I was the kid who wanted to be a mother. The one who volunteered to
change dirty cloth diapers and babies and cousins and siblings for
free. I was the one who wanted 6 kids, even in my glamorous teenage
years when my friends couldn't imagine anything so gross. ('Course I
wasn't sure how I'd have them, because sex was too scary to think
about.) I wanted to be a midwife in elementary school, when no other
kid even knew the word. And I was surrounded by babies, being the
oldest of four siblings and twelve cousins in a neighbourhood of kids.
I saw aunties and friends growing babies in their tummies, then visited
them with new babes and saw them nursing their little darlings. It was
all so beautifully normal and healthy and right.

I remember when I was twelve, lying in bed thinking I had
appendicitis. I had a sharp searing pain in my lower belly and couldn't
stand up. It went away, and I just kind of forgot about it. I don't
even think I told my Mum about it. During puberty I was disgusted to
see I was getting stray dark hairs on my face, tummy, and breasts. I
didn't see anyone else that had this nasty problem. Something was
different about me, but I didn't want to talk about it. It wasn't nice.

I got my period when I was 13. Once. Hmmmm. Didn't seem all that
normal, but I didn't do anything about it. We all know it takes a few
years to get "regular." Sometimes I'd get my period every two weeks,
and sometimes it would be several months in between. Most young
teenagers aren't into stripping for their male family doctor, so I
don't imagine I was unusual in that regard. I was scared he might do a
pelvic exam! I wanted to see a doctor, because I knew something was
off, but didn't have the courage to bare my vulnerable, abnormal body
to him.

Eventually I went, but he didn't think it was anything of concern
and did nothing. I was devastated, after using all my courage to get
myself there, that he didn't investigate further. Another doctor later
ordered an ultrasound of my ovaries, and it was discovered, with labs
and bloodwork, that I suffered from Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS).
At 15, I faced possible infertility. I was upset, but would cross that
bridge if I ever got to it.

When I was married, my husband David shared my dreams of babies. He
is one of seven children and always assumed that he would have a
family. We had talked about the fact that I might be unable to conceive
when we were dating, and we both figured we'd just wait and see. After
we'd been married about a year, we started trying to conceive. When
nothing happened after six months of careful charting, we went to an
OB/GYN who did more testing and tried me on Clomiphene, which increases
the chances of ovulation in non-ovulating women like me.

I didn't ovulate, even on triple doses. I did, however, seriously
consider seeing a psychiatrist because I had swings of rage, then
crying, then apologising profusely and hating myself (and I didn't know
this was a Clomid side-effect.) It was incredibly exhausting, and I
suffered from non-stop hot flashes that drained me physically and
emotionally. Around this time, we started to learn a little about
adoption. We were beginning to realize that being parents was our
priority, not so much bearing those children.

When I look back now at that time, it seems so short. But at the
time there was such agony. Such frustration that I couldn't do this
most female thing. I Was Not Like Other Women. I remember praying and
crying that my desire for a family would be taken from me if it wasn't
going to happen. I was so blinded by the pain and frustration that I
couldn't see straight. Why was this my trial? There was stress on our
marriage because my husband couldn't make it better, and I didn't see
how he could understand anyway.

I remember hearing Creed's song "Arms Wide Open." It fit the way I
felt, as I held my arms open, welcoming our potential children. It was
popular throughout that whole time. But as I kept getting negative
tests and feeling more failure each time, it came to represent me
standing here all alone, with empty arms, no babies in them. Now when I
hear that song, I still sob. It brings every feeling back again so
clearly.

We contacted an agency and started the adoption homestudy process.
We also met with a Reproductive Endocrinologist (fertility specialist)
at a local IVF clinic. He felt our chances were good and gave us a lot
of insight, but the expense (thousands of dollars per cycle, when
several cycles are usually necessary) was beyond our grasp. It became a
matter of simple financial logic: If the price for an adoption was the
same as the price of one month of fertility treatments, it just seemed
more sensible for us to pursue adoption. For some people, the
biological connection is very important, and they also need to listen
to their hearts. But for us, a child was the priority more than
anything else.

