If things go as I intend, my birth mother will receive a lavish bouquet from her local florist this afternoon. If instead things had gone as everyone else had intended, my birth mother would have gotten nothing, because I would not have known her name, or her home address, or whether she was alive or dead.
This hit me like a right hook. I hate this holiday for many of these reasons, and more. And the addition of Birth Mother’s Day is like salt on an open wound.
Thank you, yet again, Tony for your insightful and honest perspective.
Tony, this is so insightful. I appreciate how clearly you articulate the complicated nature of Mother’s Day for all of us who have complicated feelings about mothers and mothering that don’t fit in a Hallmark card greeting. It especially hit this year as I reflect on the five years I was able to celebrate Mother’s Day with my birth mother before she passed away last summer. Thank you.
Great work, Tony! And oof- that last comical quote hits home- how so many just don’t “get” how painful adoption is. No one jokes about rape and abortion, but somehow adoption has always been fair game as a subject of jokes.
Wonderful article. And this a wonderful poem from Adoption’s real Poet Laureate, Mary Anne Cohen, one of the founders of CUB, she and Mirah Riben the Editors of Origins, a Newsletter for Birthmothers and everyone concerned about and with Adoption, archived now, I think, at Harvard. I would point your Readers to the work of Adoption’s Original Reformer, Jean Paton, and her biography written by Wayne Carp. Thanks for another ‘raid on the inarticulate’ pain of First Mothers.
Pussy Willow
Strange that it should matter
after all this time
Shopping for a card
to greet my second cousin’s son
Grandson of Tim who died and was buried
under December snow
without seeing him
Another Firstborn Son—
how biblical that sounds,
sonorous, linked with sacrifice…
A card with pussy willows, delicate
pale blue, fragile
first fruits, first bloom
my eyes fill
with unexpected tears
Long ago, troubled spring
I drew maidens
with flowers in their hair, with pussy willow
in their hands, dream girls
whose dreams had not been ground to dust
like mine
When he abandoned me
to gather first flowers
for our spring son alone
When I left our son, in my poisoned grief
to grow wild, to flourish or to die
without me
He was small and soft as pussy willow catkins
silent, solemn, pale as china doll
with eyes of ancient blue, looking in dismay
at my face, soon gone, who brought him to this place
When first flowers bloomed, and candles burned
for love as cold as stone
Now, in another voice, he tells me, gently
we cannot go back, change fate, cheat time
make the dead to rise, to sing again
He is a strong oak, tall flower, a tree in foreign soil
No more china doll, pussy willow in my yard,
in my arms…..
Wild blue skies
of Galway blaze behind his eyes
strains of Bartok’s tunes
that his father played for me
beat within his heart, unknown
We walk a hard way, separate paths
Each must make their peace alone
Great wheel grinds fine, consumes another spring
grinds grief to sand, all deaths, all births, all risings and all fallings
One more comment on this difficult day of grief and mourning for so many -- so many more than ever acknowledged. This marvelous SubStack -- informative, nuanced, truth-ful in a way so few things in Adoption are authentically truthful -- continues the long battle for Adoption Reform begun by Jean Paton so many way back in the 1950s. The entire field of Adoption if it doesn’t shun entirely shies away from Origins -- Origins of Life from First Mothers and origins of the Institution’s and Field’s own history. I urge readers to take a look at Wayne Carp’s what ought to be seminal biography of Adoption’s own Rosa Parks, so to speak, Jean Paton: the Struggle for Adoption Reform. Imagine a Rosa Parks-like courage combined with an H.D.-like poetry and profundity -- that was Jean Paton.
Thank you, Tony, for how thoughtfully you think and write about this complicated, fraught day. May you and your birth mother continue to bring joy to each other.
Not only is it Mother’s Day, but it’s always within a few days of my adoptive mother’s birthday. It’s a reminder of how complicated my relationship with her has been.
I hate picking out cards to begin with. Getting cards for both of those occasions at the same time? Standing in the card aisle becomes one of the most fraught 30-60 minute periods of every single year. It’s hideous.
#notallmothers
This hit me like a right hook. I hate this holiday for many of these reasons, and more. And the addition of Birth Mother’s Day is like salt on an open wound.
Thank you, yet again, Tony for your insightful and honest perspective.
