Sophie's Choice

People say that they love their adopted children as much as they do their biological children. That the connection between a mother and baby isn't inherently genetic, but that it's something that develops between two people: a woman who yearns to nurture and hold and bond, and a child that needs love and affection and care. They talk about how parents who have both biological and adopted children never think about which child came from where. Genetics don't matter. They love them both. And love makes a family.

I don't believe them.

I don't believe them because it can't possibly be true. There's a biogenetic impulse that makes us instinctively drawn to people that look like us. All examples of social bonding and interpersonal relationships have us searching for mirror images of ourselves. Granted this phenomenon has been at the core of every grotesque chapter of human history, and I agree that it's our social and cultural responsibility to challenge our propensity toward homogeneity, but that only serves to prove my point: everywhere from playgrounds to conference rooms to cemetery plots, we seek extensions of ourselves. We look for ourselves in our friends, we look for ourselves in our spouses, and we look for ourselves in our babies.

So when I say that I don't believe people who deny a difference between biological and adopted children, it's only because I know they're lying.

But I don't hold it against them. Of course they're going to say that. They have to say that. Any sentence that begins with "Let me tell you about my favorite daughter" will end with someone calling Child Protective Services because you aren't allowed to say that. Think about it, and be honest with yourself: have you ever loved any two things the same? No. You haven't. Because it's impossible.  Because two different things will, by definition, have differences, and those differences mean they're different and therefore not the same, and therefore you can't love them the same. And in the case of biological versus adopted children, 10 times out of 10 the child you look at with the deepest, most profound love in your eyes is the one who's looking back at you with the eyes he got from you.

So I don't want any part of the charade. I know that to adopt a child is to raise another woman's kid, and I'm not interested in raising another woman's kid. Pretending that it's mine. Changing diapers and feeding it and helping it with its homework when I know the reality is that that kid comes from someone else. It would be no more mine that it would be the nanny's, and I don't want to be the nanny, especially not to a child of a woman who doesn't even want that kid herself.

I wouldn't even be a mom. I'd be a "mom." Someone whose parentage would require legal documentation and whose role in the falsely-contstructed "family" could be challenged in a court of law. I'd fail a DNA maternity test. But then of course I wouldn't take a DNA maternity test because I'd never assert that I was the mother, because I wouldn't be the mother. I'd be the "mother."

Mother-ly. Mother-ish. Now, I happen to think that I'd be quite an adequate mother-ish figure. The next best thing to for child whose real mother didn't want it. And perhaps the child would be a passable substitute for the real child that I wished I could have.

But I'd know the truth. The real truth. The reality that - if I did adopt and then was lucky enough to magically get pregnant on my own - when faced with the decision to choose between those two kids, that I wouldn't hesitate: given Sophie's choice, I would save my real child and send the other one to the gas chamber.

Judge me if you want. Post comments below about how I'm a horrible, soulless person. I don't mind because I know that I'm voicing truth. And any person grieving the loss of having a genetic connection with a child - any woman facing adoption as the only means of acquiring kids - has asked herself: What am I going to miss out on that real mothers take for granted every day? Could I forgive this kid for being the distant-second-choice to the child I really wanted? Would I ever really love it?

So I'm not going to do it. Adoption isn't an option for me. I'll grieve and I'll cry and I'll continue to feel despair about my infertility, but purchasing another woman's child isn't my solution. And when people around me try to console my grief with "Why don't you just adopt?," I would tell them the truth:

Because when that child's pre-pubescent voice inevitably shouts, "You're not my real mom," my response will most definitely be, "Well, I never wanted you either, Kid."

~~~

Addendum, November 2011: Since posting this blog, I've written two others that - if you're horrified by what you just read - you might consider looking at. They're here and here.

Thoughts from a Bath

[June 2010]

I hate this bath. The water's too hot. There's no point. I have no point. I can't breed. Our only biological purpose. Why bother living? I'm just killing time until I die. Or kill myself. I should kill myself. I miss Merlin. My poor Mer. I can't believe you were eaten. I'm so sorry. I should have protected you. It's my fault. I wish I were eaten instead. I wish you were here. I wish I weren't here. When is this going to end? My head is sweating. Dripping into the bath. Or maybe they're tears. It doesn't matter. This water feels good. I could impale myself on top of a tree. A pine tree. Or maybe a redwood. I could fall on top of one. Feel the tip of it pierce my stomach and come out my back. A tree in my empty womb. It would be pretty up there. Falling. It would hurt. I want it to hurt. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. I wish I'd known. Infertile at 35. It's not fair. I must have done something. I didn't think I was bad. It's my fault. I deserve this. I'm a terrible person. There's no way I could get to the top of a tree. I'd have to be catapulted. Or dropped. They did that in Magnolia. Something about SCUBA diving. And a fire. Someone would have to help me. What am I saying? This is ridiculous. No one would help me. I need to shave my legs. I'm so hairy. I'm a monster. I could run the car with the garage door closed. That's a better idea. They did that on Six Feet Under. The woman left a note. I hated that show. I was glad when they all died. I wouldn't leave a note. Who would care? Kids are the only ones to leave a note for, and I don't have kids. I'll never have kids. I can't believe I'll never have kids. The garage idea is good. Better than the tree. I wonder where I fall on the suicidality scale. Strange that I could evaluate myself right now. That it's part of my job. That would make an ironic headline. Fucking local news. They do like me at work. But they don't know me. Who cares. I don't care. A knows me. He loves me. I should call A. I will. I'll call him now. No. It's late over there. I don't want to bother him. I'm probably not suicidal. I don't know. The garage idea is good. Except for the fumes. I hate gas fumes. I'd have to take pills first. I should get pills. I feel fat. Fat rolls of belly fat. Barren belly fat. I should stop eating. It doesn't matter. What kind of pills? I wish I could fall on a tree. Nothing's going to change. This water's cold. Nothing ever changes. I like the tree idea. I hate this bath. I should get out. There's nowhere to go. No version of my life that I want to live. I want to die. I want it to end. I want this to end. When will this end?

Baby Blue

I went into all this infertility stuff with a wide-open heart. N and I had just gotten back together after being separated for a year, and - being more in love than ever - I felt armed and ready for a little hoop jumping. Not even just ready: when I realized that getting pregnant would require medical treatments, I was oddly excited.

Maybe it was the lessons we'd gained from therapy; I had thought that we were such a healthy couple when we first got together, and it turned out we were as damaged as any other. But we dealt with it. We worked hard. We cried, reflected, and made ourselves as vulnerable as can be, and then we came through the other side with a closeness that I didn't know was possible.

So what if we needed blood tests and hormone checks? I didn't even mind ovarian examinations, as long as I was waxed. And providing sperm samples satisfied whatever public sex fantasies we may have had, so that part was actually kinda fun - especially that we would always go to breakfast afterwards. It was all totally cool because these hoops would just make us more prepared parents.

I was wholly optimistic. In point of fact, I'd registered for this blog in 2007, but I never wrote a single post because I thought, "Well, I'm about to get pregnant, so blogging about my experience would be disrespectful to women who were really infertile."

My Zen lasted about 2.5 years.

In 2010, it started to occur to me: this actually might not happen. I might really be infertile. And that's when I started to get a little testy. Moody. Grumpy. Depressed. Despondent. Devastated. Even (and I find the words hard to type) kind of suicidal.

Which was weird because to be honest, I was kind of disgusted by women who were dramatic about their infertility. "Oh, my god. I can't get pregnant. I should just kill myself." Dude, seriously? It's a three step process: face the facts, grieve, and move on.

Well, yes, but that second step is a bitch.