Chapter Five - Chosen
There is something that happens when you are expecting a baby. You start to imagine your child and their future. You get to thinking about all the possibilities for this new life you are carrying. Naturally, looking into the future often leads directly into considering the past. I was no exception to this. I suddenly found myself with a lot of questions about my birth mother and her family history. It was a little disconcerting as a first time expectant mother, when I was hit with a barrage of questions about my families medical history at the doctors office. Were there hereditary diseases or conditions? How about pregnancies? Was there a history of problematic pregnancies or births? I didn't know. I didn't even know if I was born early or late; or big or small. These are questions my parents couldn't answer for me. They had not been informed of any medical history. We had to assume that no news was good news.
Then my mom remembered that when they adopted me, they were told that there was a 50/50 chance I could have some form of mental retardation, due to some minor complications during birth, and they probably wouldn't be able to tell for sure until I was around two years old. My parents chose to take that chance and adopted me anyway.
I felt a renewed sense of respect and awe for my parents. Would I have made that choice if I were in their shoes? I considered the baby I was carrying and knew that nothing would stop me from choosing him. But with adoption, you could say, “No, I'll wait for the next available child.”
My parents explained that they had felt that I was their child. As soon as they received the call about me, they knew I was meant for them. They had been waiting for a long time for me, and nothing would keep them from choosing me.
Read the whole story
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Showing posts with label parents. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parents. Show all posts
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Story of a Girl, Chapter 3
Chapter Three - Considering Mothers
As a teenager, I did a lot of babysitting. I had a few families that I was the babysitter for. I enjoyed being with the kids most of the time. I had few bad experiences with out of control kids, but mostly I liked the kids and they liked me. But, what I loved the most was looking after babies. Oh sure, there is a lot about caring for babies that is not glamorous. However, there was nothing like rocking a baby to sleep. Or seeing a chubby little face light up with a smile when you walk into the room.
One such baby that I cared for was Christina. She was as cute as you could get. I started babysitting her when she was about 5 months old. Just a couple hours here and there at first. She was a little fussy with me, but I didn't mind. I enjoyed taking her for walks in her stroller and getting her to laugh. Over time, as I started babysitting her quite regularly. We had developed our own little bond.
Then it happened that I was asked to look after Christina overnight. I was a little nervous. But, she was a little older now, about 9 months old I think. Everything went well until about 3:30 am when I was awaken by the sound of a baby crying. That was a little startling as I was only 15 or 16 at the time, and had never experienced that before. As I groggily made my way into her room, she looked at me and cried a little harder. It was a first for her too. I lifted her up, and gave her a little cuddle, changed her diaper, then sat down in the rocking chair, wound up the music box and starting humming in her ear.
As Christina relaxed in my arms and started to doze off, a thought came to me that I had never thought before. I wondered if my birth mother had ever had another child. Did she ever sit and hold a baby like this and think of me? I prayed for her that night, that she could somehow know that I was okay and had a good family.
And, as I laid Christina into her crib, I thought about what it would be like to one day be a mother myself. And then my thoughts drifted to my Mom and Dad. Memories flooded back to me. I remembered baking with my mom when I was still too little to reach the counter and had to stand on a chair. I remembered my mom holding me and comforting me as I had to get some stitches. I remembered my dad reading bedtime stories and giving me piggy-back rides. I knew that they were going to amazing grandparents one day. I gave thanks to God for them and went back to bed.
Read the whole story
.
As a teenager, I did a lot of babysitting. I had a few families that I was the babysitter for. I enjoyed being with the kids most of the time. I had few bad experiences with out of control kids, but mostly I liked the kids and they liked me. But, what I loved the most was looking after babies. Oh sure, there is a lot about caring for babies that is not glamorous. However, there was nothing like rocking a baby to sleep. Or seeing a chubby little face light up with a smile when you walk into the room.
One such baby that I cared for was Christina. She was as cute as you could get. I started babysitting her when she was about 5 months old. Just a couple hours here and there at first. She was a little fussy with me, but I didn't mind. I enjoyed taking her for walks in her stroller and getting her to laugh. Over time, as I started babysitting her quite regularly. We had developed our own little bond.
