Ode to My Moms -- Guest Blog Post by Amy Jane

I knew my first mom from the inside, not the outside.  We hung out for nine months. She gave me a name. I wanted to feel the warmth of her skin. They didn’t let me. They didn’t let her. I wonder how long it took me to cry it out. Happy Birthday. I was an inconvenient mistake and brought her shame — I was not welcome, I was not wanted. They told her to forget about me, close the door, move on. Happy Birthday. 

I loved you, mom.

My second mom said I didn’t cry and that I was pudgy.  Guess the judging started early. But I learned how to not be inconvenient. I didn’t cry much. Guess the first sixteen weeks of life I didn’t need much. How much did they pay you? Did you need the money? Or were you complicit in the system that celebrates family separations? Did you get the praise you needed for doing your good deed? 

Thank you for changing my diapers and feeding me, but I didn’t love you.

My third mom kept me the longest, even though the paper said I could be returned anytime (with reasonable notice). I wasn’t returned. I wanted to return to my first mom. They wouldn’t let me, I didn’t know words yet. But my third mom wanted a baby. She already had four children from her own womb. Maybe she wanted to adopt because her sisters were adopting. Maybe she thought it would give her points with Jesus. Maybe her marriage was bad. Maybe she wanted another girl.  Her Number Four was a terror, and still is a terror. ….. Anyway, lucky her, she was chosen, they chose her. She had means and a husband.  And I was an inventoried available baby.  They chose her. And so now she had five. And I lost my name. Cut and paste. 

Erase, erase, we must erase. Erase her name, erase her heritage. Blank slate. Hurry, hurry, she doesn’t matter— we matter. Our Nordic heritage matters. But the name you stick on me comes from a baby in an advertisement on TV. It’s a farce -- no connection to your family, to your heritage.  You can’t erase my brown eyes. You can’t erase my innate talents. My inherited talents. You don’t look at me the same way you look at the other four. Oh yeah that’s right: I’m special. So special you can’t connect, you won’t connect. So special you have to admire me from afar. But I’m the good kid, I don’t cry, I don’t have needs.  But did I meet yours? I am so special.  So special you suppress my curiosity about who I am - so I retreat father into myself and I hide. Hiding from you or from myself? Or from the other four? I’m not sure. Who I am doesn’t matter, it can’t matter. Because I’m the counterfeit Swede.

I’m so special that Number Four terrorized me, humiliated me, year after year, and you laughed along. You tried to hide it but I saw it. Yep. I may not have needs, I’m still the good kid. And I am very, very tuned in. Don’t be so sensitive, you told me.  And so I retreated more. Into myself, hiding. Where it’s safe.

I’m so special that you complained, you audibly sighed, about driving across town. My inherited talent was playing piano. I’m sorry I inconvenienced you because I was a winner. One thing that was me, one thing from my inside out- made me vulnerable. But I was good. I won.  And you drove me there, but nobody came to see me. Not Number One, not Number Two, not Number Three, and certainly not Number Four. Not Father Figure.  Not your sisters.  But, I am special. Yep. 

Number Four was a terror.   Why did you introduce me into that family? How was that helpful? Oh yeah, it’s all about what your need was.  I wonder why you put me in the basement bedroom when I was only three years old with Number Four, far away from you? Oh right -- I don’t cry. I’m a good kid. 

Later you wanted to connect. But you didn’t know how, and I had already retreated. Too late. I could never tell you how I really felt or what was going on with me. You never knew, and I don’t think you ever wanted to know. You just wanted me to fall in love with a Swede. Julie told me you all joked about it.  Julie told me. And then you wanted me to have babies. Just like you. But I wasn’t ready, I didn’t even know who I was because the I who was me was erased. Apparently the counterfeit Swede I hadn’t become could never measure up.  

Here’s what I needed: I needed to be validated. I needed you to stand up against Number Four. I needed you to celebrate whatever part of me was retreating. I needed you to be happy to drive across town to hear me play and to invite everyone and have a party afterwards. I needed you to not look so sad when you saw I didn’t marry a Swede. I needed you to please not audibly sigh when I didn’t measure up. Again

But you couldn’t see that. So here’s what I would like to know: Did it look good— adopting?  Did you keep up appearances? With your family, with your church, in your neighborhood? Did you get more points with Jesus? 

I couldn’t be what you wanted me to be. Because you only wanted me to be whatever it was that I wasn’t. When you died, Number Two, the only sister I knew at the time, disowned me. Because of what I did to you apparently. She never told me what that was, but she knew. And you knew. I hurt you so much because I couldn’t be that Swede you so desperately needed.  You liked the idea of me, but never really accepted, never really liked, me. 

They say I have to be grateful. Because you needed me to fulfill your need, whatever that was - and I’ll never know. Here is what I am grateful for: I am grateful for my piano lessons, I am grateful for days at the cabin when I was little, I am grateful for canoe trips, I am grateful for my college education, I am grateful for trips, I am grateful for the bread you made, I am grateful for Swedish pancakes, I am grateful that you fed me and bought me clothes, I am grateful for my banana seat bike, and the 10-speed you bought me in college. I am grateful for my cousins. But the me who is me didn’t need to be saved from me and switched to something else. That’s not validating, that’s not helpful. I am not grateful that you tried to push away the me that is me.  

I wanted to love you, but if I am completely honest I am not sure that I did.

My journey to me is ongoing. Because the me who is me who couldn’t be erased, but she is buried so deep, it’s hard to find her. Like the stars at night, the me deep inside wants to be free, wants to be known, wants to be seen. I think I would like her.

My first mom welcomed me into her life. It took a long time, and she said no twice — but now she has welcomed me back. And now I am getting to know her from the outside in. Now I know my heritage. Now I know that the me who is me is completely accepted. By her. By her family. She chooses and makes beautiful things for me. I don’t have to try to be something I’m not. She smells good. She has a generous heart, a great big spirit and she loves to ride her bike. She is filled with joy and she is patient.  She is kind, she is human. She actually gets on her knees and prays. And not because she’s looking for points with Jesus.  She engages with life and learns new things. She drinks beer and watches football.  I feel connected to her - an energy, a spark that can’t be put out - and I’m finally validated. I feel like she celebrates, and actually likes, the me who is me.  I am so grateful for my first mom.

 I love you, I have always loved you. Inside outside in.