Monday, May 30, 2011

Loving You This Memorial Day

That wonderfully handsome man in the picture with me is one of the best friends a woman could ever hope to have blessing her life.

To me, he is Sergeant Chuckles. A combination of his nickname as a boy and his position in the United States Air Force.

As an only child, I never had the experience of siblings. But I did have Sergeant Chuckles. Our families were neighbors when I was born and he was just barely a year old. Our mothers good friends who enjoyed taking embarrassing pictures (such as us together in the bathtub) and planned our wedding before we ever even reached the potty-training stage.

But we had our own future ahead of us. One that didn’t include nuptials but instead one of the strongest, greatest friendships I have ever known in my life.

Sergeant Chuckles was my protector. My shoulder to lean on. My strength when I was weak.

Over twenty-three years ago, he was the one who took me to Planned Parenthood for my pregnancy test. The one who held my hand as I learned the news, hovered nearby while I told my husband (then boyfriend) that I was pregnant.

He was there, holding it together, when I was falling apart during those painful, confusing months. No longer only protective of me, but of the child I carried.

There wasn’t a time when I was alone, because of him. It didn’t matter what time of the day or night it was. Didn’t matter what he was doing. If I needed him, he was there. Always there. My rock when I wanted to crumble. My hero holding me together when all I wanted to do was fall apart.

At eighteen, after graduation, following his family legacy, he joined the Air Force. Moved away from home. From the house where we had shared so many memories. The one place I always knew I could find him.

My middle son was only an infant when he first left for overseas. I remember watching the news religiously during the Gulf War. Always needing information, assurance that he was okay. And yet, on those rare occasions when we had a chance to talk, his concern was on myself and my family. He wanted to know how my middle son was doing. Would make his typical jokes to make me laugh, to get my mind off my worry for him.

That was always his way. Always the friend he has been to me. Nobody has been able to irritate me, make me laugh, or support me in the way he has.


After 9/11, he returned to Iraq to continue to fight for us. At that time in his life, he was dealing with his own struggles. His marriage was ending and not only was he facing the knowledge that he would no longer have any connection to the step-daughter he had raised as his own for five years, but he had also recently been told that his chances of fathering a child of his own were slim to none.

And yet, he put all of that aside and went, without argument, to where he was needed.

After that, he used to tell me, his life was full even without children. He was single, could come and go as he pleased and he had my kids to spoil, to love, to be there for. Which he always was. Always! My children love him. And even though he doesn’t live close, they know he is always there for them. Have always known that.

And when, four and a half years ago, I found my oldest son and reunited with him, Sergeant Chuckles cried with me, celebrated with me, and understood just how much it meant to have him back in my life. When he received the okay from me, he reached out to my oldest son, embraced him in the same way he had always embraced all of my children and took leave to come out and reunite with my only child that he had been there, every step of the way, from learning of my pregnancy to giving birth.

Then, just a few years ago, Sergeant Chuckles learned, against what the doctors had told him, that he was going to be a father. And along came the sweetest, cutest little girl. “T” is amazing. She looks so much like her daddy. She has his spirit, his personality and even his dance moves.

She is his everything. His world revolves around her. And a year ago, when it came time, AGAIN, for him to make the decision on whether or not to retire from the Air Force, he decided to go ahead and do it, for her. So that he could be there. So that she would never have to know what it was like to have her daddy so far away, unable to see him, talk to him, know that he was okay.

But, Sergeant Chuckles has always had the blood of an American soldier running through is veins. It is not only what he knows after over two decades of serving our country. It is what he used to dream about, plan for, when he was nothing more than a small boy with his entire future ahead of him.

So it did not surprise me when he took the offer given him and returned to the Air Force before his retirement became official.

What did surprise me was the fact that just a couple months after that, he was called to go overseas again. To Afghanistan this time. He has been there since January, fighting for all of us, for our freedom, our way of life.

And here at home, his little girl misses her daddy. And his family prays for his safety.

So today, on Memorial Day, I want to use my blog to honor him. To love him. And to let everyone out there know what an amazing, courageous soldier they have fighting for them.

I love you Sergeant Chuckles. Be safe!

Friday, May 27, 2011

Who Are You Angry For?

Four and a half years ago, when I first found my oldest son’s MySpace page, it felt like a miracle. After over thirteen years of knowing nothing about him, about his life, here was this wealth of information about him. Pictures and information I could have only dreamed of having before.

