So I went through the motions. I sang to Madison so she would learn my voice. I strapped her to me and walked in circles so she would learn the rhythm of my movements. I hoped proximity would breed devotion. But I felt like a liar when we went out and people said what a pretty baby I had. Not my baby, I wanted to tell them, anxious not to take Jessica's credit.
"She even looks like you!" some gushed. Of course this wasn't true. Her smooth coffee-with-cream skin is nothing like my own rosy complexion. Such was their strong determination to fit her to our family.
"She looks just like her birth mother," I'd reply. I wanted them to see Jessica, to acknowledge her. I couldn't stand to have her obliterated, even in casual conversation. It was if they were trying to deny the truth of Madison, the fact of who she was beyond being my adoptive daughter. I didn't want to pretend that she came to us without her own history. But at the same time, polite society seemed to want to dismiss her origins. Per United States law, Madison's post-adoption birth certificate even listed me as the woman who gave birth to her.
The next time Jessica called, I tentatively told her how I was feeling. "I can't stop thinking about you and how hard this must be," I said, my voice cracking. "I know how sad you are..."
"I don't want you to feel guilty," Jessica admonished me. "I want you to love her. I need you to love her and be happy."
"But how can I be happy when you're hurting so much?" I asked.
"It's easier when I think of you cherishing her," she said. "I need you to do that for her and for me, too. I don't regret this."
I wanted it to make better sense. We didn't find Madison languishing in a destitute orphanage. She didn't come to us with a history of abuse and neglect. I didn't know how to justify this great gift of her presence in our lives at the expense of her mother. If there just something I could hang it on, an obvious reason that Madison was better off with us -- but there wasn't. There was just the word of her first mother who said, "This is what I need to do."
In my lowest moments, I would browse the list of adoptive parents on our agency's Web site. One night, I happened upon a profile of a fantastic family, African-American professionals who ran a newspaper and had a daughter the same age as my son. They should have gotten Madison, I thought. They were better educated than me, had better jobs -- and could give Madison the one thing I never could: a connection to the black community.
My friend Elisabeth, who used to do patient support at an abortion clinic, took me to task.
"This is a choice issue," she told me. "You keep telling me how strong and smart Jessica is, but you're second-guessing her. That's not fair."
"I just want us to both be winners in this," I said.
"There is more than one way to be a winner here," she replied. "Stop denigrating Jessica's decision."
I had been picturing the two of us balanced on opposite sides of a tipping scale. If one of us was the real mother, then the other one was not. If one of us was happy, then the other must be sad. But when I hung up with Elisabeth, I realized that I couldn't ease Jessica's struggle by taking it on as my own. Besides that's not what Jessica wanted; she did not want her sorrow to color these first months of Madison's life. It was my guilt that betrayed her, not my love for Madison.
When I stopped feeling so consumed by what Jessica had lost, I was able to find joy in what I gained, the everyday pleasures of parenting again -- dressing my daughter, giving her a bath. Certainly, with that joy came vulnerability and the insecurity my worried friends predicted. Sometimes I don't want to share Madison. Sometimes I want to feel that I am the only mother she has and will ever need. But even at it's most challenging, I still believe in openness. How much easier it will be for our daughter, I think, to never have to search for her roots. She will never have to wonder why her first mother chose adoption; she can ask her.
Jessica lives in our city and visits when her busy life allows, which ends up being about once a month, and we e-mail and phone more often. A few weeks ago she came over and made us jerk chicken with mango salsa; she is studying to be a chef. We joked that now we know where Madison gets her enthusiastic love of good food. After dinner I shared the beginnings of this essay with her and we cried a bit together.
"I didn't know it was so hard for you," she said.
"Well," I shrugged, helplessly. "I didn't know how to tell you."
Last summer Jessica and I took a trip to Washington together so Madison could meet her extended birth family. Jessica was hoping, in part, to show them that it had all worked out OK and that her decision to place Madison with us was a good one. As an interracial family already, the transracial aspect did not grieve them; it was the loss of this wondrous first grandchild to strangers. "When they see us together, how things are, they'll understand," Jessica assured me. Still we were both nervous.
The family reunion took place at a country club on a beautiful cool summer evening. It was amazing to meet people who looked like Jessica and thus just like Madison, too. I kept my camera ready. Madison, open and sunny, charmed everyone, and several people took me aside to thank me for making the trip. "It's my pleasure," I said honestly.
"She looks like her mother," said someone admiringly, and I felt the discomfort the comment left in the room. "Yes, she does," I rushed to say. "She has Jessica's beautiful smile." And they were generous with me, too. "Better ask your mommy," said Jessica's father when Madison reached for another slice of cake. Then he handed her to me although I know it pained him.
When the party spilled outdoors, Madison and Jessica wandered away to play in one of the sand traps on the club's golf course. I stood on the edge and snapped a series of pictures -- first Madison and Jessica crouching together to poke at the sand. Then Madison with her head thrown back to look up at Jessica while Jessica gazed down at her, smiling with great tenderness. Then a shot of Madison laughing and running away. Running toward me.
About the writer
Dawn Friedman lives and works in Columbus, Ohio.
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