No Rose Gardens

Adoption is not easy. Everybody has to give up things. The kids have no choice. The adults have choices but so little knowledge that they really don't exercise choice when they make their choices. And everybody has to live with losses as well as with the wonderful things.

When Laura was five, she lost her birth family after an episode of abuse. Then she lost three foster families in a row before coming to me about two years later. I made myself a promise. "I can do this! Whatever this particular seven-year-old can dish out, I can handle." And it was true. For a while.

I made her promise. "I'm your forever Mommy. I'll always be there for you." "But what about Jane (the case worker)?" "I'm stronger than Jane. You're my forever daughter."

When the teen years came, the pull away from me became too strong. She'd stay out for days at a time, then call me at 3 am. "I'm just calling to tell you I'm okay." (Groggily) "Where are you?" No answer.

One day I found myself crying as I walked down the street. "I'm in over my head. I don't know how to do this anymore." Then came the hardest part: "I mustn't do this (for my own good and for her good)." All the choices in front of me seemed terrible.

I learned to sleep while she stayed out. I thought I was a terrible mom because I turned the worry off. I asked for residential care for her. I thought I was breaking my promise that I was her "forever" mom. I walked from agency to agency asking for help for her, grabbing any help they gave me. She needed me to be there for her and I couldn't do that without someone being there for me. And I felt guilty every day.

I felt guilty for saying that I needed help when she was obviously in pain. I felt guilty "imposing my middle class values" on her. I felt guilty when she acted out in ways I had predicted. I felt guilty when she pulled it together and didn't act out in ways I had predicted. I constantly felt that if only I were stronger, set better limits, provided better structure, had more of a support system, etc., she would be okay. But I know now, and knew even then, that she was doing what she had to do and I wasn't in charge of how she did it.

Today she is almost twenty. She has a son. We live together, with the baby's father, and are still a family. She tells her boyfriend that she learned from me how to stick with someone. Every time she says that, something inside of me cries--sort of happily--and I wonder if the worst of the struggle is behind us.

The four best moments that I have shared with her are:

-- Seeing how "normal" she seemed when a tutor was helping her with her learning disability.

-- Seeing her graduate from 6th grade, like a "normal" kid.

-- Watching how "normal" she was while her son was being born.

-- Watching her play with her son with tenderness and affectoon, like a "normal" young mother.

Laura's losses are clear. She lost a family and then some more families. She lost a big part of her background, including a language and a guide for being a young lady. She lost a sense of biological connection to very important people in her life. Sometimes she sounds like she's lost a sense of the meaning of living.

I also lost some things. I lost a sense of having a "normal" child, although I eventually found my way back to that. I lost the imaginary child I wanted to give birth to. I lost my sense of being a competent parent when she became an adolescent. I lost a sense of my daughter being connected with the rest of my family.

Out of all this, there are just a few truths that I hold onto for dear life:

-- Out-of-home services don't mean you're giving your child back. There are still many ways for you to be the parent. And eventually you'll find a way back to a more normal parent-child feeling. Very often that will include her coming back to live with you.

-- No matter how far out the kid gets, there's always something going on that's "normal." It might come in later than you expected, or have its own quirky quality, but kids have a drive for growth and health even when they're coping with much too much and have too many barriers to overcome.

Sometimes I think that loss defines my adoptive experience. But I really know better. The connections my daughter and I have define that experience. Looking back on it, the struggle wasn't a tragedy. I am still glad I'm her mother even though the scars are pretty thick. I would still recommend adoption to other people, BUT I WOULD BE SURE TO TALK ABOUT THE HARD TIMES as well as the good times. As Frieda Fromm-Reichmann said, No one can promise you a rose garden. Parenting is tough. And toughening. I'm a much tougher person than I was, and it's all to the good.