About Cheerio

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In general I am a cheery and energetic person. But I am enshrouded in a cloak of iron. That cloak is the weight of greiving my son, whom I've lost to adoption.

Thursday, June 19, 2008

When does the Winning Begin?

I can't count how many times I've heard "adoption ... it's a win/win situation."
Well, please tell me when does the winning begin for me.
Does it begin at birth when I held him in my arms and said goodbye?
Does it begin when I walk out of the hospital in so much pain it hurt to breathe?
Does it begin when Thanksgiving rolls around, and no one sets a place for him?
Does it begin when searching through all the lovely wrapped presents under the Christmas tree, but none have his name on it?
Does it begin on Mother's Day, and I look in the mirror and feel hollow because I am not mothering my son?
Does it begin when a pregnant gal is talking about her experiences and then says, Oh, you've never been pregnant! You wouldn't know/understand?
Does it begin when I get invitations for baby showers for my friends?
Does it begin when I search the rack of cards, and have to pass over the ones labeled "to my SON"?
Does it begin as I spend hours searching stores and the internet trying to find a birthday gift that might be meaningful to my son, whom I do not even know?
Does it begin when I go to church and see the proud parents holding their child on 'child dedication Sunday'?
Does it begin when he got his first tooth, and I did not put it under his pillow?
Does it begin when he rides his bike for the first time?
Does it begin when he smiles sheepishly as he heads off to his first day of school?
Does it begin when he runs in the house and yells a loud cheer that school's out and summer's here?
Does it begin when he has his 16th birthday, and I don't get an invitation to the celebration?
Does it begin when he has his first date? His first sweetheart? His first innocent kiss? and I've never met her?
Does it begin when he walks down the aisle in his cap and gown, and I'm not in the stands trying to figure out which one he is in the sea of graduates?
Does it begin when he decides if he wants to pursue college or follow a different path to his dream career?
Does it begin when he's 18, and he can search for me, unless his aparents are insecure and question his loyalty?
Does it begin with a reunion when two strangers look each other in the eyes and find out this 'relationship' is a lot of hard work?
Please tell me, just when will it begin.
In my mind it feels like a sensationalized sports game. I walk out onto the field, no helmet, kneepads or shin guards. The lights are flipped on, and I'm blinded by the brightness. You can feel the tension in the air.
Out on the field I see the opponents. Those who told me I would get over it. Those who told me how brave and selfless I was. Those who told me my baby deserved better than me as a mother. Those who sold my child to fill their profit pocketbooks.
On the field I see legislatures who were wined and dined to change the laws. Laws to reduce the number of days a mother could bring her child back home with her. Laws to keep these precious children from ever knowing their heritage by blocking them from their own records. On the field I see NCFA, laughing and sneering at my tiny frame.
I can hear the murmur in the stands. I turn and see that the stands are filled with fans, cheering, jeering, and chanting. But they are not fans for a natural mom who lost her son to adoption. No, they're cheering for the ones already out on the field. I turn again to look at them, all lined up. They are enormous, and intimidating. Their expensive uniforms glimmer in the lights. They're energized by the commotion from the stands.
I step forward, and walk up to the line. I stand there, one small lone woman, against these heartless giants. Not one person from the stands dare walk to my side.
I hear the announcer yell, Let the Winning Begin! There is a roar from the stands. I'm nearly knocked off my feet as the referee thrusts his hand through my chest. I can feel the death grip on my heart as he pulls it out and tosses it high into the air.
Being experienced, my opponents grab it right away. They kick and throw my heart all around the field. They’re screaming with delight every time they score point after point after endless point.
Of course the points are based on all my losses based on the 'winning' questions above.
Please tell me, when will the winning begin for me?