And one bit of that information was his current place of employment which happened to be only an hour away from where we lived.

For me, the fear was too great to do anything with that information. I was so sure then that my son would hate me. I was so afraid of ever being able to explain to him why I gave him up when I could no longer explain it even to myself. Could no longer find any reason that would justify not fighting for and keeping him all those years ago.

Thank goodness, my husband wasn’t held back by such fears and doubts. Taking my youngest son along with him, he made the drive to my oldest son’s work and took that very first, frightening step into reuniting with him.

It was, literally, the first day of a brand new life for all of us.

It was also an act that, to this day, my oldest son’s adoptive mother is still angry with my husband for doing.

And the question is . . . who is she angry for?

Is she angry for us, my oldest son’s First Family, who never would have had to seek our oldest son out in such a way if promises hadn’t been broken and the adoption completely closed by the time my son was five years old?

Nope. That one is a definite no. Don’t even have to think twice about that one.

Is she angry for my oldest son who, though there have been ups and downs, gained another family in his life? Who, because of reunion, was aware of his family history and knew to act quickly when he was first told about the lump on his thyroid?

No. That’s not it either.

There is only one person she is angry for . . . herself. Angry because she doesn’t like how it has turned out since that first day of reunion. Because that day, to her, forced her to accept that my oldest son’s First Family didn’t just drift off into nowhere land and forget about him. And because, she lost her control over my son, no longer able to abuse him because he had nowhere else to go.

It’s as it always seems to be . . . all about her. It’s not about my son in any way, just, as I believe, it never has been.

And yet, it doesn’t surprise me that she’s that way. It doesn’t shock me that it’s that way for many other adoptees as well, making my oldest son’s experience far from unique.

When adoption is, in so many ways, about satisfying the desires of hopeful couples rather than helping out children truly in need, it only makes sense that there are going to be adoptive parents out there who will forever remain in that frame of mind, expecting it to always be about them and not about the child they adopted.

And with so much of society accepting the same beliefs, seeing no problem in taking children from capable mothers and giving them to wealthier, more successful, married couples who “deserve” a child more, you compound the problem of adoptees being used to satisfy others and being expected to keep their own feelings and desires hidden away.

Do I believe every adoptee has this experience . . . no. Do I think every adoptive parent is concerned only about themselves and their desires . . . of course not.

But the reality is, it is out there. It is a part of adoption for so many. And it can’t be ignored.

Though “selfish” is a word piled heavy on the shoulders of many First Moms, the fact is, adoption, in so many ways, in its very practice, is full of selfishness.

When couples are adopting, not to help a child but to fulfill their own desires, there is a selfish act involved. When adoption agencies counsel pregnant women on the “greatness” of adoption without informing them of the risks . . . the pain, the loss, the feelings of abandonment . . . to increase their profits, there is definitely selfishness motivating them.

And yes, if a mom TRULY falls into that very small percentage of women who doesn’t want to raise her own child because of how it might disturb her life . . . that is selfish.

So, how can it be a surprise that there are adoptive parents out there who are selfish in their belief that it is all about them. All about the ways their child is to satisfy their life. Keep them happy. Give them what they have always wanted.

How can it be anything different than an adoptee’s feelings being ignored and neglected for the considered “better” of others when society supports and promotes what is, in so many ways, a practice designed to use human beings as remedies to another’s wants, whether it be a child for the adoptive parents or money deposited into the accounts of the adoption industry.

It is a reality of adoption that, in today’s world, is never going to change.
I only wish, expectant mothers considering adoption, would step back and think of this. Think of what it does to put their child in such a position. One expected from them, not only, possibly, by their adoptive parents, but by the world they will grow up in.

I wish they could step out of the mindset of, “It won’t happen to my child,” and realize the very act of adoption puts their child at risk of being expected to always fulfill the desires and needs of another while their child’s own feelings are ignored.

It is a reality that is out there. A reality that exists for so many. And the only way to change that is to change the belief that it’s okay to take babies away from good mothers in need of some help and support and give them to someone deemed more “worthy” simply to justify a selfish desire that no child should ever be expected to fulfill.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

The Fog Returns

You know, I think, over the last couple years, with my son adopted back and life going on as if he was never separated from us, I slipped back in to a mild form of the denial I lived with for so many years.

