I have a friend that I don’t talk about very often because we have the oddest relationship ever, I call him Uncle Jerry because he is 20 years older than me and on some level I know that if we weren’t “family” our relationship probably wouldn’t make much sense. Jerry tends bar at the sports bar that I have frequented off and on, since I was old enough to drink – it’s a hole in the wall, but they have pool tables and dart boards and it’s not a “meet market.” I like him because he is a practitioner of, what I call, the Southern Art of Story Telling. You can take Jerry down the road so he can pick up a newspaper and when you get back he tells this epic story that makes it sound like a quest worthy of a fairy tale. Our relationship is strange, but he’s family, well kinda.

I had told Uncle Jerry about my pregnancy fairly early on. He knew that Rob and I had broken up and knew I had moved down the street, but since I didn’t plan on spending any time at the bar over the course of my pregnancy I thought I would let him know why. He never liked Rob and was quick to offer me his love and support, another reason why I consider him family I suppose.

Of course to that point his love and support extended to infrequent phone calls to see how I was doing but other than that I didn’t see very much of him, so I was surprised when he called me on Mother’s Day Sunday to ask for a favor. (My parents were in New York City, they go for two weeks every May and we celebrate Mother’s Day when they get back.)

“I forgot my lunch, could you go grab me a sandwich before the bar opens?” He said.

“Sure, from where?”

We sorted out the arrangements and I confess, despite him offering me free lunch from my favorite sandwich shop, I wasn’t jazzed to go to the bar, even if it wasn’t open. (I’m not very big on the lingering smell of cigarette smoke.) Oh, the things we do for love.

A moment after I arrived in the bar, I was again reminded why I considered Jerry to be family. On one of the side tables there was a beautiful little flower arrangement and something that resembled strawberry shortcake. (Jerry later told me he bought and ripped up an angel food cake and then topped it with strawberries and whipped cream himself.)

“Happy Mother’s Day,” he said as he extended his arms wide to give me a hug and I promptly burst into tears.

Jerry patted my back clumsily while telling me how happy he was to celebrate my “first Mother’s Day” with me, and it’s funny that despite the pregnant belly, and the knowledge I was carrying a bouncing baby boy I just didn’t really see that “Mother’s Day” applied to me. I guess that seems odd, but I didn’t really think Motherhood happened (or more accurately was acknowledged by other people) until the baby was in your arms.

He told me stories all through our little Mother’s Day luncheon, mostly stories about regulars I knew but hadn’t seen in a while, but he sprinkled in some of my favorites for good measure. I laughed so hard that at one point I was holding my sides.

“You aren’t going into labor, are you?” he asked with genuine alarm.

“No,”I assured him, wiping away tears of laughter.

I left just as the bar opened and the first few patrons made their way in.

The next day, when I went to work, I had an emailing wishing me Happy Mother’s Day from Beth (and John too, she assured me!) and she asked if I had a nice Mother’s Day and I smiled, thinking of a dark bar and an old bachelor’s strawberry shortcake when I replied to her by saying “I really did!”

This week I want to do something different, a question was left for me on my FormSpring page and I dashed off a quick answer there but with further reflection I wanted to flush it out and share it here, in case it’s a question other people have, so here goes:

I’m curious if you and Beth discussed openness in the adoption plan. If so, how did you come to an agreement that you were both felt comfortable with?

When I decided I wanted to place my son for adoption, I did some research about adoption. I knew that there were options available to me that weren’t available to my birthmother when I was born. (Adoption has changed a good deal since the 70′s and there is room for the birth parents in their child’s life.) I knew I didn’t want a closed adoption – I didn’t just want to have my son and never know what happened to him, so a closed adoption was out. I also knew that I didn’t think I was strong enough to say good bye to my son over and over again, so a fully open adoption with visitation wasn’t really in the cards for me either. I wanted a semi-open adoption,  I wanted pictures and updates and in time, I want my son to decide if he wants to have a relationship with me.

What’s interesting is that when Beth and John put in their profile, they told the attorney’s office that they did not want an open adoption. They were told that it would really decrease the odds of them being selected by a birthmother as most birthmothers now want an open adoption agreement. However, they knew what they wanted and so they put in their profile and hoped for the best. I suppose this is where Mary really gets credit – she knew what I wanted and knew what Beth and John wanted, and sent their profile with the rest for me to review.