"Resentment" is the word I use when I describe my feelings about the
adoption process. Resentment over the intrusion into our lives.
Resentment that all kinds of people can have a baby at will: people on
the news that abuse or neglect their children, or friends I know that
just don't appreciate how blessed they are to have them. Resentment
that I have to prove I will be a good mother, when who really knows?
Resentment at the cost, and paperwork, and background checks, and
classes, and counselling, and home inspection, and effort. Resentment
that I have to make up correct and believable answers to fill in these
reams of forms. How do I know my style of parenting when I don't have
any children? I understand that agencies and social workers and, most
importantly, birthfamilies, need to know who we are, but when I compare
my preparation experience to those of biological parents, I still feel
that resentment. I resent my body that has betrayed me and hasn't made
my journey to motherhood a simple path. I resent life's cruel irony
that I, who have looked forward to having children my whole life, am
one who has to struggle to get there.

The reactions of others has always surprised me. When I told people
that we were pursuing adoption, I got responses like, "Oh, but you're
so young." Like I was taking some sad, desperate step that was second
best. Some people seemed smug: "I just have to think about my husband
and I get pregnant. I guess I have the opposite problem to you." Some
people were encouraging and excited along with us, telling us of how
they adopted their children, or that they themselves were adopted. A
few people teased us that we were doing it "the easy way." And I had a
couple of women open up and say that they had placed their own babies
for adoption years before, and it was still a sad secret for them.

Adoption is an interesting thing that invites all kinds of intrusive
questions or strong opinions. It's one of those things on which
everyone is an expert. I see my sister and her husband having their
babies, and it's private. They decide they want a baby, try to
conceive, conceive, tell people, get excited reactions, and expect a
baby around the predicted time. When you make your private goals
public, like you do with adoption, people really feel they have the
right to give their input. They are well-meaning but ignorant about
adoption. Most of their ideas about adoption come from the media. "What
if the real mother changes her mind. What will you do then?" Do they
honestly think I haven't obsessed about that? That this is a new
concept to me? Do they think that I, the one actually taking this risk,
am unaware of that possibility?

Once our homestudy was complete, it was time to just proceed with
our lives and wait for a prospective birthfamily to see our profile and
select us. It's hard to feel like you can't make any plans. Because you
might have a baby soon. Because it might take a few weeks or it might
take ten years. Because it's still just a dream in your head. It's too
unreal to consider actually being parents one day.

Sure enough, the only time we went on vacation in the year following
our homestudy completion, our social worker called around trying to get
hold of us. A potential birthmother wanted to talk to us as she made
decisions about her baby. It's not a sure thing. Can we set up a
conference call? She just wants to see what we sound like. No pressure,
of course. Just be yourself and see how things go. Very Very Scary.
Could we pass the Test?

Except it wasn't scary. She was sweet, and I could feel how huge
this was for her. It's so easy to be selfish and think about how things
affect us. But this was all about her. She needed to feel peace about
where her baby would go. And she entirely deserved the right to make
and unmake that decision if she needed to. She asked us a few questions
and we talked a little bit, and then she said that she wanted us to be
her baby's parents! She had chosen us already and just needed to
confirm it by talking to us. She wanted to tell us herself. It's such a
tricky thing to balance, because I was hurting so much for her, but I
was excited for us. That guilt is important, I believe. Knowing and
seeing her struggle made me really appreciate her baby when he was
ours.

He was born less than two weeks after that conversation. I remember
praying that he would be born on his due date. I didn't think I could
wait longer than that. He was born on that due date, and he was the
little boy his birthmama felt he was. The hospital didn't call us,
though. Either they forgot, or some staff member with an opinion
decided not to call us. We didn't find out until two days later that he
had been born. His birthparents had wanted us there, but no one called
us. So I see it goes both ways. They were also met with judgments and
rules and barriers that they hadn't anticipated. How disrespectful that
was. They only had a few days with their son and they needed to have
things go their way. They deserved to have no regrets.

