I woke up this morning, and immediately realized there is nothing funny about this day at all. I have a headache, my sinuses are killing me, my teeth hurt, even my hair is aching. I think I will just go ahead and drop a hammer on my foot to take my focus off the pain in my head. So this is not a humor post. If you are in need of a laugh, you are in the wrong place. No. Really. Go away. I'm crabby, and I'm not afraid to use it.
As regular readers of this blog know, I am adopted. That is not a joke, perpetrated by an older brother who resents my existence. [If he really did, he would be much more devious about it. Maybe telling me that the flying monkeys from the "Wizard of Oz" would be coming by for me shortly if I continued to annoy him. I dunno. Just making up some hypotheticals here.] No, I am the real deal: unwed teenaged mother, unhappy family, ruined lives, misery and despair all around. And then, viola, all the problems solved by simply unloading the problem onto someone else. I think she may have been wise beyond her years, given what a sore trial I have been.
I give my mother credit. [That would be my real mother, not the biological one, by the way. Giving birth gets you a baby, watching them barf their guts out in the middle of the night and still thinking they are beautiful makes you a mother.] We survived my being 15, and she is nice enough to lie and pretend she never thought about giving me back. Personally, I would have returned me as defective merchandise a few times [years,] but she is made of sterner stuff.
Being adopted is a weird thing, to be sure. I have had people ask me what it feels like to be adopted. I can't honestly say if it's different than not being adopted, because I have never not been adopted. I don't know if I would feel more or less wanted, more or less loved, because I don't have anything to compare it to.
I do know that one time quite a few years back, someone asked my mother about giving birth to me (we were probably at a baby shower, I can't recall now,) and for a moment she was trying to remember. We laughed as I pointed out that she was not there when I was born, but that was one of the most genuine expressions of pure love in my life. In that moment, I understood my being adopted was simply not part of her understanding of who I am. The fact that I am adopted never arises, because I am hers, and she is mine, and it really is as simple as that.
To hear my mother tell it, and I made her tell it over and over again, I was never confused about where I belonged. She tells me that on the day they got me, January 3, 1962, I never cried. We visited my cousin on the way home (she was the first relative I met, and we have been close ever since, so she was yet another perk) and I fell asleep before we got across the Mendota Bridge, which is just a hop, skip and a jump from my aunt and uncle's house. Mom says she was prepared for me to be up all night for days, if not weeks, unhappy and crying. Instead, I went to bed and slept through the night, no problem, while she hung over my crib filled with panic and worry. Which was probably good practice for being my mother, come to think of it.
I often see in news reports a child being referred to as an "adopted" child, like they come with restrictions or limitations. Sort of a conditional member of the family. The implication is not one of quality, unfortunately, but that the kid is somehow not quite up to snuff.
For example, Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman have two children together, who happen to be adopted. Why does the media, and by extension, why do we, think that matters? Are the children they have adopted somehow less their children than their biological children? Whatever you may think of them as people or actors, you see pictures of Tom and Katie, in particular, on the sidelines at the soccer games or attending school events often enough that you know it's a regular thing. And I'm guessing as they leave the house they are not saying, "Let's go see the adopted kids play soccer."
I don't really admire any of them, but I do appreciate the normalcy they bring to a very visible adopted family situation. They don't show it off, they just live as a family, and in doing so, make it apparent that adopted children live perfectly normal, happy lives. They are a weird poster child for normalcy, to be sure, but they are certainly far more normal than the Spears sisters and their three ring circus, biology not withstanding.
Of course, most adoptions aren't the high flying affairs of a Madonna or an Angelina, or a John and Cindy McCain, with endless money to spend, and unlimited exposure for all, sort of like a pricey parenthood public service announcement. That is not a slam on them, by the way, because in the end, they have taken responsibility for a child, or children, who otherwise may not have had a life at all. And that can only be seen as a good thing, because every child is worth saving.
But most adoptive parents don't have that kind of money, or that kind of power and exposure. For most, their only photo ops are arriving home on an airplane or driving up the driveway with their new member of the family, and the only adoring crowds are the relatives and friends who have watched them struggle to get to this day. What they do have, perhaps in even greater measure, is a desire and a wealth of love unmatched by almost anyone.
