I was living with the baby's father, but our relationship had started to go sour. It only got worse once there were three of us. I tried to be happy and excited about being pregnant, but I couldn't even imagine what I was going to do now. How could I be a mom by myself? Why weren't we more careful?

Some questions I had to stop asking because I wasn't getting less pregnant while I worried. I had to make some choices and think about more than myself. My mother suggested abortion, but I didn't want to do that. The baby's father suggested adoption, but I didn't think I could do that either. My friends said I should be a single mom, and they would help me, but I didn't want that either.

What I wanted and prayed for every day was that I would die while giving birth. I had the scene fully orchestrated in my mind. Everyone would miss me and my troubles would be over, but there was this crying in my scene that I had never heard before - the cries of my baby. What about her?

When I was about six months along, I started calling adoption agencies. Some of them wanted to know everything about me but wouldn't tell me anything about the prospective parents. I kept looking. I started reading books and learned that not only could I choose her parents, but I could meet them! I could know what her name would be and get pictures every year, and they would tell me what she was like as she grew up. I could send her cards and letters and presents. She would know she was adopted. She would know I loved her. I learned to say that I was choosing adoption instead of giving up my baby.

As I got bigger and the world could see my situation, I accepted that my baby would need more than love. She would be happy with a family other than me. But what about me?

By choosing an adoptive family for my baby, she would be better than fine. There was no more crying in my childbirth fantasy, but I still hoped and prayed that I'd die when she was born. I didn't think I could go on living without her. Everyone at my college except me seemed to be so thin and carefree. I was waddling around, feeling like my life was over.

She was born so quickly. I hardly had a chance to get to the hospital and there she was, perfect and beautiful and in my arms. I slept with her and nursed her. I marveled at her pink skin, her tiny mouth, her right to the best life I could provide.

She spent every minute with me for the first three days of her life. Saying good-bye to her and leaving the hospital alone was a pain I could hardly imagine. I was alone like never before, after 40 weeks of her squirming and kicking inside of me.

Without my baby, I felt useless. I knew she was doing great with her parents, but I was falling apart. I let it happen again.

When my daughter was 15 months old, I had her pefect little brother. Now I have two children adopted by the same parents.

With my second pregnancy, I knew that I would choose adoption. Her parents said they wanted this baby too. I felt like I was giving my daughter and son the best gift I could give them - each other.

Their parents loved them from the moment they heard. I wish I could say the same. Their parents had been ready and waiting for years. I didn't even know what I was doing when I had sex. Their parents are the sort of people I would like to be when I am ready to raise a child.

They send pictures and tell me anecdotes each year. They have always asked about me and continue to be, almost seven years later, the two people I admire most. They've given my children everything I wanted them to have and more - and they've allowed me to watch. While this was never among the things I wanted to be when I was growing up, I am proud to be a birthmother.

As I tell my story, however, people's reactions change. Those who'd thought I was courageous change their minds when they hear I have two children. I feel as though I was allowed one strike, as if people think I should've learned my lesson the first time.

Of course I should have. If only life were that simple.

That I had not one but two children is something I still wish were different. But how can I say that? There are two wonderful little people out there because of my carelessness. They are the joy of their parents' lives and mine.

I never regret them.

Anonymous