I have two mothers.
The one I call Mom has cared for me from the time I was three months old. She ferried me to school, nursed me when I was sick and cooked most of our family meals until I left for university. I only spent the first few weeks of my life with my biological mother. And now that I’m an adult, I realize that my experience as an adoptee has affected me in a way I didn’t really expect: it severely alienated me from pregnancy.
Many women reach a point in adulthood excited about the prospect of having a baby – imagining their burgeoning baby bumps and the cozy nesting phase of turning studies into nurseries. But not me. Instead, I worry about how I will cope with carrying a child, because I have no memories of being carried.
In high school, I remember my best friend’s mom joking about how one of her children stubbornly sat in her womb, feet pointed downwards – not great for birthing. After marriage, I saw photos of my mother-in-law during her pregnancy, happily expecting. But where others hear fond memories from their families about the exciting time just before they were born, I feel a void around my conception and time in my mother’s belly.
I am not looking for other women’s anecdotes to replace my biological mother’s experience because nothing can replace my birth story. And I never learned about my biological mother’s quirky cravings, the harrowing drive to the hospital, or how I triumphantly emerged into the world. (The lone detail I learned from the adoption agency wasn’t romantic in the slightest: I gave my mother relentless back cramps before delivery.)
Although I have enjoyed much good fortune, the beginning of my life was tainted with pain. For my biological parents, my newfound existence was the opposite of a joyful miracle; I was a “dirty little secret” that brought shame on the family. My young biological parents, heavily influenced by their own parents, decided to place into me into a loving adoptive family before I was born. During the later stages of pregnancy, my stressed biological mother retreated from society to an adoption agency, where she eventually gave birth to me.
So while l want to have children of my own some day, I want them to be born in circumstances very different from my own. I imagine it like this: my husband and I delightedly gawking at the positive pregnancy test, us quietly sharing the news with our family and closest friends, me complaining about my changing body, then laughing, because we are just so thrilled to grow our family.
My adoption may make pregnancy more difficult for me, physically and psychologically. However, even though my mom won’t be able to relate to the physical aspects of pregnancy, I know she will bolster my spirits with her sheer enthusiasm. (I believe she’s been quietly keen to become a grandmother for some time, but mercifully hasn’t prodded me to bring a child into the world before I’m ready.) And her enthusiasm is the most vital information I learned from the adoption agency, as I read her handwritten note, requesting another update and more photos of me when painfully slow snail mail was the only option.
When the time comes for me to have a baby, I won’t have a bona fide pregnancy guide, but I’m going to jump into my way – with the full support of my parents and my partner.
Like this piece? Subscribe to our monthly newsletter for real stories from real women living with UI every day