Just for You, Pt. 1

Inspiration; the thing that every writer needs. My inspiration came to me today at the sight of my belly button. Do I have your attention? I thought so.

But wait, and hear me out- if you choose to do so, this outrageous statement will redeem itself momentarily.

It's a little thought of thing, the belly button. But for me it holds special significance... it is the only thing left to me of my birth mother. It is my lingering and ever-present connection to her... reminding me that once she gave me all the nutrients and oxygen I needed to survive, and was my home for nine months.

My adoptive mom is so clearly and incontestably my mom, that without this proof, I may have denied this other woman's existence entirely. But as much as I love my parents and accept them as my own, I could never deny the role my birth mother has played in my life. She gave me life!

I hold a certain fascination and curiosity toward this woman, this birth mother of mine-whoever she is. But more than that, gratitude overcomes me at the thought of her. I know very little of her, but one thing is clear in my mind: she has to be one of the most courageous women I have ever known.

From what I have been told, my birth mother was a very sweet woman. She let herself be abused and mistreated by a man who was the father of her two sons before she finally became brave enough to leave, forced to leave her boys behind for reasons I don't know. Some time later she met up with a hotel manager, and became pregnant with me.

It was not an easy pregnancy for her, and she was in the hospital sick and in pain most of the time. She needed the nurse's assistance so often, she felt the need to apologize for bothering them. The nurses all loved her and asked the adoption agency to relay how sweet she was to those who would take home her child.

For nine months she endured a pregnancy that she could not sustain. Who would be the father for this child? What kind of home could she give this baby living within her if she couldn't even give that baby a family? For nine months she carried me, uncomfortably and sorely. She waddled and peed at inconvenient times, paid for countless doctor's visits, and never once bought a onesie. Never had a baby shower, painted a nursery, or bought a car seat to take her new baby home in.

Instead, she went through the exhausting process of giving me to someone else. Looked through pages and pages of prospective parents, wondering who could give her baby girl the life she deserved. She wanted more for me than she felt she could offer. Two of those things she wanted was for me to be raised in a Christian household, and have a sibling to play with.

A couple by the name of Terry and Robin caught her eye. Three miscarriages, two stillborn. Unable to have children. Christians, with one other adopted girl. She made her choice. Her daughter would have an older sister to look after her, and parents who desperately wanted her.

She went through all the pain of labor. Cried out with the stabbing pressure pulsing through her, and pushed when she was told. Gave birth and heard her daughter's cries... then gave me away.

All the work, without the reward. Her arms were left empty after having just given birth. The only thing she was left with was stretch marks and baby fat.

The umbilical cord was cut, and we were separated from each other. That act left me with only a belly button, a reminder, and a family, but it left her childless.

Giving me up for adoption was not the only choice my birth mother faced back then. Abortion could have been a very attractive option. No troublesome pregnancy, no painful labor. Besides, it would be just like surgically removing a lifeless tumor threatening to invade her life... done early enough, no harm would occur. It was only tissue in her womb, not a living being. She wouldn't have to deal with doctor's visits, stretch marks, paperwork. Just one quick operation, and the horrible nightmare in which she found herself would disappear.

But my birth mother was a courageous person, and she chose the courageous route. Although I do not know her and have never seen her, I feel as though she would shake her head in ashamed denial if I mentioned such a thing to her. Perhaps memories of her life would flood through her mind, reminding her of all the many disgraceful and frightened moments. The day she ended up in that abusive relationship, and the many days it took her to leave it. The day she crawled into a stranger's bed for fear of being alone, and wound up pregnant with me.

Maybe even the day she chose to give me up for adoption, for fear she was incapable of being the mother I needed her to be. But that is not how I see it.

I see a woman at a crossroads, faced with two directions. One is the easy way- the straight, shady, and peaceful way. The other a rocky, steep, and uncertain climb. If she chooses the first way, she will not be alone... she will have plenty of company. It's a wide road, and seems so pleasant... upon the other, wolves howl. They are hungry wolves; since so few come upon this road, they would devour her in a moment if she slips but once. She will be utterly alone, defenseless. She chose that route.

I see a woman sacrificing and putting her life on hold for a child she won't even be able to legally name.

I see a woman who was either demeaned or hit for years, and yet, survived. Who found the strength and courage to leave.

I see a woman who saw my mom's five lost babies, and said, "I cannot be a mom, but she can."

I see a woman gripping her ripened stomach with tears in her eyes as she whispers, "Just for you. Just for you, I'll do it. I'll go through the pain, the being uncomfortable, the embarrassment, and the sorrow at having to say goodbye... just for you."

I would not be here or writing this if she hadn't. How very, very, thankful I am to see in my birth mother something selfless, brave, and special.

I see many things in this woman, but above all, I see poetry in motion.