I lack a traditional birth story. There are no heartwarming images of my partner marveling at me after childbirth, no memories of those first moments together. Perhaps the days we welcomed our children through adoption will serve as those cherished memories for him, but those moments feel mundane compared to the profound experience of giving birth.
I often worry that when life gets overwhelming—like when I’m tackling heaps of laundry in my pajamas at 6 p.m.—my partner will only see a woman in loungewear, not the brave soul who faced immense pain to bring forth life. I fear he won’t have that defining moment to recall, one that might rekindle his love for me during my less-than-stellar moments.
I don’t have photographs of my children as newborns or memories of their first smiles, steps, or words. Our family journey began with kids aged 4 ½ and 5, and their early years are shrouded in mystery, filled with challenges and heartache. When frustration arises from their behavior, I can’t help but wonder if I would be more patient if I had experienced their early stages. I never faced the trials of a crying infant at 3 a.m., and I ask myself if I would cope better with their tantrums today if I had been there for their babyhood, a time when crying is simply part of the experience.
There are no sweet anecdotes about how my partner and I eagerly prepared for their arrival, choosing nursery themes or names. We had a mere two months to prepare for our first and only three weeks for the second. Since much of their early life remains unknown or fraught with difficulty, we’ve had to reshape their stories. I tell them, “If I had carried you, I would’ve sung gentle lullabies at night.” We rock them to sleep now, wishing we had done so in their infancy, whispering how we would have kissed their soft, baby cheeks.
Therapists assure me this approach can help, but relief eludes me, and I sense my children feel a similar sadness. Despite the love and stability we provide, they have faced losses that are hard to quantify.
While I don’t possess a birth story, I do have countless other experiences. I have a family—a partner who stood by me through the waves of grief that came with infertility. My children have shown me lessons in resilience and forgiveness that surpass my 29 years of life. My journey into motherhood has taught me to love children who are not biologically mine. I connect deeply with women facing the pain of infertility, with parents striving to love foster children, and with couples waiting hopefully for adoption.
I recognize I have been blessed, and though I should wrap this reflection up neatly with gratitude, I still yearn for a more conventional family narrative. If you find yourself in a similar space, feeling torn between gratitude and longing, know you’re not alone. Together, perhaps we can find solace in this shared experience.
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Summary
The author reflects on the absence of a traditional birth story due to adopting older children and the challenges that come with it. She expresses concerns about her partner’s perceptions and the emotional struggles of not having early memories with her children. Despite the lack of a birth narrative, she finds strength and connection in her journey of motherhood and the broader community of parents facing similar challenges.