It didn’t take the same shape as before, forcing me to believe adoption was such a wonderful, loving thing I did just so I could actually get up in the morning and face a new day with a justification for the pain I was feeling inside.

It didn’t, at least lately, take me into the hibernation mode where I simply wanted to snuggle down in a world where I didn’t have to think or talk about adoption in any way, shape or form.

Instead, this time around, the denial was more of a fantasy belief. One shaped from the years my son lived with us, the time I actually got the chance to be his mom in every way, and the knowledge that he was again both biologically and legally my child.

It was one that had me believing that my future with adoption would be different now, better in some way. Brought me to a point where I was so comfortable and accepting of my oldest son back in my life that I let go of just how hard so many of the struggles were with his adoptive mom and the abuse he suffered from her. And I pushed to the back of my mind, where they wouldn’t affect me, the worries I lived with and the fears that haunted me.

Because it was easier that way. Just as it was easier, in some ways, to live all those years denying the pain losing my son to adoption had caused.
And how could it not be?

I could hold on to and live in the memories of my oldest son living with us rather than imagining what he must have gone through growing up under the ugly shadow of abuse. I could see his smiles, hear his laughter instead of experiencing the terrifying images of him being beaten with a tree branch, called the worst of names, and demeaned over and over again until he believed he was nothing and deserved the abuse he suffered.

See, in that time when my oldest son first moved back in with us, and in the months that followed, it was hell. Not for me, or my husband or my other children, but for him. Not only was he having to adjust to this family that was his and yet was foreign to him, he was also struggling with the effects of the abuse he had suffered for so many years and continuing to be a victim to the verbal abuse that was still coming his way from his adoptive mom.

I can still remember the first time he actually got mad at his dad . . . compared to, in the only way I can put it, “kissing ass” because of his fear of making his parents mad and them leaving him or punishing him in a way that didn’t teach but, instead, abused in so many ways.

I was so happy, I was literally laughing. And the first thing I could think to do was give my oldest son the biggest, sloppiest kiss possible. Because, to me, it was a huge obstacle he had just dared. He had taken the risk and gotten mad at his dad, as was normal for any father-son relationship. He wasn’t happy, and for the first time since he moved in, he showed it.

It was wonderful. It was terrific. And it was, in so many ways, that first step for me into another form of denial.

Because, in some way, it gave me permission to start letting go of the worries and just accept my son in my life in a way I could have only dreamed about in the past.

Permission to let go of the hell of knowing my child had been abused. Of the guilt from knowing I was the one who placed him in the arms of the one who did such a thing to him. In a family where the only thing I can be grateful for is the love and kindness his adoptive grandfather gave him during the years he was alive.

But, just like with my previous run with denial, this current bout was bound to end at some point. I just wish it hadn’t come at the same time my son was facing his battle with cancer.

Because all it succeeded in doing was throwing me back into that stupid, old question of what kind of mom was I? And was I really good enough for him, for any of my children, if I spent time dwelling on my feelings when my son was facing the worst battle of his life?

Was I making this about myself when it should be all about my oldest son?

Was I being “selfish?” Yeah!!!! . . . That word . . . The one us First Moms get to struggle with for our entire lives.

It was all there, making me wish I had stayed in my current denial for a little while longer.

But, as I have learned along the way, adoption crap hits you whenever it damn well feels like it. And, unfortunately, it hit me when his adoptive mom made that phone call and then, once the worry and fear of my son’s operation passed, set in with an old force I was familiar with.

One, while I was in this latest fog, I thought I had moved past a while ago.
Because after talking to her again, and then seeing her for the first time since learning of my son’s abuse, I realized, there is nothing, not even the strongest form of denial, that can ever take away my hatred for what she did to my son.

And during his surgery, her biggest concern seemed to be letting everyone know that she was his mom. The surgeon, the nurses who came out to advise us of his condition, she had to make sure that they all knew exactly who she was.

And she did that for her . . . not for him! It was her insecurities, or whatever was rumbling around inside her, that caused her to make sure everyone around knew exactly who she was. It wasn’t about my son, just as it never has been. It was about her and the recognition she sought for being a “mom.”

Like anyone, at that point, really gives one damn bit of care to who is who in relationship to the patient. What the hell does it matter at that time? He’s an adult and we are nothing more than the ones they are advising of his situation. Who gives a damn which one is the mom, the dad, grandma, sibling, or visitor from outer space.

