Sometimes, when the world around me has gone to sleep or not yet awoken, I gingerly crack open a secret door inside my head and sift through my grab-bag of feelings about my birth son.
From the moment I learned I was carrying my birth son inside me, I loved him. And this will be true until I am old, gray, and taking my last breath. I know that the story that unfolds between now and then will determine how he perceives my love. But I think that I had expected my thoughts about him to never be anything but good. To feel any other way about one’s child was something shameful, cold-hearted women who lacked maternal instincts did. Or so I thought.
Unrealistic Expectations
Last spring, my five-year-old daughter and I visited my eight-year-old birth son. Though our visits have always been emotionally challenging, we both looked forward to the trip. Yet, when we left his home after our four-day visit, I wondered whether I would ever return—a most unexpected reaction after years spent reinforcing my commitment to him.
The day we arrived, I spent the afternoon on the trampoline with the kids. My birth son continually sent my daughter flying up as high as he could, only to bounce at just the right moment to make her fall when she returned from the sky. He tried to exclude her as we played and was so rough that I lost count of how many times he made her cry that afternoon. I felt like a referee in a long, unfair wrestling match. I hadn’t anticipated sibling rivalry, if that’s what this was.
Over the next two days, his behavior exhausted me. He stood up in the backseat of the car as I drove down the freeway, extending his seatbelt out so far that it was useless. He ripped my daughter’s favorite stickers in half, leaving me with no explanation that would soothe her. And when I took the kids shopping, he behaved outrageously, knocking items off the store’s shelves (proclaiming it an accident every time).
Throughout the visit, I was horrified as he spoke to his parents in ways I would never tolerate. Finally, on our last evening together, he demanded that his father—one of the kindest, most patient men on the face of the earth—leave the room because he wanted to be with me alone. I wanted to morph into a little bug and scurry away unnoticed.
In my heart, it seemed like years since I’d mailed him a bird feeder like the one that hung in my backyard. On the accompanying card, I’d explained that we could look out our windows and see the same thing on the same day, even though we were 1,000 miles apart. It was my way of saying, “I will never leave you. I simply cannot raise you.” At this point in our visit, I wondered whether this was still true.
On the day we returned home, I was confused and disappointed. I hadn’t seen the thoughtful, fun-loving boy his parents knew and adored—and who I remembered from past visits. And I felt mortified because I had filled my daughter’s heart with unrealistic expectations about this visit. All I wanted was the comfort and refuge of my home.
During the months following our visit, our usual communication via e-mails, cards, pictures, and calls fizzled to almost nothing. Yet I felt indifferent to any further contact at the moment. The silence protected me from the tangled emotions hiding in the back of my mind.
Moving Forward
Then, one afternoon, out of the blue, my birth son called me. The conversation wasn’t extraordinary, but getting the call was. He was sweet and “in the moment” as he shared his daily activities with me. At the moment I heard his voice, I realized that my commitment to him could overcome any challenges we might face.
Since then, our usual contact has resumed, and we’re even planning another visit this summer. My emotions remain complex, but I expect they always will be. And they have taught me something invaluable: while they are, indeed, a part of our story, they have no bearing on the commitment I made to my son. Regardless of whether his behavior evens out, I will be there through all our ups and downs, and I only hope that he will recognize this as love.
