Parenting
My three children all have my smile. It’s a distinctive trait that connects them to me, a small piece of evidence of our bond. When I look back at baby photos, I can spot elements of my oldest in my middle child, and traces of my youngest in the oldest. They all share that familiar twinkle in their eyes.
I find myself on my couch in sunny Hawaii, cradling my 12-week-old son while my 3-year-old enjoys the playground with his dad. Meanwhile, my 17-year-old is in Virginia, likely settling down for the night in the home of the family who has raised him since birth.
Being a birth mom comes with a unique set of challenges. When people ask if my two younger boys are my only children, I hesitate, caught between the urge to share my story and the simplicity of saying, “Yes.” It’s a sentiment that resonates with parents who have experienced loss; the desire to honor a child’s memory often clashes with the practicality of daily conversation.
To be candid, adoption is a beautiful and life-affirming choice, one that I wholeheartedly embrace. Yet, it can also be intensely painful. The ache of that reality has not lessened with time; if anything, the arrival of my younger son has brought those feelings to the forefront.
Just last week, in a vulnerable moment, the truth struck me: I have a piece of me, my flesh and blood, living outside of my home and away from me. He has never been in my care, and quite frankly, he was never meant to be. He belongs with his adoptive family, and that was always part of the plan.
While I have found peace with my decision since I met his adoptive parents 18 years ago, the emotional weight remains. The joy of raising my own children sometimes makes the longing for what could have been more pronounced. It’s not regret I feel, but a deep yearning for a relationship that exists only in my heart and memories.
Seventeen years ago, I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. I never held him close during late-night feedings, nor did I comfort him through his childhood challenges. Instead, I’ve watched from a distance as he has flourished in a loving home, while I navigated my own life—graduating from college, making friends, dating, and discovering my own place in the world.
I recognize how fortunate I am to still be a part of his life. His adoptive mom has been a sister to me, sharing him and generously offering her love. She embodies the mother I wish I could have been for him, and her presence has been a source of strength for me on tough days.
Giving birth is a transformative experience, but it doesn’t define motherhood. It alters your heart and spirit to know that a piece of you is being nurtured by someone else. I carried my son for nine months, and when the time came, I entrusted him to his mom, leaving behind a part of my heart. I miss the son I never had the chance to raise. I am a birth mom, and that journey is uniquely mine.
For those navigating similar paths, you may find insightful resources at Science Daily. If you’re interested in boosting your fertility knowledge, check out Make A Mom. If you have questions about home insemination, feel free to explore more at Intracervical Insemination.
In summary, being a birth mother is a journey filled with contradictions—joy intertwined with longing, love mingled with heartache. It’s a testament to the complexity of family and the myriad ways we connect with our children.