I awoke yesterday morning with my usual ritual. Wake up, open computer, check email. Yes, I’m obsessed. With my email, with blogs, with forums, it’s just what I do to pass the time. So, slightly droopy eyed and if I can be completely honest, a little hungover, I plugged in my various passwords and entered into my little worlds.

Both on this blog, and on a forum in which I participate, I opened myself up to fielding questions about Safe Haven laws, my experience using Safe Haven, and anything else relative that might be of interest. I never guaranteed that I would know all the answers, but that I would try and that I would answer honestly.

I’ve gotten some interest in that offer and have had some really insightful conversations. I’ve learned things and I like to think that others have learned from my experiences.

Today wasn’t going to be one of those days.

I’m not going to get into the specifics of what questions were asked – I didn’t ask permission and I don’t want to abuse any confidentiality that may have been expected or at least appreciated. But I will say this, the email reminded me that I can’t pretend that I’m just a regular old traditional birthmom. I can’t pretend that I went through an agency, selected parents for my daughter, and lived this modern adoption story (whatever that is).

I’m different. I’m marked. I’m associated with women who put babies in trash cans, women who get late term partial birth abortions, and women who fiercely deny their child.

In my mind I’m none of those things. I would like to think that many of you know that I’m none of those things. But in the mind of society, I am.

I refuse to play the “who has it worse” game. Birthparents have been stereotyped and stigmatized enough without us then competing with each other. But God, there are days when I just wish I had done things more traditionally. When I could just be a “regular” birthmom. When people would see that I didn’t do what I did because it was a last minute change of heart instead of killing my baby.

Killing. My. Baby.

I can hardly even type those words, say those words, think about those words without crying for my Cupcake. Partially because I can’t imagine me as the monster that others must see when they look at me. And partly out of the fear that Cupcake may one day think that her life is a fluke because I couldn’t bring myself to cause her death.

But that’s what was insinuated yesterday morning. Perhaps more than insinuated. That’s what I’ve been sitting with for the past twenty-four hours.

I didn’t know what to say, how to respond. I still don’t know if what I finally did say will be received with any kind of compassion or open-mindedness.

But I do know this: I would never intentionally harm my child. I feel it necessary to include the “intentional” aspect because I do understand that there were very real dangers that occurred as a result of my giving birth to her alone in my own home. But I would have been on the phone with Emergency Services in moments had anything gone awry. I would not put my own desire for privacy above her health. Ever.

But my eyes have been opened, once again, to the fact that I’m not adoption “normal.” That I need to speak more about Safe Haven – not to advocate for it’s use necessarily, I do see it’s flaws – but to dispel the myths and present some shred of truth and accuracy. By someone who used it, by someone who’s lived it, and by someone that’s not afraid to speak back when accused of being this horrible monster.