I first became a mother at the age of 6. It was Christmas 1960, the year I got my first Barbie. In our Christmas morning oblivion, we kids didn't realize Mom was in labor. She managed to last until every gift was opened before she went to the hospital to deliver our new baby brother, Matthew. Barbie had exotic eyes, a blonde ponytail and a black-and-white-striped swimsuit, but she couldn't compete with Matt, a real, live 10-pound doll who rarely cried. I was the third of the six children, but he quickly became my special charge and I knew I had found my mission in life. Matt was followed by Kelene, then Brandon, and I continued to perform my special role of "second mother" into my teens and early marriage.
In my early 20s I married, with full expectation of continuing my mother's example of becoming a full-time mother of a large family. My husband enthusiastically supported my dream, and we determined to begin immediately.
But life takes unexpected turns, and after two years of trying, we were diagnosed with infertility. It was a severe blow that shook my whole world. Feeling bewildered and betrayed, I struggled to make sense of the hand I had been dealt. After five years of negotiating with doctors and procedures, charting, calendaring and begging heaven for the privilege of raising a child of my own, we began to consider adoption as an option. Not wanting to give up my dream of having my "own children," I was somewhat indifferent in the beginning. But as we completed our adoption study, my enthusiasm grew, and I began to believe that my dream of motherhood would actually come true.
Dec. 22, 1981, started out like any other work day. Little brother Matthew was due home from his mission the next day, and I was full of Christmas anticipation. But about 11 a.m. my world changed forever with a simple phone call.
"Sherilyn? This is Ione Simpson, your adoption worker. How would you like an early Christmas present? We have a baby boy for you!" I breathlessly called my husband then my mother, incoherently trying to share my joy through my tears. Two hours later, my husband and I were sitting in an office at LDS Family Services in complete shock and disbelief.
Our worker efficiently processed the necessary paperwork, then asked "Are you ready to meet your son?"
I don't know what I expected, but an 11-pound baby fullback wasn't it. He was 3 weeks old and had weighed 10 pounds at birth — just like Matt. None of the clothes we'd purchased on our way to the agency fit. His little face was all broken out in baby acne and he wore a forlorn expression of resignation. For a fleeting moment I was tempted to ask, "What else have you got?"
But as soon as I held him in my arms, I fell in love, and I knew he was our "own."
Two years later, on Dec. 15, I was smugly wrapping the last of my Christmas gifts when Mrs. Simpson called again. "How would you like a baby girl?"
Frantically, I tried to reach my husband, my mother and my best friend, all to no avail. Finally, I woke my 2-year-old son from his nap and asked him if he wanted a new baby sister. He enthusiastically assured me that he did, and three hours later the adventure began again with a beautiful, dark-haired daughter.
Each Christmas as I reflect on the birth of the Christ child, I also pause in gratitude for the precious gift of motherhood that came to me through the miracle of adoption. Amidst the holiday flurry, my thoughts always turn to each of my children's amazing, courageous birth mothers.
What was that Christmas like for them when their selfless, Christlike love made my dreams come true? Was the price of my joy another mother's sorrow?
Although we have never met and have had no contact, each Christmas and at each milestone of my beautiful children's lives I say a prayer for their birth mothers, that they may have peace in their decision, that they have found joy in their lives. How I wish they could know that the children they placed so trustingly with us became wonderful, well-adjusted adults. How I wish they could know the exquisite joy they brought have brought into our lives.
This Christmas we will celebrate with another new baby as I add "Grandma" to my cherished roles. As I gazed upon my granddaughter, just minutes old, my eyes filled with tears, reflecting again on my daughter's birth mother, grateful again for her role in creating another "Christmas I Remember Best."
Sherilyn Clarke Stinson lives in Sandy.