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February 16, 2006

On Becoming A Mother -- How it Happened for Me

May 14, 2006 08:37 AM EDT

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From the time I was a toddler I assumed that like any woman, I would one day bear children and become a mother. It was a given in the early 1950's when the women's movement was just gearing up in the post-war era of peace. The genie had been let out of the bottle during the war, and women were not content to return to their homes and families, giving up their jobs. Still, when I was given a "baby doll" that wet and whose eyes closed when she reclined, I bought right into the whole mother notion. It's what I wanted to be. When my mother had my brother in my fourth year, I was ecstatic and fascinated by the whole process of making a baby come out of mama's stomach.

However, I wanted to be a doctor, and an Egyptologist, and study viruses and epidemics, and learn how the universe worked by studying astrophysics. But I still looked forward to the day when I would settle down with the man of my dreams, make a baby, and give birth. Heaven couldn't possibly be sweeter than that!

Puberty hit, and so did the snags. My periods were horrible if they came at all, and most of the time they didn't. I gained weight. I simply could not diet the weight off. I developed all sorts of symptoms that doctors scratched their heads over and blamed on my bad eating habits. It was a constant struggle. I was to find out forty years later that I had an actual hormonal imbalance called Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS). It was responsible for my weight, my inability to conceive a child, and my endometrial cancer. Once the disorder was diagnosed, it was too late for my dreams to bear a child. And by then I'd already been a mom for a decade and a half. You see, we adopted.

We were stationed overseas, at the Rota Naval Air Station in Spain. We got on a list to adopt through the legal office, babies born on the base to unwed mothers who agreed to relinquish their rights. That we got to the top of the list was miraculous, and in 1983, our son, Erik Stephen was born. He was the most amazing gift one woman can give another--a child of her body. We picked him up at the base hospital an hour after his USN petty officer birth mother was discharged. She had left the presents given to her at a baby shower her co-workers gave her. We knew from a mutual friend that she didn't want to maintain contact, so we honored that. He was a perfect baby, slept thorugh the night, was a little collicky, but healthy as a horse and bright, bright, bright. He actually said his first word at two months! It was, "Hi!", and three of us heard it that day. I joked and said, "That was gas!" and we had a laugh, but he continued to say it thereafter, as if it empowered him and gave him control. It took another three months before he began to use more than that first word, and then he never stopped, being a highly verbal person. ;-)

So, in spite of my infertility, I was blessed, like Pharoah's daughter, to become an adoptive mother. And that was just fine with me.

Except...

In my heart I know that never having given birth to a child was a small price to pay for having my heaven-sent son, Erik. He is the child of my hopes and soul. We are attached at the heart. He is turning into an ambitious yet caring young man, whose manners and vivacious personality make us proud parents.

Still...

I know it's selfish. My mom always laughs and says, "Hey, you did it the best way of all. Childbirth is hell! Believe me, you didn't miss much except the pain."

She's right, of course. When LaVerne is right, she's always really right.

So, why do I still feel the pangs of sadness? Why did I apologize to my female organs the night before they were removed--to take away my cancer--and tell them that I forgave them for never quite working right? Why does missing out on being pregnant and delivering a child still tear me up?

What it all boils down to is that little four year old girl with her blonde ringlets and baby doll, who knew from her earliest memories that becoming a mother was her birthright. But more than becoming a mother, because I did that, and rather successfully, the birthright was birthing...sex, sperm, conception, pregnancy, childbirth. That little girl, who was a stickler for fairness, still thinks it isn't fair. Women have babies all the time, some of them don't even want their babies, but we got cheated!

Isn't that just the most selfish thing you've ever heard? I keep telling myself that, but the grumpy little girl just won't let go of her dream, and I keep getting reminded of the fact that I'll never bear a child. It is the shattered dreams that are the nightmares, you know, because they won't let go, no matter how much rationalization, cognitive therapy, and journalizing you use against them.

Today is Mother's Day. I did it! I qualify! We are blessed with an incredible child, and all three of us know it's the caring, not the bearing that is important. Perhaps this Mother's Day is a turning point for me and that little girl who won't let go of her dream. Erik is going on 23, and planning to move out on his own. I'm pushing 60, though it's more a case of just leaning back against it and letting gravity and linear momentum do all the work. If I hadn't had the hysterectomy, I'd still most likely be in menopause, so no harm, no foul. At least I'm alive to watch our wonderful son take on the world and successfully work on his short and long-term goals. I'm a crone-in-training, and I think I'm going to like my cronehood...all that wisdom, the experiential knowledge, the ability to pass on what I've learned. That is filling up the hole that never bearing a child left in my soul. And when that sullen little girl comes to visit, I hand her a baby-doll, give her a long hug, and pour us each a cup of tea. Before we know it, we're remembering the fun, the joys, the challenges, and the triumphs.Shattered dreams can be swept away. I know that now.

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