I have always known that I was an adopted child. My earliest memories include a bedtime prayer that contained, “Thank God that I’m ‘dopted.” I was six weeks old when my parents took me home. They had struggled with infertility for seven years. During the late fifties and early sixties people did not openly discuss this sensitive and personal issue as they do today. My parent’s friends were all busy with their young families and I’m certain that this was a very difficult time for them.
I was an infant when my mother miraculously became pregnant with my sister. We were 18 months apart in age. When I was growing up people would often say, “Oh, how cute, the blonde girl looks just like her daddy and the brown haired girl like her mom.” Of course, I would feel it necessary to set them straight on their mistake and tell them that that wasn’t possible because I was adopted.
I always felt special to be adopted. When I was young I actually thought that my parents picked me off a shelf in a big department store. As I got older I loved to hear the story of the day they took me home. Many pictures were taken as I was growing up. I am especially fond of one that consists of a close up of my dad and me in our t-shirts. He was busy working on his dissertation for his PhD and taking care of me while my mom worked as an RN. She soon realized that she had waited too long for motherhood and decided to be a stay at home mom.
I have never felt abandoned by my birth mother, but rather a sense of deep gratitude for her courageous and selfless decision. I have been raised by two wonderful parents and have enjoyed many rich life experiences because of her choice.
Thank you, birth mother.