The Dress

I walked into the children's boutique hoping to find a suitable spring jacket for my son, Isaiah. After picking out a few items for him I found myself wandering over to the little girl's clothing section. Drawn by the shades of pinks and purples, I looked through the racks. As I ran my hand over the velvet and lace, I imagined what Emily would look like wearing one of my choices. I came upon a lovely yellow dress, which was adorned with tiny rosebuds made of satin and pink ribbon. A smile warmed my face as I envisioned Emily picture-perfect in this little dress.

As I was walking to the counter to pay for my selections, a thought came to me, as it had a thousand times before. It stood as a reminder of what was and would always be. I submitted to the reality before me and placed the little dress, with the tiny rosebuds, back on the rack for another mother to purchase. The reminder was the the truth; however unwelcomed it was: I did not know what size clothing my daughter wears. Besides, what if the owner of the store asks who it is for? If I say it is for my daughter, surely she there will be more questions to follow. If I lie and say a niece, won’t I be dishonoring a part of myself?

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Before you cast my revelation off as a trivial insecurity, ask yourself this: If you walked up to someone you did not know and said, “I do not know what size clothing my daughter is. Furthermore, I do not know what her favorite color is, or where she is especially ticklish. When it all comes down, I don’t know much about her at all.”

Tell me, what do you think their reaction would be? How would this stranger judge you or respond? Would they see you as a cold, unfeeling person? Perhaps as someone without enough concern to know her child? Conceivably, as a mother who cannot possibly love her child. Right?

No, none of the above remarks are true. You see, I am a Birthmother.

Many have the misconception that, as a Birthmother, you have one considerable loss at the beginning, but after that, you are able to “move on”. No, when you are a Birthmother, before you lie a string of losses. No advocate at the adoption agency cautioned me of my grievous experience at the children’s boutique.

Even more burdensome; No one forewarned me of the shame I would carry because of this choice. Shame, with it’s ugly grasp, induced an icy silence to come over my lips. I found myself testing the waters of possible rejection before mentioning not only my little girl, but my choice. On the other side of shameful stillness, there are times when my mouth cannot cease it’s relentless muttering. I was quick to mention my open adoption, and the fact that I still see her. You see, then maybe ... just maybe, I wouldn’t be seen as one who totally abandons her child. Possibly, I can obtain their approval by telling about my adoption-related accomplishments?

I find that I am revealing the truth that I am a Birthmother only after I mention that I am a writer for an adoption-related website. Soon I am pouring out word after word about my achievements, my involvement, my visitations. It is as if my words become a watering can showering a garden bed of acceptance. Why is it that I don’t see that my words drown out the beauty that tries to flourish? Why can I not simply just “be”?

A night like hundreds of nights before, I poured my heart out to God. “Why is it, Father, that I must bear this shame!”

I carried on and on, cried and pouted. When I started to compare my Birthmotherhood to Hester Prynne, who was forced to wear the scarlet letter of shame upon her breast, God had enough.

“Daughter, go upstairs and get your mirror. Look at the face in the mirror, and tell me what you see.” was whispered into my spirit.

“Uhh ...” , I groaned. I was too comfortable complaining about the cards I was dealt, and what did God want me to see in my mirror anyway? I see myself all the time, why would this time be any different? Besides, my eyebrows are unsightly, I just may feel the need to pluck them if I am forced to look at them. God had other plans; but then again, doesn’t He always?

I got the mirror and sat down on the floor once again ... and waited. Tired of waiting, I held up the mirror and took a good look. At first, I couldn’t concentrate. It seemed as if my face would get all distorted as I stared at, which of course, caused me to giggle. “Okay, okay, time to get serious!” , I said aloud.

I cleared my throat and looked. What did I see? Me. I didn’t see my writing, I did not see my titles, I did not see my labels, I did not see my accomplishments ...I just saw Me. With that, I did not see my loss, I did not see my wrongs, and most importantly, I did not see my shame. Where had it all gone? Did it vanish into a sort of limbo? No, I saw the answer ...I chose what I saw, I chose what I was, I chose whom I was. It was all by my choosing.

“For I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse, therefore, choose life...” Deut. 30:19

This was what I call a “mack truck moment”. It hit me all at once-the truth. I was choosing to be ashamed. I was choosing to cover up who I was with what I do. Sure, I couldn’t force people to accept me; I couldn’t convince them that I placed my daughter for the “right” reasons; I couldn’t make them be unashamed of me and my choices ...however, and this is a weighty however, I could choose how I reacted to their comments, to their glares; I could choose to personalize their hateful words or let them fall to the ground; I could choose to act in line with what I thought they expected me to be.

I could chose to look away from the little girls section, or I could choose to call Emily’s Mother and simply ask her what size Emily was in; rather than sulk because I didn’t know. I could choose to meet someone connected by adoption and say, “Hello, I have done this, this and this” or, I could merely say, “Hello, I’m Skye and I’m a Birthmother. How are you connected to adoption?”

Some people are afraid of choice. There is a great choice before us all-choosing to be free from the slavery of seeing yourself through the reflection of everyone else’s eyes.

The Me I see, is free indeed. “For it is for freedom that Christ has set us free, do not then let yourselves be burden again by the yoke of slavery.” Galations 5:1

When I looked into that mirror, I didn't suddenly think that it was neat, or cool to be a Birthmother; it isn't and it will never be. I am not proud of my Birthmotherhood in the way I am proud of my Motherhood to my son; however it is a part of who I am. There are others who did not make the choice to be a Birthmother, rather they were forced by others who "claimed" to know what was best. I am not like these women, nor should we be compared.

After a phone call, I went back to that children’s boutique, and this time, I walked straight to the little girls section. Once again, I was drawn by the shades of pinks and purples, and I ran my hand over the velvet and lace. Then I saw the little dress peering out at me, as if saying, “I knew you’d be back”.

I gently picked it up and held it out before me. The little dress’ yellow was that of a buttercup dancing in the summer’s breeze; it’s rosebuds were dainty and made with care. I just knew Emily would look lovely in this dress.

I walked to the cash register with a restorative feeling of joy in my heart. I chose to lift my head; and I chose to walk without shame. I placed the yellow dress on the counter and took my money out of my purse. The woman behind the counter said, “My, isn’t this a lovely dress. Who is it for?” As I handed her the money, I looked her in her eyes, and unashamedly said:

“My daughter ...the dress is for my daughter.”