Beth did tell me the story about how people discouraged them from seeking a “semi-open” adoption and I really admired that she really wanted a baby, but not so badly that she was willing to compromise on what she wanted or needed in a birthmother relationship. I really believe that people who try to compromise their needs are often the ones that end up dissatisfied with their adoption arrangements. Beth and I did discuss that for the first few years of my Son’s life -  I would get updates every three or four months. (Those early months are the ones in which he went through changes so fast!) After that I would get updates twice a year, at Christmas and at his birthday. I knew exactly what I was getting going into our adoption agreement and I have never been disappointed.

If you have questions you can always email me  at DecidingForLife (at) gmail.com or ask them at http://www.formspring.me/decidingforlife – Formspring allows you to ask them anonymously.

It’s funny how at the beginning of the pregnancy, time seemed to stretch out vast before me, like it would never be time for my son to arrive and now that April is almost over I can’t believe that in just over a month he should be here. I also can’t believe that I went from the girl that no one could believe was pregnant to this awkward, waddling woman! I think my son and I are both having problems getting comfortable lately. I don’t think he has much room to move in there and at night I seem to be having my own problems getting comfortable.

I’m also having a hard time finding peace and comfort in my relationship with Rob, we haven’t talked since the fiasco went down with his family. When we broke up while I had no delusions that we were “friends” – I did believe that with a little time and space, we might actually be able to be civil towards one another, but the pregnancy didn’t seem to give us much time or space to heal.

I’ve often tried to put myself in Rob’s shoes, to try to figure out where he’s coming from, but I have to admit that this man that I thought I knew so well, that I had planned a life with seems like a  stranger to me. There’s a time when I thought I could’ve trusted him with anything in the world and now the three pregnancy promises he made are just three more promises in a long string of promises that he made and broke. Still though, I wondered if he’s going to miss his son. I wondered if he worries about what he’ll say the day he meets him. Though mostly I just wondered what’s going on in that head of his!

Ask and you shall receive.

Rob called me, after our extended silence, and asked the usual questions but then he lingered on the phone.

“Would you like to go out to dinner tomorrow?” he asked.

“Um, sure,” I said, recognizing that an olive branch was being offered and knowing that peace needed to be made between us.

We met at a barbecue place that we used to frequent, (Rob was often on the Atkins Diet so a place where he could get heaping plates of meat was just what the doctor ordered!)  and spent several minutes trying to make idle chit chat. I wondered when this had gotten so complicated, when we were together we never seemed to run out of things to talk about, and now we couldn’t even seem to make small talk.

“I need your advice,” he finally said, while digging into a pile of smoked pork.

“Okay,” I said skeptically.

“I’m having problems with Emily,” he said and he launched into a laundry list of concerns that was developing. For example, Emily cried when she opened canned biscuits, because she was anticipating the ‘pop’ which always scared her. He offered to buy her a gun because he was concerned for her safety and she said that she would rather he spend that kind of money on something sparkly for her. She had a meltdown when they went horseback riding and they encountered wildlife on the trails.

As he kept going down the laundry list I was surprised to note that I didn’t feel anything. There is a time that even hearing her name was enough to set my teeth on edge but instead I felt nothing at all. Is this what it’s like to be friends with an ex? I listened as I would listen to any girlfriend talking about their relationship woes. I asked intelligent and insightful questions, meant to make him really reflect and consider what he was feeling, and where the relationship was going. I was so proud of myself, I could do this – I could be his friend.

“Maybe she’s just not the girl for you,” I said after listening to him give me reason upon reason for why they just weren’t a good match.

“I knew it,” he said, sitting up and dropping his fork to his plate with a clatter, “you’re jealous.”

And just like that, it all went out the window.

“Jealous of what?” I asked, my face growing hot with embarrassment that I had let my guard down around him for one minute.

“Of my relationship with Emily.”

Oh boy.

“You know what Rob, you are the man who made a career in the military, while we were together you taught me how to string and shoot a long bow, your living room is decorated with medieval weapons, and you have an extensive collection of guns that you shoot, frequently. I don’t think it takes a rocket scientist to see that perhaps your interests don’t mesh well with a girl who has a minor meltdown every time she opens a can of biscuits. Pointing that out to you doesn’t make me jealous, it makes me a good friend.”

I rose to my feet ready to leave.

“I’m moving,” he called after me.

“When?” I asked turning back to look at him.

“In two weeks,” he said.

“Will you be back?” I asked, and the unspoken part of that question was – for the birth of our son.

“I’m not planning on it,” responded.

I nodded, in understanding and I looked at him. When I met Rob, I thought he looked like a superhero – tall, broad shouldered, and square jawed. I thought that he was fearless and that together we could take on anything. He radiated strength and fearlessness to me than and now he just seemed so full of fear.

“Thanks for dinner,” I said and I turned my back on him and I left.

