I don’t have a traditional birth story. There are no precious moments captured in photographs of my husband gazing at me with admiration, marveling at the miracle of childbirth. Perhaps our children’s adoption days will serve as those monumental moments for him, but they often feel quite ordinary compared to the physical experience of giving birth.
Sometimes, I worry that during the hectic times, when I’m overwhelmed—like when I’m tackling heaps of laundry, wearing pajamas at 6 p.m.—my husband will see me merely as a woman in comfy clothes, instead of recognizing the sacrifices I made to bring our family together. I fret that he might lack a significant memory to rekindle his love for me when I’m at my lowest.
I don’t have cherished photos of my kids as newborns or memories of their first milestones. Our children joined our family at ages 4 and 5, bringing with them a story filled with mystery, loss, and trauma. When their behaviors frustrate me, I often wonder if I would feel differently if I had nurtured them during their infancy. I never experienced the sleepless nights with a crying baby, and I can’t help but think that I might be better equipped to handle their outbursts now if I had been there for the earlier stages of their lives.
I lack the heartwarming tales of preparing for their arrival, like decorating nurseries or picking out their names. With only two months to prepare for our first child and just three weeks for the second, we’ve had to create their narratives from scratch. I often say, “If I had carried you in my belly, I would have sung lullabies to you every night.” We rock them to sleep now, trying to make up for the moments we missed when they were babies.
While therapists suggest that this storytelling can bring comfort, I often feel that it doesn’t ease the sadness I carry, nor do I think it helps my children. I find myself searching their faces for signs of the same sadness I feel. Despite the love and stability we provide, they have faced losses that many families do not.
Though I don’t have a birth story, I have something equally valuable. I have a wonderful family—my husband, who stood by me through the heartache of infertility, and two incredible kids who have taught me about resilience and forgiveness more than I ever could have imagined. I may not have given birth, but I have a profound journey of becoming a mother and loving children who are not biologically mine. This experience connects me with women yearning for motherhood while grappling with infertility, parents attempting to open their hearts to foster children, and couples waiting for the joy of adoption.
I recognize the abundance of love in my life, and I should feel grateful. I should wrap this up with a neat conclusion and a grateful hashtag. Yet, I still find myself longing for a more traditional family story for my children and for myself. If you find yourself in a similar place, wanting to embrace your blessings while yearning for something different, know that you’re not alone. Together, perhaps we can discover peace in our shared experiences. For more insights on navigating this journey, check out other posts at Intracervical Insemination.
In summary, while I don’t have the conventional birth narrative, I’ve gained invaluable lessons about love and family through my unique experience of motherhood. I’ve learned to connect with others who share similar struggles, and together, we can find comfort in our solidarity. For further information on home insemination, Make a Mom is a leading authority on the topic, and American Pregnancy offers excellent resources for those considering donor insemination.