 by Hannah Andrews Both of my mothers are dead. My first mother died in 2009. My adoptive mother died in 2017. To further complicate things, that is not the order in which I experienced it. I never got to meet my first mother, so in my alternate adoptee timeline, I experienced the death of my adoptive mother first. Two years later, I confirmed the name of my birth mother and spent the next year searching, only to learn she’d already passed. May of 2020, the pandemic raging and the world or at least my world of Southern California still in lockdown, became my first Double Motherless Day.
I loved Mother’s Day as a child. I cut out construction paper hearts, wrote poems, snipped roses for my mother. Even as an adult, my brothers and I would compete to be the first to call her from our respective homes. I’m fairly certain now that some part of that was a subconscious assurance that we wouldn’t get given away again, but leave that alone for now. It was the world outside my family circle that soured my taste for Mother’s Day. Once I reached the proper age for mothering, it seemed the world turned against me. When I was in my 20s and 30s, I traveled a lot for work. I would undoubtedly find myself rushing through an airport on Mother’s Day. Well-wishing flight attendants, airline employees, and fellow travelers sing-songed their “Happy Mother’s Day” to me, smiles plastered. Their words were like nails on the chalkboard to me. It felt like a judgment. Why hadn’t I contributed to society by reproducing? Every other woman my age seemed to be a mother, so why wasn’t I? Self-infliction turned their smiles to sneers, their words to pin-pricks. “Thank you,” I’d say anyway, sometimes adding, “but I’m not a mom.” This addendum was often a shameful admission that I didn’t deserve the greeting. I’m not even a mom, so I shouldn’t accept a “Happy Mother’s Day.” Like when someone compliments your shirt, and you have to tell them it was on sale, or it used to fit better, or you borrowed it or whatever. All the excuses you throw out because you feel you don’t deserve credit, not even for a shirt. Other times it was a jab back. How dare you “Happy Mother’s Day” me! I had made the modern Gen X decision NOT to procreate. I refused to be defined by stereotypical female roles. Mind you, most of my Gen X friends either had already chosen or would eventually choose motherhood. Still, I clung to it like some trophy from the “not everyone gets a trophy” generation. Or maybe it was far more complicated. Of course it is. BECAUSE I’M ADOPTED. Here’s my latest revelation on me. I spent my life feasting on a shame buffet, and maybe not becoming a mother was dessert. Yeah, its a super weird analogy, but I’m keeping it. My birth mother did what my adoptive mother couldn’t. She carried me and gave birth. Her womb worked. Except, it worked at the wrong time. She was too young, had no husband, and couldn’t possibly be a fit mother. Naughty uterus! My adoptive mother did everything society told her to do. Married. College graduate. She certainly didn’t “come home pregnant” in high school because she was a “good girl.” I’m not attacking her 1950s teen character, (or anyone’s) but here’s the kicker. She could’ve been a bad girl if she’d wanted. There would’ve been no obvious proof. The only proof in the bad girls pudding was an unwed pregnancy. My mom could have been as naughty as she wanted and the world would’ve never known because she couldn’t get pregnant. Her womb didn’t work. My existence and then my altered existence were the result of one woman’s fertility and another woman’s infertility. One ended in loss, one began in loss, both were shamed. I am a product of loss and shame. It’s no wonder I have a skewed view of motherhood. Maybe my decision to not have children was a form of spite. I had choices neither of them had. I could give birth, but I wouldn’t. I could adopt, but I wouldn’t. I would snub both of them by becoming like neither. And of course, there was this: Part of me thought I couldn’t possibly be a good mother. My own mother had thrown me away, after all. As far as my adoptive mother, I didn’t think I could live up to her example. She was a good mother, even when I was a mean daughter, which was, especially during my teens, much of the time. I often pushed her to her limits, my adoptee “leave me alone” and “please never leave me” emotional tug of war. All the times I pushed her, dared her to not love me, she instead gave me unconditional love. Except it wasn’t. She only even knew me or loved me because of the “condition” of adoption. Only became my mother because of infertility and happenstance. In the end, we had a decent relationship, and while she was no saint, she was a better mother, I was sure, than I could ever be. Ironically, though I chose not to become a mother, my life remained about mothering. It was always about mothers. Mothers have defined my life. One “left” me. One “chose” me. One I never knew, and one I don’t think I ever truly let know me. How could I? I barely knew myself then. Both mothers died before I “came out of the fog” and realized how complicated this all was. In the last five years, the stories of adoptees and mothers have opened my eyes. I expected to learn from adoptees, but I was surprised how much mothers taught me. Meeting a birthmother prompted my search. Reading about and meeting birthmothers, talking to adoptive and foster mothers, and meeting adopted women who then became mothers has taught me so much about myself. I am now a part of this community of mothers, some of whom are also adoptees. Some of those adoptees had the same fears I once had. This community helps me wrestle with all that is inside me, and in doing so, facilitates healing. I’m learning from, and leaning on the mothers around me. I’ve taken to mothering myself lately, holding space for that lonely little kid and that angry teen inside me, and having patience with myself as my story evolves. The woman who gave birth to me and the woman I raised are no longer in this world, but they’re forever in my heart, as are the mothers who’ve (knowingly or not) served as beacons through my foggy relearning of adoption. So thank you for everyone sharing their story in blogs, at conventions, in books, wherever and however you share them. Maybe it seems like you’re screaming into the void sometimes. Please know your words and stories matter. You screamed into my void and changed my life. No more Double Mother-less Days for me. Thanks for reading. Hannah AKA invites you to hear from members of the extended family of adoption and the surrounding community. While we take great care in curating the content, please know:
1 Comment
Rebecca Cohen
5/30/2024 03:12:28 pm
Hannah, you've done it again! I feel all of this and love how eloquently you put into words the inchoate swirlings I feel. Thank you, thank you. Leave a Reply. |
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