The world’s made an excellent point of teaching me that the things you think are right might not always be, and sometimes you just have to sit in faith and wait to be shown the path.
It’s also shown me that sometimes you are forced to make a choice with the information you have and hope for the best. Sometimes the discomfort of remaining where you are requires making a move, even when it’s painful.
That’s where we are with Sugar Biscuit’s birth father, D. His insistence on not following the boundaries we set and inserting himself into our lives in a place where there was no space forced us to react.
I found myself slipping into the place where I’d been two years ago with my son’s birth mom, consumed by her texts and need. I found myself drawing lines, and then watching D erase them with blithe disregard.
I felt a knot curl tight inside myself, the sure knowledge that Something Wasn’t Right tickling my conscience. We set a date for lunch at a restaurant with a playground, and I disregarded my apprehension.
And then I decided to listen to myself, to my intuition, to the part of me that keeps my babies safe and sound. I remembered giving an inch, and being driven miles away. I remembered this feeling of trying to do what I felt as the right thing, and everything going terribly wrong.
We know that Sugar Biscuit’s birth dad is still in contact with his birth mom. She is manipulative and reportedly desperate to see her son, despite the restraining order. We’ve seen that D is also unable to respect boundaries. After over a year of being in contact once every two or three months, the texting became constant, the requests increasing along with my alarm.
So, we’ve pulled back, way back, although we aren’t even sure what that will look like just yet. I am sad for SB’s birth dad, compassionate about his pain and his longing. But I am concerned for my family, our physical and mental safety. Sadly, this is not a situation where a birth parent fits neatly into our lives, not one where a group of mature adults work together for the good of a child. This situation is one in which a child fills a need for a parent, a hole in them that was made before the child was ever born.
The alarm sounding inside of me is not one raised by my anxieties about sharing my son, it is not due to some sort of unresolved adoption issues I carry. The fifty friends that have talked this over with me the last week can assure you of that. My fear is a real one, and my need to protect and assert myself as my boy’s Mama Bear is basic and primal.
How I wish it was different. How I wish this world didn’t break people into so many fine, precious pieces. Part of me is envious of families with even somewhat harmonious open adoption agreements, and misses my dreams of what could have been.
However, this is one of those times that I’ve chosen to learn the lesson the first time. Now I know better, and I will do better. I looked, and I listened, and I leapt. And I feel certain that I’ll land safely on soft ground, surrounded by the people that I call home.
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