A Birth Story of Sorts

1. the process of becoming smaller.
  • a shortening of the muscles occurring at intervals before and during childbirth.


Scout, as we know him, had his first contraction in a corner table at Wendy’s.

Two Frosties, two singles (one, no onions). Large fry. Extra ketchup.

Could you ever adopt? a boyfriend asks me. He’s just returned from Kenya on a film project. His heart is heavy.

I’d never really thought of it, I say, pouring extra salt on my half of the fries.

Think about it, he says.

We wipe our hands on stiff napkins, crinkle our wrappers. He clears our tray, holds the door. We leave, both steeped in separate thoughts.

Years later, I marry the boy from the Wendy’s date. A second contraction comes soon after.

Have you thought more about the adoption thing? Ken asks while we stroll the dog around a sunny L.A. neighborhood. I mean, someday?

I eye a rocking chair in the thrift store window, then peer at my reflection. Not really, I say.

I don’t want to rush you, but we should start setting money aside if it’s in the plan. It could take years to save enough.

Bernie barks at the store owner. We walk on.

Time stirs. We buy a house. We change jobs. We pack a U-Haul, drive across the country. We change jobs. We bury two grandparents, an aunt. We bury a father.

Contractions, the process of becoming smaller.

Pregnancy, the process of becoming bigger.

I eat spinach, take prenatal pills. I sign up for a breastfeeding class, ask my midwife questions about “e” words I don’t know: effacement, encapsulation, episiotomy.

I birth our baby at home, laboring in my office. I practice deep breathing between tax records and spare Sharpies. I watch the lines of my Stendig calendar blur into oblivion.

Our daughter Bee arrives.

Scout’s third contraction comes in a darkened nursery after a sleepless night. There is rocking and shushing and swaddling and nursing. The colic drops have been offered, the diaper changed. There’s nothing left to do but wait for sleep to find her.

When it does, Bee’s head falls heavy on my chest in final surrender.

I become a mother.

I’m ready, I tell Ken over sushi take-out. Let’s do it.

The adoption? he asks with a hopeful smile.

I slide a framed illustration across the kitchen counter, a future family portrait. We both look older, wiser. Bee is a young kid. There is a baby in my arms.

The adoption, I say.

The rest of Scout’s contractions come in waves over the next three years: the budgeting, the research, the rerouting from international to domestic, the switching of agencies, the finger-printing, the medical testing, the resubmitting of paperwork, the signatures in ink.

I practice deep breathing between tax records and spare Sharpies. I watch the lines of my Stendig calendar blur into oblivion.

Our son arrives.

Contractions, the process of becoming smaller.

The process of shushing your doubts and anxieties. The process of making room – of filling your handbag with diapers, of filling your day with around-the-clock feedings, of filling your mind with endless “What if?” scenarios and incredulous fears.

The process of shoving a few pieces out of your heart and home and body so there’s enough space for another.

Our final contraction, then.

We are in a Midwestern courthouse. My parents and Ken’s mother are here. My sister has come bearing smiles and hope and three boisterous little boys; her husband arrives on his lunch break.

We put our keys, wallets, phones in a bowl and watch them slide down a conveyor belt. We walk through metal detectors before venturing up to the 17th floor of a building older than our ages combined.

Are you ready? the attorney asks.

Ready, we say.

Ken and I hold up our right hands. We swear an oath to tell the truth. We state Scout’s birth date, confirm his mother’s wishes, confirm our own.

We answer big questions with small answers, and we sum up a history of expectant love in Yes, sir and No.

It is the shortest birth I have witnessed.

The judge leans into his microphone, adjusts his readers. The court is in full support of this adoption; may we not stand in your way. Congratulations. He rises, offers us handshakes, a tissue.

My hands are full with paperwork as we exit the oak room, maneuvering Scout’s car seat past the juror box. Legally, we’ve become greater. We entered the courthouse as a family of three, and we’re leaving together as four.

But I know a contraction when I feel it: the familiar tightening and expanding, the holding of the breath, the other-worldly exhale. Messy and layered, fueled by pain and bliss. There was grief and there was joy. Tears and sweat. Agony and love. Hope upon hope upon hope.

The process of becoming smaller.

This is where we become mothers. At Wendy’s tables and on dog walks. Seated at our kitchen counters and courtrooms. Laboring in offices between tax records and spare Sharpies. We become mothers not when we pee on a stick or hear the heartbeat or learn how to properly install a car seat for that first white-knuckled trip home from the hospital.

We become mothers with every contraction between, when we make the conscious decision to become smaller so another can become greater.

Mothers do this. Fathers do this. Biological mothers do this. Adoptive mothers do this. Mothers in developing countries do this. Step-parents do this. Firemen do this. Children do this. And on and on and on.

We have all had our fair share of contractions.

Mothering is not Cheerios and nursery rhymes and banana puree; it is answering big questions with small answers. It is shifting your very self to account for the weight of a baby, or a burden, or a project, or a joy.

It is the longest birth I have ever witnessed. It is the smallest magic I have ever encountered.

Messy and layered, fueled by pain and bliss. There is grief and there is joy. Tears and sweat. Agony and love. Hope upon hope upon hope.

The birth story of a mother.





