Poking Holes in Condoms: the Story of How I Became a Mom

I snapped reading a novel with a pregnant character.  I got up and searched through my jewelry box for the pointiest pin I could find, grabbed the condoms and poked holes in them.  Just like the holes I felt inside of me. 

Looking at those holes in the silver wrapper was a big wake up call for me.  I hid the condoms under tissues in the bathroom garbage can and sobbed.  I'd been hiding my feelings for so long.

I had experienced a miscarriage several months before.  The pregnancy wasn't planned.  In fact, babies weren't in the plan at all.  My husband made it clear from the beginning that he didn't want children.  I told him that I was willing to sacrifice babies for him.  I actually thought he'd change his mind.  He didn't and I struggled with letting go of my strong desire to have a child.

We were in a really stressful place about six years into our marriage.  I forgot to take my birth control pill for three days.  I was sure the exhaustion, headaches and nausea were from the stress.  Being pregnant didn't even cross my mind. 

Then I woke up in the night and a pool of blood hit the floor the moment I stood up.  I called my gynecologist the next day when the heavy bleeding continued.  The doctor called it a "missed pregnancy". 

I was numb and in shock.  I stayed in bed crying and eating chocolate peanut butter ice cream for a few days, but I didn't fully deal with my feelings.  I shoved them down.  I went back to work.  I pretended I was okay.  I told myself I was fine.

I wasn't fine. 

My husband was sad when he learned of the miscarriage, but it was only because he knew I was hurting.  He was relieved there would be no baby and terrified pregnancy would occur again.  I finally realized that he wasn't going to change his mind.  No matter how much he adored me, he did not want a baby.

I opened up to my husband about all the feelings swirling around inside of me.  I wasn't just mourning the loss of my pregnancy, but the hope of any future pregnancies.  I felt so ripped off, like the universe was playing a cruel joke on me by allowing me to get pregnant, but then miscarry before even getting the chance to be happy or excited about the prospect of motherhood. 

We talked and talked.  The conversation kept coming up again and again for months.  I had a lot to process.  Through these talks two big points became clear.  My husband wasn't totally opposed to being a father, he just didn't want a baby.  I just wanted to be a mother and how it happened actually wasn't important to me. 

We'd thrown around the possibility of older child adoption for years, but never seriously talked about it prior to this.  We started to really consider it.  We made it a tentative "some day" plan.  I dove into research.   I was shocked when I told my husband about upcoming classes to get licensed to adopt from the foster care system and he said, "Let's sign up." 

A year after we officially started the process, our daughter moved in with us.  She was nine years old and had been in foster care for five years.  She had suffered abuse, neglect, poverty, homelessness, abandonment, instability and many other things children should not have to face.  We finalized the adoption six months later.

Parenting a traumatized child is challenging, but it is also so very rewarding.  Our daughter has made huge progress since coming home to us.  She's learning to control her anger, work through her feelings and trust us.  I felt a pull to her from the moment I saw a photo of her sweet face.  She is my daughter.  My baby.  I was made to be her mother.  My husband is an amazing father.  Nothing brings me more joy than watching the two of them laugh together.  She has healed me.  She has completed me.  The holes in my heart were waiting for her to fill them.

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