Not without making myself look like an ass that is.
Not without pissing people off, hurting feelings, ruffling feathers, and causing conflict.
Which in all reality – is the very last thing I want to do.
But I’ve always been honest here. I’ve always put my entire heart on the line. I’ve always opened up regarding the inner workings of my very twisted brain.
And I don’t know how to do anything different now.
The truth is, I wrote this post months ago. Way back when I first promised a post detailing my fears about adoption. But then… I sat on it. Afraid simply of the words themselves. Of exposing myself as whatever these words make me out to be. I put it away and hoped that these fears would dissipate over time. That as the weeks and months passed, the words would no longer be true.
But… they are. They're still true.
So here it is, for all the world to see. My fears, reservations, and concerns. The reasons I now don’t know if I will ever adopt. If it is even still an option for me. Something I'd be willing to take on, even though every part of it scares the hell out of me.
It's been weighing on my mind since the last failed cycle. Eating away at me. Lingering in the background, even as I've left it unspoken.
Until now.
I’m afraid of adoption.
Terrified even.
In fact, I am more frightened of the complexities involved in adoption than I ever was of fertility treatments.
To the extent that I’m not even sure if I could do it.
Ever.
It has always been an option. This thing in the back of my head that I knew I would likely one day do. When I’ve said in the past that adoption was of course an option, I meant it.
With every fiber of my being.
But that was before it was my only option.
Now that it's all that's left, suddenly I’ve been sick to my stomach over it. Completely torn up about the prospect.
There are so many reasons for this fear really. The biggest one being that I truly do not think I could handle going through a failed adoption.
I have seen it happen so many times, both in my real life and in the blogging world. Two loving parents who want nothing more than to adopt finally have their baby in their arms, and then… the birth mother changes her mind.
I’ve seen it happen to some people more than once.
And I honestly do not think I am equipped for that kind of heartbreak.
I think that's the point where I would officially lose it.
And it’s not always a matter of the birth mother changing her mind either. One of my best friends used to work at an adoption agency – that is before her agency went under. To the best of my knowledge they were able to return funds to any awaiting parents in their agency, but that isn’t always the case. And even in that situation – those parents lost whatever place on the waiting list they had previously held. This happens all the time. More than it ever should. Agencies fall through. International laws change. Parents who have been waiting for years are suddenly relegated to waiting even longer.
And that child they have dreamed of never actually finds a way into their arms.
But that’s not my only fear. It’s just the easiest to explain. The fear that still makes me appear somewhat human.
Because I’m fairly certain that my real fear paints me as someone far less than.
I am afraid, because what if I adopted a child, and I didn’t love them.
I didn’t ever grow to love them.
What if I never felt that connection? That bond. That tie.
What if the child that was placed in my arms was one that for whatever reason, I just couldn’t love?
I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I would love a child that came from my body. I know that with the first positive pee stick, that child would be mine. Mine to love and nurture and protect as fiercely as I’ve ever done anything in my entire life.
But what if that same instinct wasn’t there with an adopted child?
What if I was then the monster who didn’t love her baby?
Now, before you start correcting me and telling me that it would never happen, I have to stop you.
Because it happens.
I truly believe it happens.
And while I always thought I was the kind of person who could love and connect with any child who was ever placed in my care, my experiences with Big Brothers/Big Sisters taught me differently.
Now, to be clear, I deeply cared about Chatty. I really and truly did have nothing but the best of hopes and intentions for that child. But… It was a struggle. Connecting with her was a struggle. Even two years down the line, that bond just wasn’t really there. I cared about her. I wanted the best for her. It made me desperately angry that she was so neglected in her own home. But… That connection wasn’t there.
What if Chatty had been a child I had adopted? A child I thought I wanted with all my heart, until she got there and I just couldn’t connect with her. What if I just couldn’t find a way to forge that parent child bond?
What then?
I would of course still raise that child and do everything I could to provide and care for them within the best of my abilities.
But what if I never really loved them?
What if we had nothing in common? Nothing to share? Nothing to connect us at all?
What if 15 years down the line, when they do something to piss me off (as most 15 year olds will), all I can think is “It’s because they aren’t really mine. My child never would have behaved that way.”
And I know that even thinking that’s a possibility makes me an awful person. In fact, I’m half tempted to turn off the comments on this post solely because I don’t really want to hear about what an awful person I am.
I already feel like complete crap for thinking it.
But I can’t help it. It’s what I’m afraid of. That moment in time when I find myself justifying my lack of love for that child because “they aren’t really mine.”
For all the adoptive mothers (and adoptees) out there – please know that I know how crass and hurtful that statement is, and I am so incredibly sorry. I know that the children you have adopted are very decidedly yours, and that you love them just as fiercely as you would have had you been able to birth them yourselves.
I know that.
I’m just talking about me right now. About the thoughts I’m afraid I would have. The disconnect I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to surpass.
I’m talking about me.
But I’m also talking about that child. That child who would deserve all the love in the world.
What if I couldn’t give it to them? What if in everything bad that child ever did, I saw pieces of their “other” mother?
I am a firm believer in nurture over nature. I’ve said here before that I don’t care at all about genes, and that is 100% the truth. But the thing is – I believe that nurture begins in utero. I truly believe that the actions and behaviors of a mother during pregnancy can have powerful impacts on that growing baby and the personality traits they will exhibit throughout life. I have known friends who were anxious and inflexible during one pregnancy and calm and laid back during another. Guess what? Their children exhibited similar tendencies.
And hasn’t anyone ever thought about the fact that there may be something to birth order traits? After all, a mother is likely more stressed and regimented during her 1st pregnancy than she is during her 5th. Isn’t it possible that the stress hormones she releases during pregnancy could ultimately lead to effects on her unborn children? Couldn’t that explain why first borns tend to be driven and regimented, while last borns tend to be far more laid back and easy going?
Even beyond temperament though, I know how I would treat my body and that growing baby during pregnancy. I know that I wouldn’t drink at all. That I wouldn’t smoke. That I wouldn’t do any drugs. I know how hesitant I would be to take even aspirin. That I would eat a certain way, and go out of my way to provide as healthy a growing environment as possible for that little one to be.
I could never know the same about any potential birth mother though. And the idea of someone else getting to make those decisions (decisions which I do truly believe can have lasting effects on temperament and health) for my child during those formative months makes me want to scream out in frustration.
I understand that this is just the way it is. And that I can’t control every aspect of my children’s lives. But why? Why must I concede where others don’t? Why can’t I have the chance to provide my child with the best I possibly can from the moment they are conceived? Why can’t I love and nurture and protect them to the best of my ability from day one? Why do I have to rely on somebody else to do what I so desperately long to do? Why do I have to hope, and pray, and plead for them to do it “right”, while I stand on the sidelines helpless and unsure of everything?
These are my fears. Or at least, a small peak at what is in actuality a much longer list.
Fears and frustrations that confuse the hell out of me, and leave me wondering what exactly they say about me.
It’s possible that because I’m afraid that I couldn’t love any child, I don’t actually deserve to be a mother at all.
It’s possible that this really does become a case of beggars can’t be choosers, and my selfishness dictates me unworthy.
It’s possible that I will never overcome these fears, and in turn, that I will never be a mother.
I guess at some point I’m just going to have to decide what scares me more.
A life spent child free.
Or one risking what feels like everything on adoption.
ADSPACE
