Birthmother's Day

February 2001

I'd relinquished my son in March of 1991 and by May I could still barely get out of bed. I didn't have the first meetings to look forward to, or the pictures and letters, and since the moment I handed him over it was just me. Dealing with a loss that I didn't even understand. My father and my two best friends had gone with me to the courthouse in February, and my mother and my two best friends had gone with me to the agency when I gave him to his parents. My mother had driven me back to my father's house when it was over and had promised she'd stay for the night. But as soon as I crawled into bed ... I heard the two of them outside my door talking in a way that told me she would not be staying that night. And she was gone.

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Perhaps the pain was too great for a father who loved his daughter so much. Maybe there were no words to be said. So I dealt with the loss the only way I saw how. By myself. I tucked it away in a safe place and became a physical catapult for all things hurting within me.

It was the Saturday before Mother's Day that my pain first became real. I pulled myself out of bed around ten or eleven that morning and forced my legs up the stairs. Coming around the top banister I saw them, sitting there, so beautiful and so perfect. Surely, not for me. Out of curiosity I checked the card that sat tucked inside the dozen yellow roses on the table ... it read; "A good mother does what is best for her children ... you are a good mother."

Little did I know that three years later, that Saturday would be made into what we now call, "Birthmother's Day." For me, it is a similar feeling to Mother's Day, now that I raise and love three other children. It is a Saturday that remembers yellow roses and words so desperately needed. Validation.

As a mother, my Mother's Days are quiet and peaceful ... more for my children to celebrate rather than me. They enjoy making the cards and coming up with homemade gifts from school. The light in their eyes as they beam with pride is a surreal feeling for me. It is yet another day to confirm how much I love them. They don't know it, of course, but I do. When they yell out, "Happy Mother's Day!" they are searching my face for adoration of them, for confirmation that I am proud and I am pleased.

So on Birthmother's Day I find myself in the grocery store buying a dozen yellow roses for myself, just as I will do again this year. And I will write to me a card that says, "A good mother does what is best for her children ... you are a good mother." And I will put them on the table and I will glance at them throughout the day. I may even have the courage to breathe in their sweet scent. Their presence in my house, and on my table, will be a reminder that sometimes being a good mother is something I have to do alone. Without thank you's or giggles of joy, when there are no smiles of pride to confirm, when there are no handmade cards to open carefully, when there are no gifts to exclaim surprise over, when there are no party hats or balloons to throw out, when there is no cake to cover, when there are no laps or little arms to embrace ... when it is just simply a dozen yellow roses sitting atop my kitchen table seemingly whispering all day long; I remember the reason I am a good mother.

A good mother will spend all day cleaning her children's rooms just to get all the toys back out that evening as she plays beside her children without any knowledge of time. A good mother will wait to pay the bills until after her kids go to sleep so that they don't hear her crying. A good mother will get immunizations, birth records, applications, fees, and every minute detail taken care of in less than a day just so she can enjoy the moment her five year old sees his Kindergarten classroom for the first time. A good mother will not scream or cry when taking care of a bloody wound just so her child will remain calm. A good mother will cook a meal and even though she is exhausted she will sit down to dinner with the energy of a two-year-old just to ensure her children eat right. A good mother will praise even the littlest of things, and discipline the worst of things, all with the same attitude so that her children know no fear of success or failure. And the greatest of mothers do all this and more without being motivated by what she will be given in return for her sacrifices. A good mother will give her child over into the lives of a family who will give that child what she cannot, just to ensure its happiness. A good mother will never, for one moment, think of herself before she thinks of her children. And she never asks for a reward in return for her heroic ability to do everything she does.

The difference between Birthmother's Day with yellow roses on my table and Mother's Day with my three children eager to please? Birthmothers Day is for me to validate that one incredible act of motherhood that not only gave life, but that truly taught me the real meaning of what being a mother is. And Mother's Day is the ultimate reward that stems from those beautiful flowers sitting atop my table.

Happy Birthmother's Day to all my yellow rose girls who will be remembering the same thing as I this coming Saturday.

Credits: Courtney Frey