It’s just us. All of us. There for him. That’s what they know and that is all they care about.

But truthfully, what does it matter anyhow? She is going to be who she is going to be, and I . . . I have realized and accepted, I will never be at a point where I can forgive her for what she did to my son. I had thought, during the last couple years, after the fog came back and I lived that time in a kind of oblivion to my feelings, that I could move past that, forgive and embrace her in the way my son desires.

But I just can’t. And I am so sorry to my oldest son for that admission.
There are things I can’t do in this life. And one, I have come to realize, is forgive anyone, for any reason, who harms my children in any way. I am so sorry for that – to him . . . my oldest son. I know, as a mother, I should be able to do whatever I can to make things easier on him.

But I just can’t do this. I just can’t.

She abused my son. She left him believing that he was the cause for every bad thing that happened in her life (caused by her alcohol addiction.) She said such terrible things to him. Things I heard while he was living with me.

She told me horrible things about him in a ridiculous belief that it would somehow change my desire to have him in my life. She lied to him to try and keep us out of his life. She beat up on him, some physically, most of it mentally, and blamed him for it, never once realizing how amazingly lucky she was to have him in her life.

There is just too much. Too much that I can’t go on denying any longer.
I love my oldest son more than I could ever say. I want to do whatever I can for him. I never want to place him in a situation where he feels like he has to choose between the families he wants in his life. I wish, with everything I have, that he could have that “perfect” scenario he craves where he has both moms there for him, happy together, and loving each other because we love him.

But that won’t happen. And I admit, I am part of the reason why.

And so, where does that leave me . . . leave him? Because I can’t, ever, expect him to walk away from his adoptive mother or his adoptive family (though this post isn’t exactly uplifting, the conversation my husband had with his adoptive aunt is actually a much, MUCH happier topic I plan to write about later. Our goodbyes on the final day in the hospital were actually given with true “heart-felt” kisses and hugs.)

The only thing I can think of – and PLEASE, those who have lived adoption, abuse, or anything close, tell me if you think, from your own knowledge or experience, if it’s right or wrong –is to be honest with my son (after recovery and treatment for his cancer.) To tell him that I will be respectful to his adoptive mom when we are together, for him, because he wants both his mothers in his life, but that I just can’t forgive her for the abuse she put him through and that will probably always prevent me from embracing her in the way he might desire.

And the only way I can think of to maybe get him to understand is to use (yeah that word sounds icky here) his baby sister as an example. He is very protective of my daughter. He tracks everything she posts on Facebook. Is very aware of any boy that might pay her attention. She is, in this point of his life – single with no children - the one person who might make him understand.

If she were to get involved with anyone who caused her harm in any way, his first instinct would be to stand up, fight and protect her. But what if the person who harmed her still wanted to be a part of her life and she believed he (or she) had changed. And what if, after starting to believe that the person had changed, he was told by them that she lied about the abuse and deserved what happened to her because of how bad she was (though he at this point still doesn’t know about what was said in the last phone call with his adoptive mom.)

I can only hope that I’m right when I say he would struggle too with trying to understand the reasons why she would want this person back in her life while also realizing that his actions, in any way, could affect, for better or worse, her treatment by this person because of past history.

I hope he can understand, with the example of his love for his little sister, that the last thing I ever want to do is hurt him anymore than he has already been hurt by adoption and abuse. That I don’t want to place him in a situation where he feels like he ever has to choose between one mom or the other. And that I will always respect his desire to have whoever he wants in his life and do whatever I can for him.

But there are some things I can’t do . . . I can never forgive his adoptive mom for abusing him, especially not now when she still is blaming him for what happened. I can never fully embrace and love someone who put my child through such pain.

I thought for a while there that I could. But after talking to her and hearing her blame my son for his abuse and then seeing her and knowing, every time I looked at her, what she did to my son, I just can’t do it.

I just can’t.

Is it one of my shortcomings? Maybe . . . Probably.

But what is worse . . . lying to my son and making him believe in something that isn’t true or being honest with him and hoping he’ll understand?

At this point, I have to go with the truth because during his last twenty-three years of life he’s been lied to enough.

And living like that, believing something that isn’t so, isn’t good or healthy for anyone. To do that to him, to put him in such a situation, just doesn’t seem right, fair, or even loving.

