Every woman has a story. This one is uniquely mine.
Some call me a birth mother, some call me a birthmother, a natural mother, a first mother; some call me a biological mother, or even yet, a life mother. (I’ve been called a breeder, brood sow, and a BM, too.)
However, I call myself a mother. No prefixes or qualifiers. Simply a mother.
I am a mother of Ms. Feverfew, my oldest daughter who was lost to a private domestic adoption facilitated by my LDS bishop in the early 1990’s. I am now raising two boys, Matthew and Luke, and their little sister, Poppy. I am married to an ever-so-patient man with whom I share an epic love story deserving of a blog of its own.
I love all things domestic, creative, and crafty, hold a B.S. in Psychology, an M.S. in Instructional Technology, a Ph.D. in Instructional Technology and Learning Sciences, and have completed coursework towards an MSW in Clinical Social Work.
I believe the cultural proscriptions placed on a birth mother’s speech foster lifelong feelings of shame and purchase her continued silence at a terrible cost to her psyche and soul. This silence allows society to minimize and trivialize the destruction of the most fundamental family unit – a mother and her child.
This purchased silence also prevents mothers of adoption loss from uncovering the depth of sorrow and the complexity of loss adoption brings into her life.
In defiance to this polite silence, I speak as plainly and truthfully as my psyche will permit.
I speak with the “freedom of those who are marginalized to the establishment” (Rainer, 1997).
I speak with the zeal of one who creates and affirms her experience through writing.
I speak with complete abandon because I have already lost and have nothing to lose by risking it all. In the raw and unbounded beauty of becoming fierce with my truth, I am liberated from the trance of adoption mythology.
To protect the privacy of certain individuals, I have in some ways disguised their identities. Sometimes, I have taken poetic license with events and their timing to protect both the innocent and the guilty. However, the truth remains substantially intact.
These are my words. This is my truth.