Little Green, have a happy ending

Born with the moon in Cancer
Choose her a name she will answer to
Call her green and the winters cannot fade her
Call her green for the children who’ve made her
Little green, be a gypsy dancer

He went to California
Hearing that everything’s warmer there
So you write him a letter and say “Her eyes are blue”
He sends you a poem and she’s lost to you
Little green he’s a non-conformer

Just a little green
Like the color when the spring is born
There’ll be crocuses to bring to school tomorrow
Just a little green
Like the nights when the Northern lights perform
There’ll be icicles and birthday clothes
And sometimes there’ll be sorrow

Child with a child pretending
Weary of lies you are sending home
So you sign all the papers in the family name
You’re sad and you’re sorry but you’re not ashamed
Little green have a happy ending

Mother’s Day and Being a Birthmother

As with most of my blog posts, this is not going to be well thought-out.  It’s on my mind, so I’m trying to write to understand myself a little better.

But, Mother’s Day always makes me feel sort of conflicted.  I am a birth mother, which puts me in a subset of Motherhood – but one that is usually written off by other people as not being legitimate or worth remembering.  It puts me in a weird place, though, because while I don’t want to bring it up regularly and talk about it with everyone, it’s still VERY MUCH a part of my past and of who I am now — so I usually find myself, around Mother’s Day, feeling sort of left out.  Like I’m just asking for attention if I want to feel special on this day, and like I should just be able to let it go because I’m not a “real mother.”  (No one has actually said that to me – just my brain.)

I don’t know that I want any more than to just be accepted and known as a woman who bore a child for 9 months, has a bona fide birthing story, and who made the best decision that she could for her daughter.  I know, it’s easy to forget these things about me because I don’t talk about them often, and because Sarah has parents who love her and are not me.

Oh, I don’t know.  I just wish that I could bring this up more easily — without feeling like I’m asking for attention or sympathy.  I just want to tell you about my experience, and to let you know that even though I don’t understand what it’s like to raise children, I do know what it’s like to love and want the beautiful baby you just gave birth to.