Then it happened that I was asked to look after Christina overnight. I was a little nervous. But, she was a little older now, about 9 months old I think. Everything went well until about 3:30 am when I was awaken by the sound of a baby crying. That was a little startling as I was only 15 or 16 at the time, and had never experienced that before. As I groggily made my way into her room, she looked at me and cried a little harder. It was a first for her too. I lifted her up, and gave her a little cuddle, changed her diaper, then sat down in the rocking chair, wound up the music box and starting humming in her ear.
As Christina relaxed in my arms and started to doze off, a thought came to me that I had never thought before. I wondered if my birth mother had ever had another child. Did she ever sit and hold a baby like this and think of me? I prayed for her that night, that she could somehow know that I was okay and had a good family.
And, as I laid Christina into her crib, I thought about what it would be like to one day be a mother myself. And then my thoughts drifted to my Mom and Dad. Memories flooded back to me. I remembered baking with my mom when I was still too little to reach the counter and had to stand on a chair. I remembered my mom holding me and comforting me as I had to get some stitches. I remembered my dad reading bedtime stories and giving me piggy-back rides. I knew that they were going to amazing grandparents one day. I gave thanks to God for them and went back to bed.
Read the whole story
.
Story of a Girl, Chapter 2
Chapter Two - Repetitive Conversations
It's funny how people always have endless opinions and advise about something that they have no experience with. I have had so many people tell me how I should feel about my birth mother, or my parents. Not one of those people was adopted. Not one of them lived my life or had the experiences I had. Yet, somehow they knew what was best for me. It used to make me really mad when people would ask me about my birth mother, and even after I said that I have no interest in finding her, would still ask if I was going to look for her. I had more than a few conversations that went exactly like this:
Friend: so you're adopted?
Me: Yes.
Friend: Do you know anything about your birth mother?
Me: Not very much, but I'm okay with that. I don't really have an interest in her.
Friend: Why?
Me: Because I have my Mom. I have my Dad. I don't want or need her to feel secure or know who I am.
Friend: Are you ever going to look for her?
Me: No, I don't think so.
Friend: Why?
Me: (insert head explosion here)
I am not exaggerating. Well, maybe about the head exploding part. That loop played out in conversation many times in my life. I had similar conversations with people who had known me for years and knew how I felt. Even they somehow felt that I must be wrong when I said I didn't want to find her.
Here's the thing; my feelings about my parents, being adopted and my birth mother are very personal. Just as those feelings are for any other person who is adopted. I'm totally okay with it. I have known other adoptees who feel like I do. And others who long for answers and feel incomplete without them. Even within one family with multiple adopted children, each child can have very different perspective and feelings. One should never automatically assume that just because someone is adopted, that they have a big hole in their life and long for a reunion with their birth mother. They could be totally at peace with it. I was. I have known many others who were.
Read the whole story
.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Story of a Girl, Chapter 1
Anyone who knows me personally knows that I was adopted. For some, being adopted is hard. It leaves them filled with questions, confusion and a sense of loss. It wasn't like that for me. This is my story.
I don't remember finding out that I was adopted. I just always knew. As far back as I can remember, my parents told me that someone (my birth mother) loved me enough to give me a better life. They knew very little about her, but told what little they knew when I asked. I never had a burning desire to find my birth mother. I had a mom. She loved me and I loved her and that was enough. As a child, I never really gave it a whole lot of thought.
Occasionally, a friend would ask about it. Once, when I was about 7, a friend came over and we were sitting at the kitchen table coloring and having a snack. My mom was making dinner. My friend asked what it was like being adopted. I shrugged and said that it was fine. She asked where I was born. I asked my mom, because I couldn't remember the name of the town or hospital. Then my friend asked one of those questions. The ones that can pierce the heart of an adoptive mother. She asked, "Don't you ever miss your real mother? Do you wonder where she is?" Now, I was 7, so I didn't know that this conversation was tearing at my mom, as she kept her back to us and made dinner. She didn't say a word.
Again, I shrugged it off. "Not really", I answered. "I have a mom."
