I’ve said it before, but Jenna mentioned this meme about what it means to be a Real Mom, and I just had to respond. Please excuse the repetition. All of you moms out there — first moms, adoptive moms, step-moms, moms in all forms, please write your own version, and please be respectful of other moms when doing so.
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A Real Mom shares the title. I am a Real Mom. I parent my child, who was adopted by me and my husband at 4 months old from an orphanage in Ha Tinh, Vietnam. We know a little bit about his birth/first mother, the woman who gave birth to him, through a letter that she left with the orphanage officials when she took him to that orphanage when he was two days old. Just a little bit.

It’s true that since he was 4 months old, I’ve done the daily work of motherhood. When he was a baby, I fed him, bathed him, diapered him, and kept him safe. I’ve watched him grow from baby to toddler, from toddler to preschooler, and he’ll be going into kindergarten in August. He’s a beautiful boy, full of curiosity and wonder, energy and laughter. Every day since he’s come into my arms, I’ve done the exhausting and rewarding work of motherhood. I don’t think many would deny that yes, I am a Real Mom.

There are some, though, who would balk at calling his first mother a Real Mom. Truthfully, I used to be one of those. But I’ve changed, and my mind and heart have opened a great deal since we first adopted Energy Boy. I’ve blogged about this before, in fact. I’ve come to see this woman, this faceless, mostly unknown woman who we sadly don’t have any photos of, who EB calls his Tummy Mummy, this cherished woman who bore this amazing boy, as his other Real Mom. She shares the title with me. She carried him for nine months, after all. They bonded during those nine months. And she made what I’m sure was a heart-wrenching decision, based on what she said in the letter, and most likely also on what she didn’t say in that letter (the contents of which I don’t share out of respect to my son; it’s his story, after all).

I’m not a first mother so I don’t speak from personal experience, but I think that I can safely say that a piece of her heart, a piece of her soul, left when she walked away from that orphanage without her son. And that that piece of her heart, that piece of her soul, will never quite heal, will never be “replaced.” Half-way across the world, I imagine her thinking of him every day, carrying him in her every breath, crying for him when no one else can hear her. I’ve read stories and blogs of enough first mothers that I know that their pain doesn’t end when they relinquish their children; it is then that the pain just begins. Their pain does not diminish with time; in all actuality, the pain increases with time. They learn how to live with the pain, but they don’t actually “move on” from it. They are mothers to the children they give birth to, even if they don’t parent them. They carry them, they give birth to them, and they love them unconditionally. If that’s not the definition of a mother, I don’t know what is.

I’m a Real Mom to my son. So is my son’s first mother. In this case, my son has two Real Moms. One he knows on a daily basis. One he knows in his heart, even if he’s not aware of that yet. One he calls Mom and understands what that means. One he calls his Tummy Mummy and has a pretty good understanding of what that means, at five years old, but not a sophisticated understanding. One he sees every day. One he hasn’t seen since he was two days old, but we hope to be able to see her some day.

Two Real Moms. I’m not at all threatened by sharing the title. I am, in fact, honored. I just hope and pray that I can tell her someday, that I can look her in the eyes and tell her how we share a son, how we consider her his other Real Mom. And mostly, I hope and pray that he can tell her how he does.

For me, a Real Mom shares the title. And a son benefits from all of that love.