"Birthmother"

Birthmother sounds like a nice thing. A noble title. Misunderstood, maybe. A woman who loves her baby enough that she lets him go, or maybe a girl that just wanted to be girl for a little while longer.

Being a birthmother isn't just another thing that you are. Student, daughter, musician, cook, birthmother, soccer player. A birthmother is who you are. Birthmother is who I am. I will never be rid of this. Usually I know that I don't ever want to be rid of it, but when I'm weak; when I've given all my strength and yet life needs more from me, I wish that this had never happened. How dare I wish that my dearest Carson never happened? How dare I long for that moment of signing those papers back, so that I could be selfish and rip them up. How dare I wish that I could tear him from his wonderful family; his loving mother and able father. His sister who loves to give him his bottle and who can unfailingly make that little boy laugh and squeal with delight. In my weakest, weariest and darkest times, I wish all these things. I wish I was lucky enough to be able to take him for granted. How lucky I would be to be able to wish that  he would just quit crying so that I can get a moment of silence. Instead, I cherish every noise that passes his beautiful lips.

I live in limbo between motherhood and childhood. I fear that I'll never be able to escape this place. Weekly I plaster my walls with pictures of my son and me, him, and him with his lovely family. Within a few days I tear them down and put them carefully away, not being able to keep looking at his beautifully round cheeks that I can't touch; him playing with the toys that I did not buy for him.

Will I ever visit my son and not cry? When will he see my face and know that I am not a stranger? Am I a stranger?? Will I ever see a day that isn't defined by my self inflicted loss? Does this chubby beauty know that there is a woman out there that isn't mommy, but she thinks about him daily, prays for him nightly and longs for his presence constantly?

Why is it, God, that one stupid 21 year old girl was allowed to monumentally change my life? Why was this smart, careful girl so stupid as to let that happen? And above all, Lord, will I ever be okay again?

My prayer for my son is one that I have said for him every night of his life. For the 190th time: Lord, be with my son. Keep him happy, healthy, safe and strong. Be with his mother, give her joy, patience and grace. Be with his father, give him strength, kindness and grace. Be with his sister, give her a wild spark of life and the purest, uncontainable joy. Lord please be with me. Please, oh please,  never let me go.

Amen.