Later, after my friend went home, my mom asked me how those questions made me feel. Mom was clearly hurt that I did not correct my friend as describing my birth mother as my real mother. I knew this was bothering her, because she told me. I was 7 after all. Not all that perceptive yet at that age. My mom cried, and told me I hurt her. I didn't understand why she was so hurt because of course she is my real mom. That other lady, the one who gave me up, she was just someone who loved me enough to give me a better life. I was confused, but I knew that I never again wanted to hurt my mom.
A couple things happened in sixth grade that changed my perspective on being adopted. Not some life changing, cloud parting, angels singing kind of thing. Just a couple of events that deepened my feelings and made me feel different.
First, I met someone else who was adopted. We talked about it. He too, was okay with it. He too wasn't driven to find out about his birth mother. He was the first person I talked to about it who said, “Really? You're adopted? Cool! So am I.” For the first time in my life, I didn't feel like there was something wrong with me because I didn't want to know more about her. It's funny, how all the people who questioned me and made me feel bad weren't adopted. They had no idea what it was like, yet they all somehow knew that I should want to find my birth mother. But, now I had a friend who understood. I didn't have to explain to him.
Then she came. She was the teacher who came to take over the job as our sixth grade teacher, as Mr. Shaw had to leave. We all loved Mr. Shaw and therefore automatically, she was the enemy. As I write this I can't even remember her name. One afternoon, as I sat in detention, I asked her for help on an assignment I was working on. Until then, she was still the enemy. It was her fault that Mr. Shaw left. But, as she helped me with my assignment, I noticed that she looked a lot like me. She was short, like me. She had a bumpy nose, like me. Her smile was a lot like mine. She smelled good. I liked her laugh. Then it happened. For the first time ever, I wondered if she could be my birth mother. Or, at the very least, I wondered if my birth mother was a lot like her. I don't remember if I told anyone about this, as I wasn't suddenly wanting to know once and for all. But, I was curious, for the first time.
Fast forward to 11th grade when I was given an assignment to write a persuasive essay on a social issue. We had a long list of issues and ideas to choose from and we were advised to choose something that would mean something to us. One immediately jumped out at me. Adoption. I decided to write about open adoption. It fascinated me, as my adoption had been typical of the era. It was a closed, government handled adoption. The files were locked. I knew someone at school who was pregnant and was choosing open adoption. She wanted to meet and choose the parent herself, then keep in touch through the years to receive pictures and hear how the child was doing. All I could think was that would create a lot emotional stress for her and the parents. I wasn't sure if I was going to write from a pro or con viewpoint yet. I had to learn more about this. I starting my research right away.
I gathered magazine and newspaper articles. I sent away for some brochures from adoption agencies. They were sent to the school. I didn't tell my parents.
My mom had a habit of looking over my homework when I left it on my desk, as I rarely showed her what I was working on unless I needed editing. She was doing just that when she saw all the brochures. Now, you should know that I wasn't trying to be deceitful, or anything. I was just avoiding having uncomfortable conversations with my parents, which I knew would inevitably come up if I told them. Turns out, it was much worse. Mom kind of freaked out. But, she didn't want to talk to me from an emotional place, so she had my dad talk to me. I always hated when he sat me down and started our talk with, "Your mom is very upset because....". Those were always very long talks. We had a few of those through the years.
Once Dad explained that Mom had found my brochures and was hurt because she thought I was searching out my birth mother behind their backs, I got my turn to explain. I told my dad that I was researching open adoption for an essay assignment and that I still have no interest in finding my birth mother. He told me again, as he and Mom had told me many times before, that if I ever feel like I want to find her, that they would like to know, and offer whatever help they can.
I would never take them up on that offer. I would never choose to actively search out my birth mother. However, I would wonder if I looked like her, if we had the same eyes, nose, smile. But, I would never really want to find her. I mostly just wanted to see a picture.
Read the whole story
.
Chapter One - The Girl is Alright
I don't remember finding out that I was adopted. I just always knew. As far back as I can remember, my parents told me that someone (my birth mother) loved me enough to give me a better life. They knew very little about her, but told what little they knew when I asked. I never had a burning desire to find my birth mother. I had a mom. She loved me and I loved her and that was enough. As a child, I never really gave it a whole lot of thought.
