I recently saw my daughter for the first time in about a year. She turned 6 this past fall, is going to school, and looks just like me. She calls me by my name. I think if she ever called me her mother, I’d cry as I corrected her. She may be my daughter, but I am not her active parent, her active mother. I am her birthmom- not as a derogatory term, but simply as a clarification. A different type of mother.
My magical fairy daughter was born when I was 15. I kept her for 6 months, due to legal issues with the father. I wound up struggling through that time, loving and fearing everything, until I could give her to her mother and father. They are more than I could ever ask parents to be- loving, caring, supportive, strong, stable, beautiful souls. They’ve kept contact open since the day they brought her home, and thank me every time they see me for “everything.” We exchange emails, pictures, news, and stories. I love them with every bit of strength I have. Continue reading "I saw my birthdaughter, she loves me" →
So there I was: nine months of being called sir because of the Sinead O’Connor hairstyle (despite the ever growing belly), three months of craving beer like there was no tomorrow and enduring one of the hottest summers in New Mexico history with a tiny little space heater inside of me, numerous bad looks and negative comments regarding my plans to place my child with an adoptive couple (it didn’t seem to matter that it would be an open adoption and I’d still be a part of his life), absolutely no birthing classes (I couldn't justify spending good money on something that mankind has done it's entire existence), being arrested at 8 and a half months, and one woman who thought my son was a tumor (mostly because I, uh, told her that I was undergoing chemotherapy and would she kindly take her hand off my tumor… but I only did it because she needed to learn that it’s not okay to touch strangers, even pregnant ones).