We flew out to meet the birthfamily and this little guy who would
join our family. His birthmother, birthfather, birthmother's parents,
and two of her sisters were there at the placement. It was good for us
to meet them and see them as real people in a real family who were
trying to do what was best. To do what they felt was peaceful and
right, but still so painfully difficult.

Maybe that's what has made adoption negative for some people. They
haven't seen the faces of those affected. They just imagine some
distant person who gave away a baby. Who could ever do such a thing?
And it's easy to judge when you don't know the story. To see them was
to love them, for us. They had given us the most precious thing there
is. And we understood much more about it than we did before. We wanted
to do anything we could to alleviate their pain and thank them for this
sacrifice they made. So we worked on building a wide-open adoption
arrangement.

That scared people even more. Why on earth would I invite these
people into my home? Had I really thought about this? What if they took
off with our baby? Didn't we need to "move on"? Wouldn't it be harder
for them to see him in our family? Wouldn't our son be confused and
want to go live with them when he was older? Didn't they need to "move
on" with their lives and forget about it? I couldn't believe that
people were so concerned. Fear Of The Unknown. It made them
uncomfortable. But while it was new for us too, it felt right. It gave
us all connection, and comfort, and a relationship unlike anything
else. We got to know each other better through calls and emails and
visits. They are now just completely part of our family. We have been
blessed with a richness in our friendship. We love each other. No one
else wants to talk about, and love, and do what's best for your child
quite like his other parents do. We felt that it was right to open his
adoption, and it has been a wonderful journey.

And interestingly enough, it led to our next child. We had wanted
more children, but it just didn't seem possible. I mean, odds were
against us the first time, and we didn't dare ask for another gift like
that. But one day when our son's birthfather called to talk, he asked
if we wanted more children. I said we did, but that we didn't really
think it was likely. He said he knew someone who was trying to decide
what was best for her baby, and wondered if we would mind if he gave
her our phone number. Of course I said yes, but it didn't seem that
anything would come of it. I was very surprised to get a call from her
a couple of days later. We became friends and talked about our first
adoption and how it had worked out for us. She would vent about her
pregnancy, roommates, school, and anything else on her mind. We built a
relationship. But I still didn't dare dream that she would place her
baby with us. She was only three or four months pregnant and had plenty
of time to decide whether she would parent her little one or not. But
she felt she should place her baby with us.

At this point our first son, Cole, was a year old, and this
potential birthmother came out with Cole's birthfather to visit us. We
had fun, visiting the Aquarium (she'd never seen the ocean before),
hanging out, and building a relationship. What a thrill to see her
beautiful belly growing and nourishing this baby. It gave us a
different perspective, knowing her from earlier in her pregnancy like
that. We stayed in contact every few days until she went into labour,
then flew out to the hospital. This time she called me herself and we
made it in time for our second son's birth! Our first son's
birthparents "babysat" him while we were back and forth from the
hospital. I was overwhelmed at how meaningful it was to be there as
Adam was born. What a gift to see him enter the world, to cut his cord
and then see him nurse at his birthmama's breast. We stayed at Cole's
birthfather's house while we were in Calgary.

The official placement was less formal this time. Consents were
signed and everything went well. Just as tearful and raw as with Cole,
but less unsure. Adam's birthmother and birthgrandma came to the
airport to see us off, and we visited and ate and said goodbye as
friends. It's funny how many emotions we can feel in such a short
period of time. Delight, fear, sorrow, sympathy, excitement,
exhaustion, anticipation, pain, sadness. We arrived home with our two
little bundles of boy. What an adventure. Daddy had the toddler, and
Mama had the baby on the plane. I got the easier deal!