  • “When we make a conscious decision to become smaller so another can become greater.” This is the most beautiful thing! Being up to something bigger than yourself by making OTHERS great. I loved this piece.

  • congratulations on that wonderful step, full of love and hope. That’s also my story, how my family also became a family of four 33 years ago. The adoption of my sister was the best decision my parents took, she made me endless happy. She died many years ago, and my father too, I moved overseas… but the love and the happiness are still present in my heart.

    • oh lara, i’m so sorry to hear of your losses. here’s to the love and happiness we get to keep in our hearts.

  • “Mothering is not Cheerios and nursery rhymes and banana puree; it is answering big questions with small answers. It is shifting your very self to account for the weight of a baby, or a burden, or a project, or a joy.”

    I am 23 years into this thing called motherhood. Your words are honest, beautiful and so very true. Thank you.

    Congratulations, and the happiest of holidays to you and your family.

  • Oh Erin, your birth stories are so beautiful. I watched my sister adopt her first son, was stuck in traffic when her other two were adopted (the courts wait for no aunt), then had my own the old fashioned way – they were all beautiful and messy, vital and simple, and so full of joy. Congratulations, you beautiful mother, you family of four.

  • THIS. My husband and I (with no children of our own – yet) just finished our licensing as foster parents and are waiting for “the call” that will make us parents, be it temporary or a little bit longer. Right now our hearts are drawn to support reunification – holding these sweet babes while their biological families find their footing – but this article so beautifully describes how we’ve felt in our long conversations about becoming “parents” through the process. Congratulations to you all, family of four, and thank you for your words!

    • oh lisa, i can so relate to the many feelings you’re facing — and what a beautiful journey we’ll be on together. all my love, friend!

  • I am 3 short weeks into adopting – different age and circumstances. This is the most wonderful, beautiful piece of writing.. Congratulations and have a very special and merry Christmas X

    • oh friend, thank you, and congrats on your upcoming adoption. so many blessings to you. :)

  • This is beautiful! Your words of what being a mother is made me cry. Yes, it is with every contraction in between, even the painful ones. Congratulations to you, Ken, and Bee. So happy for your family xo

  • Thanks for this wonderful comparison of birthing and motherhood. Merry Christmas and happy New Year!

  • You have such a way with words, and I always leave your blog feeling uplifted and inspired. Thank you for sharing your many gifts with the world.

  • Always so beautiful and thoughtful. It is wonderful to have been one of your most enamored writing fans from long ago (did you publish your hair book? 😆). Happiest New Year to you and your family!

    • omg the hair book!!!!!!!! i did, actually – i self published it and sent it to my mother as a gift! ha! :) so great to be in touch again, friend!

  • This is pure magic! I loved reading every. single. word. Thank you:) xoxoxo

  • Erin, your writing moves me. Today happens to be the day that comes round to me every few months or so that carries a deep yearning I can’t explain to extend our family and offer someone love and a new chance. I don’t know what to do with it… but time will tell. Thank you for sharing your story.

  • Hi Just read your birthing story and I am in tears, it is so beautiful. Thank you

  • I’m in tears. Thank you. It’s been a difficult year with 2 stillbirths as I try to complete my family. This was really touching for a number of reasons. <3

    • oh ashley, i’m so so sorry to hear of such loss. sending blessings, prayers, warm vibes – the whole nine yards. peace to you.

  • Erin, your story is beautiful and so many Moms walk the same story. Even though contractions are not as enjoyable at the time, they bring a beautiful life, a beautiful fragrance, a beautiful journey when we go through and accept the contraction as a direction of God’s as He presents us the gift He has for us! You are prescious, sweet Erin. Thank you for sharing your contractions with us all.

  • You are such a talented writer. I just came across your book and looked up your blog. This post made my heart smile and I love how you captured the adoption process so beautifully. Congratulations to you and your family!

    Fariha | Blog

  • Beautiful. I hung on every word and cried with your joy. This is so wonderfully written. You are amazing. I have four children and hope to one day be an aunt to a foster child as I watch family go through the long process. Thank you for sharing.

  • I just found your blog… I’m sitting here, drinking coffee, tears falling, as 3 of my 4 babies are still sleeping, my four babies who came to me through adoption…and it’s hard days, but good hard. Thank you for this post. I just became a regular reader.

  • Thank you so very very much. This is precious and this is Holy.
    Thank you.

  • WoW…this is such a great word formation writing that goes deep into my “who I am” place of my soul. I am a living example of my birth mother’s decision to give birth to me after she conceived me during the violence of date rape back in 1949. The portion of my dash-in-live from 1949 – Jan. 18, 2017 (now) holds so many circumstances that your words have embraced. I was first placed with my birth mom’s parents who then placed me with my birth mom’s aunt and uncle to adopt and raise. 1969 I married, 1977 adopted our first son (7 months old). 1981 adopted our 2nd son (13 months old) who passed away 1986 one month before his 6th birthday. 1984 gave birth to my 3rd son. Throughout my continued dash through my total life story, contractions have been induced by circumstances that hold that pain, joy, grief, bliss and agony, tears and sweat. Hope topped off by Hope has brought me along my zigzag dash in life where so many contractions have adjusted the rise and fall of my heart beat graph of experienced grace.
    Thank you for this gift of words.

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