometimes, and I’m not saying that for any dramatic effect. I just can’t believe that this awe-inspiring and delightful, loving, lively creature landed in my arms. I don’t think I will ever stop feeling the kind of colossal gratitude that might sound unreal in its giganticness. It was more like this: I wish I had those pieces of our story to tell, though. I wish I’d given her a thousand pats or more because I could just reach down and find her during those months I was, indeed, waiting for her arrival (but from afar).
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One of the things that does make me grateful about open adoption (in our case) is that I knew Caroline while pregnant with Saskia so I saw those pats on the belly and I knew that the mama-with-condo was doing everything in her power to ensure Saskia was thriving. It’s not just knowing; it’s knowing that I can tell her that part of her story when she wants or needs to hear it, and knowing there are many other people who can, too, people we know and she knows and love her and she loves. None of this will definitely or even likely take away all wistfulness (nor should it, necessarily) but that’s a lot of love and story waiting for her.
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Ian and Saskia had many moments of really enjoying one another during their visit. They feel completely like cousins because they are cousins, even if no blood is shared (Emily is my stepsister and we are sisters, again, no blood). When you open your eyes, you do realize again and again how love is the key ingredient in happy family making, period. Sure, it’s more complicated than that or can be more complicated than that. Without it, though… you’re kinda sunk.
