on mothers

There's no time like today to write about this, and yet when I sit down to do it, I'm not quite sure how to start or even what I want to say.

I started feeling more compelled to write about this today after reading Vindauga's blog here on birds, bees, and adoptees.

I can't remember a time I didn't know I was adopted. I don't remember any big talk about it. No rugs were every yanked out from under my feet; it seems I always knew. That's a credit to my parents. I guess they must have figured if they didnt' tell me, it might one day slip out, anyhow, and so it was never really a secret to me. I wasn't told very much about my biological parents, only that they were "very young" and wanted me to have a "better life," but I do remember fantasizing about my birth-mother when I was young, trying to picture what she looked like and what she was up to now. I never thought much about the birth-father in the picture.

In first grade, there was a picture of a pregnant mouse (and the same mouse later, with babies) in our science book. When my teacher told us that every one of us was born in the same way that the mouse was, I raised my hand to say that I wasn't born that way; I was adopted. As if it were something special. She thought I was joking, in the way that parents sometimes tell their biological children that they were adoped when they do something out of character or misbehave. She laughed. I went home from school crying. Mom cleared things up, and the teacher apologized, but I think that was the first time in my life that being adopted was something that made me different, but not special.

In 3rd grade, I was requried to do a project on family ancestry for some sort of "Christmas around the world" project that the school was pulling together. Not having any idea of where to go, I became an honorary Italian, because my father had lived in Italy for a while as a young boy, when his father was in the army air-corp. In 4th grade, I had to do a similar project. When I asked my parents where my ancestors were from, they said to just use theirs. I hated those projects.

In 6th grade or so I came upon the word "bastard" in a dictionary. It fit me. Child born to unmarried parents. I told a friend about it, and later when she fell out with me, she told it to a lot of other kids, laughing.

In 7th grade, I was required to write an autobiography of myself, from birth to present day. In itI said my birthmother had died giving birth to me and that's how I wound up adopted. My mom discovered what I'd written and had a long talk to me about it, and made me re-write what I'd written. I remember crying, almost hysterically, and her holding me in her arms. Before I turned the project in, I tore out those pages and replaced them with my original story. I was ashamed.

In 9th grade, when my grandfather died, a young and unthinking cousin said I couldn't be as sad as he was because he wasn't really my grandfather. Another, more distant cousin, my age, who hardly knew me, told him off. He's probably forgotten that. I never will.

In junior high and high school, the subject of my adoption seemed to become more and more taboo at home. When I dared ask about my birth parents, my parents didn't want to say much, and the snippets I got came with warnings. They were very young. 14, even. On the television talk shows, there were reunion stories all the time. When they came on, the channel was always changed. Birth families were called "white trash." Some were drug addicts.

My first year in college, I wrote a letter to the agency that handled my adoption (I found the address in an old address book of mom's) asking them for any non-identifying information they might have about my birthparents. It came back to me in about a month. I must have read through those sheets of paper hundreds of times. "Your birth mother was 18 years old when you were born. She was 5 feet 1 inch tall. She had dark brown hair and brown eyes. Her father was __ years old when you were born. He had brown hair and eyes. He was a banker and a farmer. Your birth mother's mother was ___ years old when you were born. She had ___ hair and ___ eyes. She was a secretary at a local high school. Your birth mother had three brothers. They were ___, ___, and ___ years old when you were born." There was information about my birth father, too. He was 18. He was planning to join the army after high school. There was information about what she wanted to do, too, and about lots of other things, too. My time of birth. My Apgar scores.

I told my parents I'd gotten this information some time after it came. They were a little taken aback. I said things to them like "Did you know that....? " and they claimed they did know. Like how the birthfather had gone to court to try to gain custody but backed out at the last minute. They knew. They never told me. I think my mom cried. They both gave me lots of warnings about what might happen should I attempt to actually find my birth parents.

Some years later, in graduate school, I found them. A kind internet contact and a lot of luck made it possible. I made two separate trips, once to see each of them. I met half-brothers and half-sisters. 6 of them. It turns out I'm Swedish. With a pinch of Irish.

I wound up telling my parents about this, too. It didn't go over well. This time my father cried, too. They felt betrayed. I wrote them a letter, trying to explain. I sent them a book. Neither helped. They were betrayed. I ruined Christmas. When they'd calmed down enough to talk to me, I received more warnings from dad. They might take advantage of me. I should cut things off immediately. Not only that-- mom and dad had been assured this would be a closed adoption, that what I'd done couldn't happen. They'd been advised to leave the state shortly after adopting me, and to "never come back." If they'd had known.... (question trailed off into silence, but still haunts me.) Dad told me I should cut things off. To spare the feelings of him and mom, I said I would. Then I went about doing my own thing and talking about it only with C., and later P., and sometimes also with the brother I grew up with (their biological son) who seeemed to understand.

The relationship I've been able to form with my birthmother, and especially with her daughters, has been a blessing. It's striking how much they remind me of myself at their ages; they were/are involved in all the same activities I seem to have been. The relationship with the other side of my biology is a bit more tragic. I have really nothing in common with him or his kids. When I visited his house, it was dirty and falling apart. One daughter didn't have a bed. Another daugher had been molested as a child at a daycare. One son was in jail. None of the kids was good at school. I felt lucky I hadn't grown up here. I felt ashamed. This man had sold his cattle (he was a future farmer of America) to hire a lawyer and fight for me. When this happened, my birthmother's family decided they'd take me in before they let him have me (my b-mother says he drank a lot and may have used drugs, too). Eventually the lawyer told him he didn't have a chance and everyone signed the papers and sealed my fate.

Every mother's day I feel a bit uneasy. I always call and send flowers or presents to mom, but I've never been able to bring myself to do anything for b-mom, because it would feel like another betrayal. But I do think of her, and of what she must have gone through to make the decision she did. I don't know how she did it, frankly. She hadn't even told her parents she was pregnant until she went into labour.

This year, though, tonight, I sent an email. Thank you for what you did. For my life. For not letting the desperation get to you as I'm afraid it might have with me.... I feel good about sending this out to her. I feel good about having found her, and b-father, and their parents, to let everyone know I turned out okay.... and yet I still feel guilty, too.

I feel guilty also for how much I long for a biological offspring of my own, now that P. and I are trying. I know I'd be fine, happy, even, if we wound up adopting (which we might, depending on a lot of things), but I long for that connection to grow up with.... er, to watch grow.

I love my parents. I just wish it were okay to love all of them, in my way. There's more to say. But not tonight.