Adam's birthmother felt a little blue post-partum, common whether
women have their babies with them or not. But feeling sad and missing
him can be interpreted by others as regret. She feels things have
worked out as they should, but those first days were hard on her as she
doubted herself while fluctuating hormonally. And it was hard on us as
we feared she would revoke her consent to the adoption. While I fully
support a woman's right to consent to adoption and to revoke that
consent, it's still difficult to wait out the first days when it's your
family that is at risk. It's amazing how instantly these children are
our kin.

I had breastfed Cole, and with the extra time on our hands while
waiting for Adam, I prepared to do so again. It was evidence that we
were going to have a baby, something to remind me it was real,
somewhere to put my energy. Through taking medication, supplements, and
pumping, I was in awe to see I had an adequate milk supply. I had
nursed Cole for several months and supplemented feedings with donor
milk or formula. It was so wonderful to be able to comfort him and
attach to him, while offering my own milk. But because of the extra
time we had before Adam was born, I was pumping a couple of ounces a
few times a day by his due date, and was able to put him to the breast
and satisfy him. What a miracle. It was much more than I'd expected. It
was so affirming to see him latch on to his birthmother in the hospital
and get her precious colostrum, then snuggle into me and drink more. We
joke now how it was so great to pass him back and forth whenever one of
us needed a break, or felt full and needed to nurse. Such convenience!
He didn't lose any weight in those first few days like most newborns
do. What a lucky baby.

It's different now when I look at my rambunctious, destructive,
intelligent little boys, now ages 3 and 4. When I was banging my head
against the wall, cursing my barren self, I couldn't imagine there was
a purpose in any of it. It felt like God had shut me out. But I see now
that this was the plan for us. It has all worked out as it should. We
wouldn't have had these experiences or these children without those
trials. Their birthfamilies wouldn't be our family.

I wouldn't have as much to offer the world in the way of experience
or support to others. While breastfeeding is more complex than science
will ever know, I couldn't have offered much new to the lactation world
had my children been born to me. Adoptive nursing is still
under-studied, and I have been able to share my experiences and support
hundreds of women worldwide. Because of being part of Adam's birth, I
realized my potential as a birthcompanion and have been able to support
and advocate for women in their birth experiences. I have that passion
for pregnancy and birth and breastfeeding. And so do both my sisters,
partly through my influence. We want to have a group midwifery practice
together one day.

My children just have more people in their lives to fiercely love
them. They know who their birthparents are and they can ask them about
their adoptions. They know that they didn't grow in my tummy, but they
know they are my boys. How fun it is for them to visit all these extra
relatives on vacations. If they get difficult in their teens and run
away from home to live with their birthparents, I know who they are
with. They're my friends and I trust them to talk to our boys and send
them home or love them through it. I trust their judgement. The fears
that others have aren't mine. Things are as they should be.

In my work as a breastfeeding counsellor and birthcompanion, I have
been able to build my own experiences. I have put the dreams and energy
I had for my birth experiences into supporting other women to have
their ideal birth experiences. I still fantasize about a beautiful
gentle homebirth experience where I powerfully birth a sweet baby, but
I think it's more the experience that I wish for, not the baby. To be
quite honest, having children biologically scares me. Not because of
the pain or the effort, which I am quite comfortable with through my
doula work, but because I don't see my genes as being any kind of
advantage to our potential children. What's so great about me? I can't
imagine any children I could bear being as beautiful as these who came
to us through another family!

I am at peace. We don't feel "done" like people say they do when
their families are complete. We want more children. I don't know how
likely that is, but we're doing our part by applying to adopt again. I
don't have any kind of timetable, and I figure that the right child
will come to us when and if the time is ever right again. I don't wish
for "a" baby anymore; I trust that "our" baby will come when he or she
is ready. My kids are more impatient than I am. Always telling people
we're going to have a baby girl soon. Last night Cole told me we're
going to name her "Lovely" because she will be lovely. I'm sure she
will be. Hmmm. I'm pretty comfortable with boys though. We've got the
stuff, a few more could fit right into our crazy house. But I'll
exercise that trust I mentioned before, that things will work out as
they should. It's been true so far