Monday, June 16, 2008

closing the book

Closing the book The tears are streaming down my face, and I’m still not breathing quiet right. You know, how you’re hurting emotionally and you just don’t breathe, instead you hold your breath... I don’t know, maybe be it’s the subconscious mind, trying to make me pass out, so I wouldn’t hurt so much. I don’t know if I can even put it into words, because the thoughts aren’t ‘tangible’. It’s just feelings. An invisible, yet heavy feeling, is sitting on my chest, my heart, messing with the wires in my mind. Why do I do this to myself? When will I learn it just is not worth it? The bitter part of the bitter-sweet is just too much. It’s too bitter, and I can’t get that taste out of my mouth. I was working on the computer at home, and just perusing the folders on my desktop. I really need to work on budgeting and paying bills, and I knew better. But I clicked on the folder that has the name of my son. I haven’t been in that folder for a long time, didn’t remember what all was in there. I still don’t remember what everything is, but it’s mostly the communications I’ve sent over the years to my son, and to his aparents. Of course all this stuff is organized so the files are listed in order of the year. File is named identified who it is for, him or his aparents. I have copies of everything. A few letters have so many clip art pics pasted in, I had to save each page individually. I, knowing I should not be spending my time doing this, but I opened the letter that I sent as a response of one that was sent by his adad in 2003. I think he wrote it instead of the amom, because she was either trying to avoid me, or she was just that mad at me. And there it was. In my letter I was responding to a comment adad made in his letter many months earlier. Just a simple comment about him liking to write, and I asked what kind of stuff does he write? Does he write about funny things? (I asked this, because so far, he’s the comedian and loves to make people laugh – he does NOT get that from his natural dad!!!) I tried to read over it and ignore this twitch in my left shoulder, twitch in my left leg. I tried to resist turning my head to even look in the direction where I knew that letter from adad is. But curiosity got the best of me (as it usually does), and so I go upstairs. I walk over to the shelf that has it all. Photo albums with his name engraved on them. Pictures are in order, and all the letters I got are in protective clear plastic sleeves. Under those albums are the books of copies of the letters and cards I’ve sent to him. There are pictures of the gifts I sent (partly because I’m anal, partly because I’m forgetful and don’t want to send same gift again later) – and scraps of the wrapping paper – sometimes even strings of brightly colored ribbon. I pull the stack out, and sit on the floor in the middle of the room.I work my way toward the place where I’d find that original letter from adad.Of course I’m looking at pictures as I go. Wow, he sure has matured from a 6 year old boy to a teenager! But he still has my dark brown eyes- there is no mistaking that. There it is!!! Finally! I found the letter from adad, and here’s what he wrote, “We had a conference with his teacher last week and she said he is doing really well. He received all A’s except for a “B+” in reading. She also noticed, as we have, that he really enjoys writing. He will often sit in church and write stories.” I ponder that. I have always liked to write too. I must admit, I’ve written more in such a short amount of time, than any other period of my life. I’m thinking, that if he likes to write, maybe he’d write about himself too. Maybe there is a chance we’d be able to ‘connect’ in the future. Maybe I could give him a journal for his next birthday? I read on a little further in the letter where adad describes “He also went to Science camp this summer. He really enjoys science and science experiments. We sometimes call him the lab rat.” I barely comprehend the rest of the paragraph as my mind fades out. I have never told his afamily or him, that his natural dad is a lab rat. He’s worked in a laboratory since he got out of college. I’ve been afraid to mention ‘lab’ thing. I was afraid they would be threatened by that – to know that he has his natural dad’s traits. So, my mind is now out in this mist, and I’m looking at these pictures, and I hurt. It’s as if something is gripping me. It’s making it hard for me to breath. Unexpectedly, I hear myself groan out loud. It happens several times. He looks happy. He looks like he has a wonderful family. Does he hate me? Does he even think about me? Or is he soo happy that he doesn’t care. Has the time and distance weakened the mother/son bond on his side? I’m supposed to be at peace with all this… why am I hurting so intensely? Why does it make me stop breathing, and I find myself gulping a breath of air, but the pain – the weight – the grief feels like it’s going to crush me. “I’m sorry,” I say out loud to him. “I’m sorry, but I have to close the book. I want to look at your face, your dark brown eyes, and see your smile. Please try to understand I am not closing the book on you, my son. But it hurts so much that you are ‘there’ and not really ‘here’. I am closing it on the pain – my pain. I’m closing it, just for now, so I can function.”

Monday, June 2, 2008

a sad sight

Yesterday I went to visit a friend. I drove my truck and parked on the other side of the street and a few houses up from their place. As I was parking, I saw a little boy running into the yard, just beside where I was parking. He looked to be about, oh, I don't know maybe 4 yrs old. Even though it was a fenced in yard, I kept an eye on him, just to make sure he stayed inside the fence and was safe. Well he came over and just stood there watching as I parked. I waved and he just stood there watching. He was a cutie. It was odd to me that he watched me the whole time. Even after I did my fabulous parallel park job, and started to get out of the truck, he still just stood there watching. I got out of the truck and started to cross the street, and the little boy just stood there watching. Maybe it was my imagination, but it seemed like his face fell, and his shoulders slumped a little. When I got to the sidewalk on the other side, I turned to see, and Yup! he was still there watching. What was up with that? I just don't know. But I do know that it triggered thoughts of my son... -we're on two sides of the fence- and I'm the one just standing there, waiting until he is old enough... -in my heart watching silently as time passes and he grows up when the day comes that he'll be parking his truck outside my fenced in prison of life without him will he just look at me and walk away?