Tony, this is so insightful. I appreciate how clearly you articulate the complicated nature of Mother’s Day for all of us who have complicated feelings about mothers and mothering that don’t fit in a Hallmark card greeting. It especially hit this year as I reflect on the five years I was able to celebrate Mother’s Day with my birth mother before she passed away last summer. Thank you.
Great work, Tony! And oof- that last comical quote hits home- how so many just don’t “get” how painful adoption is. No one jokes about rape and abortion, but somehow adoption has always been fair game as a subject of jokes.
Wonderful article. And this a wonderful poem from Adoption’s real Poet Laureate, Mary Anne Cohen, one of the founders of CUB, she and Mirah Riben the Editors of Origins, a Newsletter for Birthmothers and everyone concerned about and with Adoption, archived now, I think, at Harvard. I would point your Readers to the work of Adoption’s Original Reformer, Jean Paton, and her biography written by Wayne Carp. Thanks for another ‘raid on the inarticulate’ pain of First Mothers.
Pussy Willow
Strange that it should matter
after all this time
Shopping for a card
to greet my second cousin’s son
Grandson of Tim who died and was buried
under December snow
without seeing him
Another Firstborn Son—
how biblical that sounds,
sonorous, linked with sacrifice…
A card with pussy willows, delicate
pale blue, fragile
first fruits, first bloom
my eyes fill
with unexpected tears
Long ago, troubled spring
I drew maidens
with flowers in their hair, with pussy willow
in their hands, dream girls
whose dreams had not been ground to dust
like mine
When he abandoned me
to gather first flowers
for our spring son alone
When I left our son, in my poisoned grief
to grow wild, to flourish or to die
without me
He was small and soft as pussy willow catkins
silent, solemn, pale as china doll
with eyes of ancient blue, looking in dismay
at my face, soon gone, who brought him to this place
When first flowers bloomed, and candles burned
for love as cold as stone
Now, in another voice, he tells me, gently
we cannot go back, change fate, cheat time
make the dead to rise, to sing again
He is a strong oak, tall flower, a tree in foreign soil
No more china doll, pussy willow in my yard,
in my arms…..
Wild blue skies
of Galway blaze behind his eyes
strains of Bartok’s tunes
that his father played for me
beat within his heart, unknown
We walk a hard way, separate paths
Each must make their peace alone
Great wheel grinds fine, consumes another spring
grinds grief to sand, all deaths, all births, all risings and all fallings
Heart that weeps
at pussy willow gone to seed
takes hope, feels joy
in Oak’s mute strength
Sea’s indifferent, constant ebb and flow
All stones worn smooth with time
This spoke to me so clearly that I shared some of your thoughts - reflected in my own experiences as well - in my own blog today. You can see it here - https://missingmom.home.blog/2023/05/14/notallmothers/
Thank you for your continued efforts. They are always deeply appreciated by me.
mother’s day is as messy as all the iterations of motherhood are. thank you for writing this
One more comment on this difficult day of grief and mourning for so many -- so many more than ever acknowledged. This marvelous SubStack -- informative, nuanced, truth-ful in a way so few things in Adoption are authentically truthful -- continues the long battle for Adoption Reform begun by Jean Paton so many way back in the 1950s. The entire field of Adoption if it doesn’t shun entirely shies away from Origins -- Origins of Life from First Mothers and origins of the Institution’s and Field’s own history. I urge readers to take a look at Wayne Carp’s what ought to be seminal biography of Adoption’s own Rosa Parks, so to speak, Jean Paton: the Struggle for Adoption Reform. Imagine a Rosa Parks-like courage combined with an H.D.-like poetry and profundity -- that was Jean Paton.
Thank you Tony❤️
Thank you, Tony, for how thoughtfully you think and write about this complicated, fraught day. May you and your birth mother continue to bring joy to each other.
So very thoughtful, as usual, Tony.
I really appreciate your thoughts on this. As a first mother, it feels like a day designed for cruelty.
Not only is it Mother’s Day, but it’s always within a few days of my adoptive mother’s birthday. It’s a reminder of how complicated my relationship with her has been.
I hate picking out cards to begin with. Getting cards for both of those occasions at the same time? Standing in the card aisle becomes one of the most fraught 30-60 minute periods of every single year. It’s hideous.