The Incubator Syndrome

There are many mothers who've lost a child to adoption who refer to themselves as incubators, or who feel as they are/were treated as incubators. Living, breathing, flesh and blood women who compared, or are compared, to a machine. Why? Why do these woman feel this way and reel in pain from the idea of it? Because at some point they were told they did not deserve to mother the baby they were carrying. At some point they were convinced that they were not good enough to raise the child they created. They were good enough to become pregnant, even though that meant they were sluts. They were good enough to house a fetus until s/he was healthy enough to breathe on his/her own. They were good enough to deliver a child into the world - but that is all. To say the child was harvested from her body is not an exaggeration of the experience. Today, would-be adopters clamour to be in the delivery room so they can be the first person to hold the infant still covered in her/her mother's blood. They want to cut the umbilical cord - a symbology that is not lost on me. Adopters have no place in the delivery room. Would-be adopters belong in a waiting room - of a state agency where already-born children struggle with feelings of loss, abandonment, fear, insecurity, and a desperate need for a loving home. The delivery room is for family of the mother. The delivery room is for the growing of a woman into a mother. The delivery room should be the place where an infant instant goes from the embracing warmth of mother's body, to the embracing warmth of mother's arms. Birth is a traumatic event that all humans must endure. The mighty and precious human brain must leave its dark and warm place of creation, be squeezed through his/her mother's struggling body, and experience the shock of this new world filled with light and unfamiliar sensations. To compound the overwhelming experience with being whisked away into a stranger's arms is more pressure than any tiny human brain should have to endure. That small human has been genetically programmed to expect mother's smell, taste, sound, and sight. We childproof our homes with door knob covers, baby gates, outlet covers, and all manner of padding to protect this new tiny person's fingers and toes from the unknown dangers of the waiting world. Yet, we neglect the more important organ of all, his/her newly forming brain. It is that brain that is the cause of birth after 9 months gestation. The human brain will grow too large to pass safely through mother's pelvis if s/he stayed inside mommy much longer than that. Prior to the streamlining of modern medicine, this would have meant death for mother and baby. And so nature decided to let that developing brain exit her body at a time that is physically safe, even though it is not psychically safe. Mother's instinct is to protect this funny-looking little human, and to nurture him/her into independence over time. Mother's role is more than the creation of a body. Mother's role is to develop this tiny person into a grown person. Yet the message that is sent out into society on a daily basis is that a baby "deserves" the latest and greatest car seat, cashmere blankets, stroller, highchair. Society's focus is on ensuring that baby is donned in designer labels and consistently delivered to ballet class or baseball practice. Listen very closely to the message of what parenthood is. We are told that parenthood is the providing of THINGS. This is not the message of nurture and love. This is a message of consumerism and marketing. And so the marketing machine tells young mothers that since they cannot properly engage in the merchandising industry, then they are not fit to parent. They are fit only to produce future consumers. And that is why so many mothers feel like incubators.

Reverberations

Right now I am teaching myself to knit and crochet. I'm learning how to make scarves, hats, afghans, and whatever else I can create... What I can create... What I bring into being that has never existed before. Triggers lurk everywhere. It's a minefield of emotions - and sadly, most of those emotions are negative ones. This is the gift that adoption has given to me. I've made several scarves. I'll see a pattern and think, "Oh, I bet I can make something different based on that!" and I make it. Each one is unique and represents the colors, the character, that I feel when I think of the person for whom I am making that item. Thought, creativity, and time goes into each one. Each one is a labor of love. And now, when I look at the completed items, I want to make a pile and light a match to them. I want to destroy these things I have created so that no one else can enjoy what I have worked so hard to create. I created them. Each one is a piece of me. And I feel resentment at the idea of giving them to someone else to enjoy. These recipients have not labored for hours to make them - they're products of ME of MY WORK... they are pieces of me. I've given away so much of me, I sometimes think that I'm just a shell. I make jewelry and always give it away. I bake and usually give it away. I cook and others eat it. I am knitting/crocheting and now others are going to find warmth in it. I created my own children from scratch! I made them. And my first born was taken from me. I labored. I ached. I created him from pieces of myself. And someone else took him away and found comfort, warmth and happiness with pieces of me. And when they did this, they did everything in their power to erase me. They took my creation and said "fuck you" to the creator. I don't want to give anyone anything else. I'm done. I feel this way all the time. I used to be generous. I use to give for the love of giving and no other reason. And now, I am closed. I shelter myself. I've built walls that are impenetrable. And all I see around me are people who want to take more. Everytime I see someone say "You've given someone a gift they can never give themselves. You're an angel." I want to SCREAM! I didn't make my children so that someone else could play house and make-believe. I didn't carry my son so that someone else could fabricate a family with my child. I didn't give birth to him to make someone else's dream come true. I put my life on the line and my health on the line so that my child could live... and I wanted him to live with me. I wanted to raise my own son. I wanted to hear him say "mama" and take his first steps in the world toward me before he took his steps into the world away from me. But no one ever asked me what I wanted. No one ever told me how inextricably linked to him I felt. No one ever cared about the best interest of MY family. And now so many years later, I sit here knitting, creating from scratch, bringing into existence something that didn't exist before. And I know in a few months, someone else is going to take home what I've created. Someone is going to receive the gifts I am forming. And those inanimate objects truly are gifts. My son was not a "gift." Triggers lurk in every corner and crevice of existence... and I just cannot escape.