Menu: Parenting
By: Melissa Carter
Updated: Oct. 21, 2020
Originally Published: June 25, 2013
All three of my sons share my dimples—a small, yet unmistakable connection among them. As I compare their baby photos, I can see glimpses of each of them in one another; Aden’s smile in Liam, Carter’s features in Aden, and so on. Each face reflects a piece of me.
Currently, I find myself in Hawaii, cradling my 12-week-old son while my 3-year-old enjoys a day at the playground with his father. Meanwhile, my 17-year-old is in Virginia, likely preparing for bed in the home of the family that has raised him since he was born.
Being a birth mother presents a unique set of challenges. When people ask if my two younger boys are my only children, I often pause, torn between sharing my story and keeping it simple. I can relate to parents who have lost a child; the desire to be honest about the truth of one’s experience can be at odds with the easier response of stating, “Yes, these are my only kids.” However, that statement carries its own weight of sorrow.
Truthfully, adoption is both a profound blessing and a source of deep heartache. I have been at peace with my decision since the day I first met my son’s parents 18 years ago, but that doesn’t lessen the emotional complexity. Having my own children has made the ache more pronounced at times. It’s not regret I feel, but a longing for something that is forever out of reach—a chapter that has already been written without me.
Seventeen years ago, I brought a baby into this world, yet I never had the chance to nurse him, comfort him in the night, or celebrate his milestones. I’ve been a spectator, living my own life—attending college, forging friendships, dating, and figuring out my path.
I recognize how fortunate I am to have a role in my son’s life. His mother has not only embraced him but has also become a sister to me, sharing in his joys and loving me in return. She represents the mother I wish I could have been for him, and her support has been vital for my own well-being.
Giving birth doesn’t automatically make a woman a mother, but it leaves an indelible mark on her heart and spirit. Knowing a part of you is being raised by someone else can be overwhelming. I carried him for nine months, nurtured him, and then placed him in another’s arms, leaving a piece of my heart with him. I miss my son who was never truly mine; I am a birth mom.
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In summary, the experience of being a birth mother is filled with complexity—joy and sorrow intertwined. The journey is unique for every woman, shaped by her decisions and circumstances.