So I’m hoping for the best with what I know. Hoping the advice of others, as it has in the past, will help guide my way. And hoping, most of all, that whatever happens, my son will be spared the pain and loss he has suffered for so much of his short life.

It’s the least I can do after everything I have already done.

Monday, May 16, 2011

The Day Is Here

This Thursday is the day . . .

My oldest son goes into surgery, right at noon, to have his thyroid gland removed.

It’s the first step in his treatment against Papillary Thyroid Cancer. After he recovers from the surgery, he will have to go through radiation and then spend the rest of his life on medication to replace the functions of his thyroid.

In some ways, these last couple months have felt like they have passed at a snail’s pace. In other ways, it feels like everything has happened in a blink of an eye. And life has gone on, in between the doctor’s appointments and hours of research and learning about my son’s cancer. On as normal with holidays and family dinners, big brother driving lessons for my little girl and pool games between my boys.

And yet, in the back of my mind, the reality has always existed, the fear and worry lingering. Even knowing his cancer is very treatable, meeting and talking with his doctors, his surgeon, and confident they are some of the best in our state, there is still those moments when I think of all my son will have to face and the tears come and I want nothing more than to find a way to protect him from all of this.

But I know I can’t. I can only be there, support him and take care of him for as long as he needs me . . .



And, of course, because it doesn’t seem like it can ever keep its ugly hand out of things, adoption has to be a part of this too. And I hate that. I hate that all I want is to put every bit of my thoughts and energy into my oldest son and him getting better and yet I find myself battling my anger toward his adoptive mother and struggling with the worry of what might happen when we are all together in the hospital while my son is in surgery.

His adoptive mother and I have not been together in the same room since December 27, 2006 (my oldest son’s 19th birthday.) And before her last phone call, I believed I was prepared to see her again. Believed she had changed and things would be different than they had been in the past.

But, now, I find myself dwelling (and I hate dwelling on anything) on what might set her off. Put at risk her starting a scene there in the hospital while we are supposed to be supporting our son.

Will she get angry that his surgeon, through the appointments we have been to with our son, only knows his dad and I as his parents and has never been told anything different?

Will she throw a fit that he will be checking in to the hospital under his legal name, which includes our last name rather than his adoptive last name? Even though she told him, before we ever adopted him back, that his adoptive family didn’t think he was worthy of carrying on their last name.

Will she be uncomfortable and become upset to be surrounded by so much of his First Family from his parents to grandparents and siblings? All of whom know the abuse he suffered from her.

Or worst of all, when it’s time for him to be released, will she continue to insist as she has been this past week, against the decision he made to stay with us, that he come home with her? Will that be the time, while our son is there and needing us the most, that she goes into one of her rages and starts going after whoever she can?

See, I told you . . . I’m dwelling.

And that is why, after talking with my husband, I’m going to let go and stop worrying about how she might or might not act at the hospital. I will be there for my son, and only my son. I will be respectful to her but will have no problem walking away if she starts anything that might explode into more.

I’ll be far from alone while I’m there and my husband seems to be enough of a barrier towards her that she usually holds her tongue better when she knows he is around to listen. And if she doesn’t, if, for any reason, she picks that time, when it should be only about our son, to fly into one of her rages, it’s been decided my husband or stepfather will be the ones to take care of the situation.

That is the sad reality of this. Another ugly part of adoption that I hate with a passion.

We actually have to make a “just in case” plan before ever going to the hospital because nobody knows how his adoptive mother is going to react. Nobody knows what, if anything, might set her off. Or even if she will choose that time to take her punches all over again to try and put me in my place as the “other – not so important” mother.

I’m going to hope for the best. That it will be just as it should be and we are all there for just one reason . . . to support my oldest son during one of the most difficult and frightening times of his life.

In these days leading up to his surgery, I’m going to stay positive . . . for my oldest son, myself, and the rest of my family. I will not allow my fears or my anger toward his adoptive mother take away any more of my time or energy.

I wish she hadn’t called me. I wish she hadn’t reminded me of what she is capable of.

But I can’t change that. The only thing I can change is to take myself back to being there 100% for my oldest son without letting anyone or anything distract me again.

Because that is what he deserves and I refuse to offer him any less.
And on Thursday, I will hold my oldest son tight and pray, like I never have before.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

A Different Kind Of Mother's Day Wish

Today, I reach out and hold all that are suffering.