Occasionally, a friend would ask about it. Once, when I was about 7, a friend came over and we were sitting at the kitchen table coloring and having a snack. My mom was making dinner. My friend asked what it was like being adopted. I shrugged and said that it was fine. She asked where I was born. I asked my mom, because I couldn't remember the name of the town or hospital. Then my friend asked one of those questions. The ones that can pierce the heart of an adoptive mother. She asked, "Don't you ever miss your real mother? Do you wonder where she is?" Now, I was 7, so I didn't know that this conversation was tearing at my mom, as she kept her back to us and made dinner. She didn't say a word.
Again, I shrugged it off. "Not really", I answered. "I have a mom."
Later, after my friend went home, my mom asked me how those questions made me feel. Mom was clearly hurt that I did not correct my friend as describing my birth mother as my real mother. I knew this was bothering her, because she told me. I was 7 after all. Not all that perceptive yet at that age. My mom cried, and told me I hurt her. I didn't understand why she was so hurt because of course she is my real mom. That other lady, the one who gave me up, she was just someone who loved me enough to give me a better life. I was confused, but I knew that I never again wanted to hurt my mom.
A couple things happened in sixth grade that changed my perspective on being adopted. Not some life changing, cloud parting, angels singing kind of thing. Just a couple of events that deepened my feelings and made me feel different.
First, I met someone else who was adopted. We talked about it. He too, was okay with it. He too wasn't driven to find out about his birth mother. He was the first person I talked to about it who said, “Really? You're adopted? Cool! So am I.” For the first time in my life, I didn't feel like there was something wrong with me because I didn't want to know more about her. It's funny, how all the people who questioned me and made me feel bad weren't adopted. They had no idea what it was like, yet they all somehow knew that I should want to find my birth mother. But, now I had a friend who understood. I didn't have to explain to him.
Then she came. She was the teacher who came to take over the job as our sixth grade teacher, as Mr. Shaw had to leave. We all loved Mr. Shaw and therefore automatically, she was the enemy. As I write this I can't even remember her name. One afternoon, as I sat in detention, I asked her for help on an assignment I was working on. Until then, she was still the enemy. It was her fault that Mr. Shaw left. But, as she helped me with my assignment, I noticed that she looked a lot like me. She was short, like me. She had a bumpy nose, like me. Her smile was a lot like mine. She smelled good. I liked her laugh. Then it happened. For the first time ever, I wondered if she could be my birth mother. Or, at the very least, I wondered if my birth mother was a lot like her. I don't remember if I told anyone about this, as I wasn't suddenly wanting to know once and for all. But, I was curious, for the first time.
Fast forward to 11th grade when I was given an assignment to write a persuasive essay on a social issue. We had a long list of issues and ideas to choose from and we were advised to choose something that would mean something to us. One immediately jumped out at me. Adoption. I decided to write about open adoption. It fascinated me, as my adoption had been typical of the era. It was a closed, government handled adoption. The files were locked. I knew someone at school who was pregnant and was choosing open adoption. She wanted to meet and choose the parent herself, then keep in touch through the years to receive pictures and hear how the child was doing. All I could think was that would create a lot emotional stress for her and the parents. I wasn't sure if I was going to write from a pro or con viewpoint yet. I had to learn more about this. I starting my research right away.
I gathered magazine and newspaper articles. I sent away for some brochures from adoption agencies. They were sent to the school. I didn't tell my parents.
My mom had a habit of looking over my homework when I left it on my desk, as I rarely showed her what I was working on unless I needed editing. She was doing just that when she saw all the brochures. Now, you should know that I wasn't trying to be deceitful, or anything. I was just avoiding having uncomfortable conversations with my parents, which I knew would inevitably come up if I told them. Turns out, it was much worse. Mom kind of freaked out. But, she didn't want to talk to me from an emotional place, so she had my dad talk to me. I always hated when he sat me down and started our talk with, "Your mom is very upset because....". Those were always very long talks. We had a few of those through the years.
Once Dad explained that Mom had found my brochures and was hurt because she thought I was searching out my birth mother behind their backs, I got my turn to explain. I told my dad that I was researching open adoption for an essay assignment and that I still have no interest in finding my birth mother. He told me again, as he and Mom had told me many times before, that if I ever feel like I want to find her, that they would like to know, and offer whatever help they can.
