I became a mother, and I placed my son up for adoption. This choice gives me no sadness, only joy, because I have blessed two people’s lives with the chance to be parents. The couple I chose for my son happens to be gay.
The moment they saw Ian, they both burst in to tears.
“Would you like to hold him?” I asked. (He was born premature, with clefts in his brain, so he remained in Infant Special Care until he was four weeks, hence our lovely yellow gowns.)
Both John and Doug couldn’t stop staring at him, thanking me, telling me how gorgeous he was.
I spent my nights in the hospital holding Ian and staring at him, completely in wonder at how much he looked like his dad, and trying to decide what the right decision for him was. I had never felt so much love for something in my entire life.
In my heart, I knew I was not yet a parent—I hardly know who I am as person—and after hours of silent tears and rocking him back and forth in my arms, I made the choice to give him the family that he deserves, and one that is capable to, not only take care of him, but give him opportunities I could not, even if I had all of the money in the world.
Some will criticize my choice to place my son with a gay couple, but I believe they not only deserve the chance to be parents, but that they will be two of the best parents in the entire universe.
John and Doug email me weekly, with pictures and medical updates. I am allowed to visit any chance I can get (we, unfortunately, are 2000 miles apart), and they have completely made me a part of their family. My son will always know I am his mother, his mhibu (a word loosely translating to “dear one” in Swahili).
When people hear my story, the first thing they tell me is how “strong” I am, and how “hard” it must have been. My reply will always be the same:
I am just a mother who loves her son very, very much.