I had wanted a picture of Rob and our son for his baby book, so that one day when I told our son his story that would be a part of it. That we loved him from the minute, we knew he was there. However, as I drove away from the barbecue place I realized that story I painted in my head was a lie – I loved my son from the moment I knew he was there; through the vomiting, the indecision, the worry, the doubts, the hard decisions, the dreams, the wishes – I loved him, Rob did not. To Rob, this wasn’t a baby or even a part of him, it was the last thread that bound us together, a thread that he was ready to have cut. It was a hard truth to swallow, but there it was.

I contacted Mary at the attorney’s office the next day to make sure that they knew Rob was leaving the state, and to make sure that he kept in touch with them, so they knew where to send his paperwork.

Our son wasn’t born yet, but the thread was severed – the chapter in my life about Rob was over and closed.

I remember a string of emails that went back and forth between myself and Beth, that particular string stands out above all the others to me, because in them I gave her my (and Rob’s) “rap sheets.” I told her every genetic flaw, bad habit, potential pitfall, that I thought my son could ever face. I was scared that Beth was going to change her mind and not want to risk opening her heart to a child that could be less than perfect, but she thoughtfully and lovingly put my mind at ease. In retrospect I suppose it seems kind of silly, there are people who open their homes and hearts to all sorts of imperfect children, and I was worried that asthma and cat allergies were going to be the straw that broke the camel’s back and send Beth packing. As a Birthmother that was my worst nightmare.

Those emails have been on my mind alot lately, especially in the face of the Mother in Tennessee who put her Russian “son” on a plane back to Russia alone. She packed a bag, arranged for car service in Russia, and pinned a note explaining that she was returning him and an international incident exploded, Russian adoptions between the US are still “suspended.” I have to admit that what I’ve read about this story has caused me to shed many tears, and think back on old, unfounded, fears.

I don’t have any first hand experience with the adoptive parents side of things, and now I’m wondering – are there support systems for adoptive parents? Places that people can go or turn to if they feel like they’re in over their head? Do adoptive parents get over their head? Sometimes do adoptive parents have no choice but to give the child back?

I have a cousin with two daughters from China and she seems to have a thriving support system. There’s a network of other families with babies adopted from China and apparently there are some Chinese people that are even teaching her daughters about the language and custom of their homeland. Her daughters are beautiful, bright, and seem very happy. I have a friend who has a son with Down’s Syndrome and I know that she is part of a support group that she feels is indispensable. Is it just in the area of Russian adoption that there’s a big hole for providing support for adoptive parents? Or is this not even a real issue? Was this particular instance just a fluke?

Aside from the dramatic episodes I’ve shared with you, you know “Baby Daddy Drama” and such, the third trimester of my pregnancy had been relatively uneventful. I go to work, I come home and Ben greets me with a happy dance that makes him look like he’s hopping. Then Ben and I go for a walk in the woods next to the apartment complex, I keep a leash on him at all times (waiting for us to scare up something and for him to decide to take off like a shot) but he seems happiest to walk right next to me with the leash slack. After his walk, we have dinner and then I curl up on the sofa with a book, movie, or TV show and relax. (Before bed Ben gets another shorter walk.) Sometimes there are dinner or outing with friends, sometimes errands, but for the most part – life is quiet and life is good.

I mention this because the other day when I came home, Ben did not meet me at the door. I called him, as I took the leash down and he didn’t come.  My heart started racing and the baby started moving restlessly. I found Ben in the bedroom, his long greyhound snout had what looked like dried slobber on it and his eyes were wide with fear. When I called him, he came to me but as soon as I tried to touch his nose he ran away from me into the corner. I panicked.

I grabbed Ben’s collar and snapped the leash on and we headed for the car. I made it to the vet in record time and when Ben and I burst through the door, either the sight of the wild eyed dog or the heaving pregnant woman caused them to immediately take Ben to the back. I stood there, holding on to the counter breathing deeply.

“Ma’am, it’ll be fine, don’t get too worked up.” the receptionist said in a soothing voice and I could tell she was worried I was going to have my baby right there at the reception desk.

Ben was back before I knew it, and the Vet Tech was smiling. She put a piece of off white plastic in my hand.

“This was stuck in the roof of his mouth, I suspect when you get home you’ll find something chewed on that wasn’t one of his dog toys.” She said smiling.

The piece of plastic looked suspiciously like the rod from my blinds when I said that the vet tech started laughing with me.

On the ride home, with a very tired greyhound stretched across the backseat, I was happy that for that moment that was all the drama life had thrown my way for the moment. Oh sure, I could handle crazy ladies in the book store, and birthfathers who want to change the adoption plan but it was nice to not have to.