Each day of our lives, there is something that potentially could remind us... I can recall being around 12 or 13 when someone commented to my parents just how much I looked like my mother. I didn't say one little word.... but, through my mind I screamed "Bullshit!" in bright red letters. Now, if I really had the guts, I would take a photo of my biological mother and send it to that woman (I've never liked her) and say..... WHO do I look like! Heck, she would think I just sent her a photo of myself!
Us adoptees do lots of wondering too.... wondering what is going on in our bmom's lives. Wondering if they are thinking of us.... remembering us on our birthdays, holidays & family get-togethers - those times that are special to us and our families. We wonder if we have sisters and brothers - if our moms married our dads - if our dads even know about us.
It's difficult as an adoptee to not expect the best. After all, that is what is in our hopes and dreams - Yet coupled with that air of the unknown, is the fear of hurting our adoptive parents, the last thing we ever want to do.
I think I did most of my wondering - a continuous basis - when I was expecting my son Jacob. For the first time in my life - I could really relate to my birthmother, even though, I thought I had before. It was an odd time - especially when I went into labor. My mother was there with me, but she had never given birth to a child. Imagine, to be comforted by someone that had no idea what it was that you were going through. Now that I look back, I think of my birthmother - how similar the emotions must have been..... she in a strange place with no idea of what was going on and no one to comfort, and I in a familiar place, with familiar people that had no idea of what it was I was going through.
I can't remember a time that I didn't know that I was adopted. That was just the 'natural' thing to do - according to the social workers of the time. I agree whole-heatedly! I was raised on a farm with one older brother that my parents adopted two years prior. I was three weeks old when I was placed with my parents. Quite new to the world, and more fortunate than many adoptees that were shifted from foster home to foster home until the age of 6 months as they were in the late 50's and early 60's.
I had two wonderful parents - altho I'm
more partial to my father than my mother.
That is another story, or should I say book for yet another time... I remember my
parents (mainly my father) telling me that I was adopted - and I knew exactly what that
meant. It meant that my parents wanted me more than anything else in the world and they
did everything they possibly could to get me. How true, how true. Again, another story for
another time - the process adoptive parents went through was sheer hell!Along with the lectures of how much they loved me, they also told me of how much my birthmother loved me too. She loved me soooooo much, that she gave me to someone that would love me because of who I was... the person inside, with my gifts and my flaws. Unconditionally. Yet, there are conditions, too numerous to mentions.
Growing up - my father was quick to tell me how proud he was of me, and my accomplishments. At the age of 4, I was being instructed to play the organ (ho-hum!!), take dance lessons (waltz double ho-hum!) and many other little activities. (Now I look back and think.... I would have rather had a playmate, but am very pleased they invested into my future). I can remember one of my first recitals - I did what was considered "outstanding".... and came home with a blue ribbon. I remember overhearing my father tell my mother that they had my birthmother to thank... for it was because of her that I had inherited that gift. "Musically inclined said the social worker.... she was musically inclined." Gee - I didn't know what that meant at the time... but I do now.
My parents encouraged me with the music and the artsy-fartsy stuff. Never forgetting to compliment me or tell me how proud they were of me..... always throwing in the mention of my birthmother, and that I have her to thank for my gifts and talents.
Long about the time that I was five, my father not only did his farming, but started another position to phase out the farming. So, my mom did the tucking-in. I can remember every nite.... lying in bed with her standing at my door. I wish I could remember back further when it comes to this - but I just can not. She would stay there at the door, with her hands folded in front of her... and I would say my prayers. She taught them to me. If I close my eyes, I can see myself lying there with the covers up to my chin, my little pink nightgown poking out around my arms with my hands folded on my chest. I would close my eyes so tightly - hoping it would make me close to Jesus. There I would lay as I started, "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord, my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord, my soul to take. God bless mommy, daddy, Dennis, grandma, Smoky, Prince and the lady that gave me life."
In so many facets of my life, "that" lady was there. She was with me and guided me as I grew. My parents painted such a wonderful picture of "that" lady - how could I not want to know who she was????
It was either in first or second grade, of which, I am no longer sure. I remember coming
home with my school pictures. I had them hidden inside of my coat. I stomped right up the
stairs, pulled out that little silver scissors with the rounded tips, and cut one photo
(top left hand corner next to the 3x5's) and stuck it under my pillow. I quickly tucked
the pictures back into my little book bag and ran down the stairs into the kitchen. My mom
had made caramel rolls and I was just getting ready to dig into them when she decided she
would dig into my book bag.She pulled out the pictures and was admiring them through the green and clear plastic, then went to get her own scissors and start cutting them... she noticed I had already taken one of them. When she asked me about it, I can remember that I was going to tell her I gave one to my best friend, but then I said that I had kept one for myself. She didn't have a problem with that - and told me that it was fine. She did ask why I wanted one for myself, and I said that someday I wanted to have it for someone very special. End of conversation.
That night, my father was getting up - it was around 10, and he was getting ready for work. He sneaked into my bedroom and gave me a work-boot shoebox. When I looked up at him, he said, "this is for all that special stuff for that someone special". He walked out of the room, I never had a chance to say a world. In my mind, I think my father knew what I was up to. In my situation of adoptive parents, his was and continues to be my "unconditional" love.
Well - over the next many, many years - I kept putting stuff into that box.... that ugly orange, white and black box! Finally, I decided that I would make the box much nicer. I dug out wrapping paper (stuff left over from my parent's 25th wedding anniversary), it was so pretty and put pretty ribbons and bows on it... seemed that I kept finding strange stuff to decorate it with - and to put into it. One year, I made a mother's day card at school, and that too went into the box, and my mom went without.
Finally - the box was full. I started another. This was about the same time that I really started to enjoy writing, so I purchased a special tablet that I kept in the box.... I would write and then decorate the cover, write some more, and do some more decorating. I was writing to my birth mother, and the things in the box were a part of my life that I wanted to share with her.... if ever given the chance.