Today, I embrace in my arms those who mourn a mother who will not be there, a child whose voice they will not hear.

Today, I offer a shoulder to lean on for those who faced the day with tears. An understanding ear for those who feel nobody truly knows their pain.

Today, I hold the hand of those who have a hope that the day will be done. That a new day will dawn before the worst of their pain emerges.

Today, I am there for you. Thinking of you. Loving you. And wishing, with all my heart, I could offer more than just words to get you through your struggles.

Today, please know, you are not alone!

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Here We Go Again

Oh, it’s that time of year again.

The time of year when mothers who are without their children because of adoption are celebrated for a loss that is like no other.

The time of year when they are reminded that they aren’t “good enough” to be a mother so they cannot celebrate on the day designated to honor ALL mothers but instead must take a back seat to the day before the official holiday.

And yes, being a First Mom who dares to speak out against the day, I have heard all the reasons why such a day is a good thing. I’m aware that it was actually a First Mom who started Birth Mother’s Day. I know that many women who have lost their children to adoption find comfort in being honored for giving their child away as a gift to a couple who would not be parents without her sacrifice.

I’ve heard it over and over and over and over and over again. And I’m not even surprised by it. I was there once. I stood on my pedestal and held tight to my halo and believed I was worthy of being remembered and celebrated for the loving, mature “choice” I made to ensure my son had the kind of life I couldn’t offer him.

Had I known such a day existed while I was still deep in my denial, I’m sure I would have fought just as hard against anyone who spoke negative about it. I would have felt special for being honored for giving up my child. Proud that I could stand up on my pedestal and by thanked by the adoptive parents who saw me as the symbol for what made their family complete.

Back then it would have been exactly what I needed to remind me of the good thing I had done. It would have continued to keep away my true feelings. Would have made that sick knowledge I refused to accept, that I had given away my child, bury itself further in under the bright cloud of what a hero I was, how much I deserved to have a special day to be celebrated for what I did instead of being forced to recognize and accept the truth of what I ACTUALLY did.

But that was before . . .

Before I finally found the courage to break free from the fog and face the reality of what it was like to lose my son.

Before I stopped seeing things in the way the adoption industry wanted me to and began to see them in the true light of what it means to separate a mother and child.

Before I realized that it is easier, for so many, to accept the happy version of adoption rather than face the loss, pain and grief that comes with it.

See, whether or not Birth Mother’s Day was started by a First Mom or not. Whether it is a day that many accept the honor and celebration given to them. It is, in my book, still a day that shouldn’t exist.

Because it creates yet another false light to the truth of adoption, and encourages an acceptance of the many women and children who are unnecessarily separated.

Instead of honoring a mother for her “difficult decision” to give her child up, we should be mourning the fact that any mother, anywhere, faces such situations that they actually feel as if they have no other choice but to lose their child.

Instead of celebrating the supposed gift she gave to another couple, we should be questioning why she felt as if she wouldn’t be enough for her own child. What factors contributed to lowering her self-worth to the point she believed another woman was more worthy of her own son or daughter.

And instead of accepting a “special” day for her to be recognized, we should be fighting for her to be recognized long before adoption has ever taken place through un-biased counseling and legal protections against those who use coercion and manipulation to get her baby.

Birth Mother’s Day is yet another diversion from the truth that is adoption. It suggests that which we know, in our hearts and minds, makes no sense . . . that mothers are happy giving away their children and should be celebrated for doing so.

It’s another one of those logical realities that becomes completely illogical when adoption is thrown into the mix.

In any other situation, we would mourn and our hearts would break for any mother separated from her child without reason.

We would question how in the world any women could give away her child and then claim she was happily moving on with her life.

Our tears would flow for the innocent baby who no longer has a chance to hear his mother’s voice, smell her scent or be comforted next to the heartbeat he grew under for nine months.

And we would stand up and scream at anyone or anything that suggested children were nothing more than merchandise to be bought and sold.

But adoption changes it all and suddenly that which we would never accept becomes, not only accepted, but encouraged by so many. And Birth Mother’s Day does nothing but continue to feed such thoughts, such blindness to the true pain and damage of separating a mother and child.

It creates even thicker blinders so that nobody dares to step out and realize just how wrong adoption in today’s world truly is and creates even more support to continue blindly believing in an act that breaks one of the most important things of all . . .

The bond between a mother and her child.