Draft 1, scribbled on the back of an envelope while at a red light

Dear Birthmother,
Please pick me.

A friend of mine described it well: you know how Valentine’s Day sucks when you’re single, even when you pretend it’s no big deal? Mother’s Day is like that for a lot of us, who want to be parents and can’t get there on our own.

I spent Mother’s Day being very happy for my friends who were pregnant, getting a hug and a flower from Emily, a daughter-of-my-heart, and having a really good time hanging out with my own awesome mom.  I kept myself so busy with those things, that I simply had no time to be sad.

However, I did manage to steal three minutes to myself to start my Dear Birthmother letter. It seemed like the best not-sorry-for-myself way to celebrate the day “on the inside.” So.

Draft 1, scribbled on the back of an envelope while at a red light

Dear Birthmother,
Please pick me.

But of course, I can’t turn that one in.  There’s a strict outline, with about 5 pages of instructions, and then there’s photos to include.  (As in online-dating, pictures of cats are discouraged.)

Draft 2 was written while Paul pretty much held my hand because I was scared to start.  It’s impossible to write down the reason why I want to be a mother.  How could anybody ever explain a thing like that?  But it helps to think in categories: about the place I live, the things I’m good at, and the support I know I’ll have from my loved ones.

…from Draft 2…

I don’t think of myself as single:  I think of myself as a family of one, ready to grow.  I’ve always known I’d be a mother someday… all through my 20s I thought I would have a baby “eventually, just not yet.”  In the meantime, I was raising other children!  I worked as a nanny all through college, ran a preschool in graduate school, and then taught middle school for ten years.  I loved every minute and remember every single child.  My happiest days are the ones I spend with my niece and nephew, Jaden and Kyler, and with Emily, the little girl down the street.  (She lived with me for a while and we’re still very close.)

I knew I was ready to start a family one ordinary summer day.  It was just a quiet day at home, and I was looking at the sunlight coming through the window when  I heard a sound – not in my imagination, but with my real ears – and it sounded like yellow flowers blooming.  And I just knew:  something or someone had called to me.  I’ve been looking for my child ever since.

I live at the end of a quiet street in a neighborhood that is like a tiny microcosm of wacky, wonderful Durham:  my neighbors are African-American, Hispanic, and White; liberal grad students and well-to-do lesbian couples; conservative, gossipy old ladies on pensions and hard-working men with construction jobs.  We’re walking distance from the elementary school and the park, and a day-trip away from the beach in one direction and the mountains in the other.

My house is awash in waves of crayons, little misplaced socks, young adult novels and kids’ picture books, boxes of raisins and boxes of juice, drifting in and out like tides.  My front yard has random holes in the lawn where my nephew was “helping me garden.”  My front door boasts a bizarre “all-holiday” wreath with flowers, fall leaves, and Christmas baubles, made by my niece.  Stacks of graph paper, writing paper, and math worksheets wait near the dining room table where Emily does her homework.  There’s a tree in the backyard for climbing and a creek around the corner for adventures.  But my Christmas tree never looks right to me – there are empty branches where those little plaster handprint ornaments should be.  Someone is missing.

I have a close, loving, devoted family, and family-by-choice friends, who are all eager and excited to be part of this adventure.  My parents are retired and live nearby, and they’re planning to help with childcare when I need it.  I have several friends who are stay-home moms – and stay-home dads! – who have already suggested sharing babysitting days.  My child will have lots of those childhood friends who end up being like cousins in a big family circle. 

I do awesome crafts. I am very funny.  I’m a terrible gardener and an adventurous cook.  I hate Disney movies except for some of them.  I am against high-fructose corn sweeteners and in favor of bare feet and sticky fingers.  I do not fear the terrible twos or the terrible twelves or even the terrible twenties.

My Promise to You:

I’m going to be a fantastic mother.  I won’t give you any shit about smoking, and whenever you want to see the kid, it’s cool.  As far as I’m concerned, you’re family.

Well, it’s way over the word limit already, but it’s a start.

Meanwhile, scheduling the home-study visit: “Don’t stress; don’t worry; this isn’t a test, we’re just having a nice visit and there’s no need to prepare in any way.” Yeah… right.  So I’ll be spending the next two weeks finishing the bathroom floor putting up new curtains reorganizing all the closets cleaning everything twice framing my nephew’s artwork stashing clutter in the attic ironing all the laundry reorganizing the bookshelves weeding the flower bed and vegetable garden making cookies so the kitchen smells good and… well, honestly, hiring professional house-cleaners. (Everybody does it.)

Meanwhile, Happy Mother’s Day to Me. And to my mom, and to Christi, and all the moms in my family.

Happy Mother’s Day to my wonderful, amazing, brave friend, birthmother of my child, who is out there somewhere.  I hope I meet you soon!

And to my friends who have kids, and my friends who are pregnant, and my friends who are adopting, and my friends – heck, friends of both genders -  who are still working out their plan for starting a family, and also to my friends who don’t want to have kids, or who aren’t sure, because without your love and support I couldn’t imagine doing this at all.  Happy Mother’s Day.