I would never take them up on that offer. I would never choose to actively search out my birth mother. However, I would wonder if I looked like her, if we had the same eyes, nose, smile. But, I would never really want to find her. I mostly just wanted to see a picture.
Read the whole story
.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Where It Begins
My heart broke yesterday when I read about the young man who ended his life after being outed on YouTube by his roommate and others at college.
Bullying is by no means a new problem. I was bullied in school by a group of mean girls, and silently started to believe what they said. It took me years to shake that off.
It needs to stop.
EVERY life is valuable.
If want our kids to respect one another, then it starts with us. Come on parents, lets teach our kids to respect themselves and others by living as an example. If you speak degrading of others or call them names just because you disagree them or their decisions, and you are supposedly the mature adult, how are your children, who are sponges, absorbing and learning from everything around them, supposed to know better than to behave the same way.
Getting off my soapbox now.
Bullying is by no means a new problem. I was bullied in school by a group of mean girls, and silently started to believe what they said. It took me years to shake that off.
It needs to stop.
EVERY life is valuable.
If want our kids to respect one another, then it starts with us. Come on parents, lets teach our kids to respect themselves and others by living as an example. If you speak degrading of others or call them names just because you disagree them or their decisions, and you are supposedly the mature adult, how are your children, who are sponges, absorbing and learning from everything around them, supposed to know better than to behave the same way.
Getting off my soapbox now.
Friday, August 27, 2010
My Heart is so Heavy
I am sitting here with shaky hands, a pounding heart and tears in my eyes. I just watched as my mom fell out of their truck as Dad was trying to help her climb into it. Dad and I were helpless to help her.
You see, my mom is extremely overweight. I can't even venture a guess at how much she weighs. Carrying too much weight for most of her adult life has destroyed her knees. She has no cartilage left in them, so they are bone rubbing on bone. Both knees. Extremely painful. She has developed sciatica in one of her hips as a result of her bad knees and strain from the weight. She can barely walk. One of her legs can hardly even move anymore. They won't operate, because she is too high risk for complications, because of her weight.
Dad is 70+ years old. His back has never been the same since he broke it falling out of a tree 8 or 9 years ago. And he has problems with his own knees. It is getting nearly impossible for him to assist my mom with stairs and such anymore. Dad can see that.
Mom cannot. She is in denial.
Dad knows that they can't keep travelling. There are getting to be too many falls. And one of these times one or both of them is going to get seriously hurt.
I am so sad. Sad, because Dad isn't ready to give up travelling. Sad, because Mom knows that and thinks that she can keep pushing herself even though she is pretty much immobile. And the pushing causes her pain. They are both hurting. Physically, yes. But, their hearts hurt the most.
I know what they need to do. I am sure that if they are truly being honest with themselves, they too know what they need to do. But, the worrisome thing is that neither will admit it. Scarier still is that I think one of them (or both) is going to get seriously hurt before they will admit it, when they will no longer have a choice.
You see, my mom is extremely overweight. I can't even venture a guess at how much she weighs. Carrying too much weight for most of her adult life has destroyed her knees. She has no cartilage left in them, so they are bone rubbing on bone. Both knees. Extremely painful. She has developed sciatica in one of her hips as a result of her bad knees and strain from the weight. She can barely walk. One of her legs can hardly even move anymore. They won't operate, because she is too high risk for complications, because of her weight.
Dad is 70+ years old. His back has never been the same since he broke it falling out of a tree 8 or 9 years ago. And he has problems with his own knees. It is getting nearly impossible for him to assist my mom with stairs and such anymore. Dad can see that.
Mom cannot. She is in denial.
Dad knows that they can't keep travelling. There are getting to be too many falls. And one of these times one or both of them is going to get seriously hurt.
I am so sad. Sad, because Dad isn't ready to give up travelling. Sad, because Mom knows that and thinks that she can keep pushing herself even though she is pretty much immobile. And the pushing causes her pain. They are both hurting. Physically, yes. But, their hearts hurt the most.
I know what they need to do. I am sure that if they are truly being honest with themselves, they too know what they need to do. But, the worrisome thing is that neither will admit it. Scarier still is that I think one of them (or both) is going to get seriously hurt before they will admit it, when they will no longer have a choice.
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