She's Mine - Part 1 of 2

They weren’t lying when they said labour hurts. People kept telling me how much and I did believe them, but there was always that little voice saying, ‘How bad can it be?’ A word of advice, do not listen to that voice! It cannot be trusted. It’s naïve, inexperienced and frankly a fucking idiot. It became so bad at one point I cried out to a God I don’t even believe in and I wanted to punch anyone in the face who had ever said, ‘It’s the most natural thing in the world.’
I could have had an epidural. My friends thought I was mad going the gas and air route, especially as I wasn’t even keeping it. By it I mean the baby, a girl. A 7lb 5oz baby girl.
Now before you jump to conclusions I’m not a junkie, or an alcoholic. I don’t have a boyfriend who beats me or refuses to get a job and there’s no need to expect an appearance on some tacky chat show for a paternity test and I’m not stupid enough to get knocked up underage. Although I am stupid enough to get knocked up at twenty four, which I suppose makes me more stupid. I just don’t want a baby. I have a job, rent a room and the daddy may not be around but I could cope. I just don’t want to. To be honest if I hadn’t found out so bloody late I wouldn’t even be here now. This would have been sorted with a magic little pill.
I look over at my mum whose sitting on a chair looking out of the window at all of the fascinating grey buildings Seattle has to offer. She looks so old. She’s only forty five, but in the morning sun she looks about sixty. The soft lines around her eyes have become deep and long and her forehead is constantly furrowed these days. I know I’m responsible for most of those lines. She’s always worrying about me, fussing over me. I know she’s my mum and that’s what they do, but if she just listened when I say I’m ok she could save herself all of this stress. She thinks I’m making a mistake, like everybody else.
When I found out I was pregnant she was the first person I told. I thought she’d hit the roof, but she didn’t. She asked all the questions: how far? Who’s the father? Then I got the longest lecture on safe sex, albeit a bit late. But she was excited about being a grandmother, the only problem was I wasn’t excited about being a mother. I couldn’t come to terms with having something growing inside me, I couldn’t get excited or overwhelmed or even scared. There was nothing. The thought of having a baby was an inconvenience, in fact my first thought when I found out it was too late to have an abortion was that I’ have to cancel my holiday. That’s not normal is it? My mum kept telling me in time it would come, when I went to my first scan, or felt the baby kick but it didn’t. Then I started to worry, because I couldn’t feel anything and people should always be able to feel something shouldn’t they? The bigger my stomach became the more it reminded me that my head wasn’t right.
That’s when I decided on adoption. I couldn’t keep this baby. I couldn’t love it, not really and if I gave it to someone who could this guilt would go away and everything would be normal again. This is when my mum really did hit the roof, telling me I had no idea what I was doing but I’d made my decision. She begged me to change my mind and I had to constantly remind her that this was happening to me, not her.
It’s amazing all the different types of adoption there is. I could even make my own wish list for the adoptive parents, what religion I wanted them to be, whether they should already have children, what country they should live in. I didn’t have a wish list, only that they would love it and that goes without saying. These people were desperate for kids, and it seemed so unfair that they couldn’t have them and here’s me popping one out and casting it aside.
I met this fifteen year old girl during adoption counselling who was giving her baby away because her mum was a heroin addict. Her dad was in prison and she’d been in and out of care her whole life but she really wanted her baby. Every time the adoption was mentioned it was like someone had punched her in the chest, you could physically see her heart breaking, but she was so determined for her child to have a better life and I couldn’t help but think that’s real love. I was so jealous that she could feel that way. I felt so guilty. I’m giving my baby away because I don’t want to be skint, or give up my job, my life. I don’t want to give up anything, even for my child.
I wonder how I would feel if I was adopted. Would I hate my birth mother? Would I thank her? Would I think about her at all? Sometimes I think my mum should have done it. Not because she’s a bad mum, but she’s had such a hard time. Never having any money, my dad left when I was two and she’s never had another boyfriend. NEVER! I can’t imagine being hurt that much that I couldn’t move on. She had to move to another bloody country eventually. You’d think she’d support this. I just can’t imagine sacrificing everything for this baby, especially not when I turned out to be such a disappointment.
My mum turned her head from the window to look at me. I smile weakly and she gives me this pitiful look that I’m getting very used to. It’s really starting to piss me off but before I can say anything and start another row of the century the nurse comes in.
‘How are you feeling?’ She’s wearing the fakest smile I’ve ever seen. She gets an icy stare from me and it soon disappears. Ha! ‘Well we’ve cleaned her up, checked her over and she’s a beautiful, healthy little girl.’
What she means is they’ve checked to see if she has any deformities, birth marks or obvious disabilities just in case the parents don’t want her and then we’re back at square one. I suppose it’s fair enough though. If you can choose your baby you’d choose a good one wouldn’t you?
‘Your counsellor said you’re allowed two hours with her before the final paperwork is signed.’ I’m well aware of what I’m entitled to, the problem is my mum is not.
I’ve gone for this open adoption thing, which means I can meet the adoptive parents and write letters etc. etc. I’ve already told them I can’t see myself writing too much and that seemed to please them. I don’t want any contact, I’m giving the baby away for Christ’s sake and that generally means I’m no longer a part of its life, but it was a compromise with mum. After all she’ll probably be writing every other bloody week, telling it how much we loved it and how great I am which we both know is a lie.
I glance at my mum and she’s on her feet already.
‘Katie. You’re allowed to hold her. I didn’t think-‘ She reads my expression before she has a chance to finish.
‘I already told them I didn’t want to hold it.’
I know but I thought –‘
‘I. Don’t.Want.It.’
‘Katie please stop referring to her as ‘it’. She’s a baby not a handbag.’ We glare at each other for a while. I’m sure the nurse is very uncomfortable. My mum’s face suddenly softens. Defeat. She sits back in the chair and cradles her head in her hands and now I suddenly feel so guilty I think I’m going to burst into tears right here.
‘I’m sorry. I think I’m just tired. I suppose a little while would be ok.’ I say to the nurse who has gone an unflattering shade of pink, ‘But just my mum though. I’ll just watch.’