I am always bewildered at the decision of a young girl, unmarried, still in high school, who insists she is keeping her baby because she loves it, and can't imagine giving it away. I personally can't imagine keeping a baby when you are so young and unprepared and inexperienced. I think the most selfless love is found where you make the decision based on what is best for the baby, instead of trying to fulfill your own wants. But maybe that's just me.
But however positive the adoption may be, as an adopted kid, you will always have this Pandora's box of information that you don't know, and it is frustrating and tempting to open that box and see what it contains. I was adopted in the early 1960's, when there was no such thing as open adoption, and everything was shrouded in secrecy. When my biological mother relinquished custody of me, she signed me away completely, knowing that she would never see me again. That is not a leap of faith so much as it is throwing your baby from the burning building to the net below. I don't claim to understand the decision, but I certainly am grateful that she made it.
I don't know anything about myself, other than a few very general pieces of information, some of which are conflicting. I don't have any medical history. I don't know who I look like. I am not informed as to whether my biological parents are alive or dead. I don't know if I have biological siblings. I don't believe my biological father even knew I was born, but I don't know for sure, either. I have no information on education, or anything else that most people take for granted.
As tempting as it can be to open that box, I am not tempted often. Once the cover comes off, you can never slam it back down, and you are stuck with whatever knowledge you have gained. It is much less likely that you will find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, than that you will find regular people living a regular life, with good things and bad, but with whom you have very little in common.
And is that information vital to being happy? It doesn't seem to be. Because the happiness or satisfaction in my life certainly hasn't depended on knowing the answers. It is always awkward to explain that I have no family health history because I'm adopted, and even my kids are pretty limited. Breast cancer? Heart disease? I have no idea. On the up side, neither am I forced to claim the family history of Parkinson's and diabetes to be found in my adoptive family, so there is my silver lining peeking through.
My birth certificate looks a little goofy, because it wasn't officially filed until I was three. When I went to get my passport, I had to send a note along explaining the situation, along with my adoption decree, which was a little annoying, and sort of embarrassing, but certainly not the end of the world.
I can't think of a single other time that being adopted is ever even made note of. Most people who know me don't have any idea, and certainly, my relatives have never treated me any differently than any of my other cousins. In fact, on the contrary, I think I may have had special treatment, because everyone was so happy for my parents that we all found each other in the great big universe.
So, when a child is adopted, who benefits most? It's hard to say, because it seems to be one of the few life situations in which everyone wins. The biological parents have recognized, for whatever reasons, their inability to care for the baby they have created, and thus, are relieved of the responsibility. Which is especially good if they are young and not married, and a baby will prevent them from getting education and job experience they would need to get a good start in life. The baby gets a family that wants and will be able to care for it in a way it's own parents probably never could. The adoptive parents, who probably feel the luckiest of all, get the baby they have longed for and dreamed about and will love just as if that child were born to them.
So why, then, in the pro-choice versus pro-life debate, is adoption given such a tiny place? Why does it make people nervous, uncomfortable, edgy? When I mention that I am adopted, it can be a conversation stopper. People simply have no idea how to respond to that piece of information, even at my age. I see them struggle to decide if the appropriate response is sympathy, indifference, or encouragement, like it's a challenge to be overcome, but one that's not quite nice to mention in polite conversation. Sort of like a colostomy bag. Necessary at times, but let's not talk about it.
I am not a fringe person, and never will be. I am in the great, gray middle, the mushy area where you admit you don't have all the answers, and you don't deal in absolutes, because you think life is a little squishier than that. But I do wish, in the great abortion debate, that we would open the window and look at adoption a little more closely, and try to understand what the realities are. Why do we never hear from people who have participated in adoption? Why are the parents who have been blessed, and the blessings themselves, never asked to the table to partake in the discussion? There is something between all and nothing, and it is a win/win/win for all involved.
Each year as I celebrate my birthday, I wonder if my biological mother is still out there somewhere, and if she wonders about me. Does she wonder if she did the right thing? Does she worry that I am happy and safe? Does my birthday signify a happy day, or a sad day? I wonder, what does she feel?
I have had people ask me, if you could talk to her, what would you say? I know they think there are lots of profound questions I would like answered, or some deep feelings that I need to express. But the answer is much easier than that. I would say thank you for giving me life, not by giving birth, but by giving me away. As I celebrate my birthday this week, number 48 already, I hope you will know that I am sending you, not the love that belongs to my mom and family, but my gratitude, that piece of my heart which belongs to you.
