She made sure that her 7 year old daughter was on vacation with her sister for a couple of weeks. Luckily the timing worked out for this yearly trip. Her father drove her to the hospital that morning, after she told him that she was having surgery and he would need to pick her up in a couple of days. Even though they lived together, they were not a close family and he didn't question what the surgery was for. And then she was alone. I don't know if a nurse stayed with her or held her hand, or if they knew that she was planning on "giving away the baby" did they make things harder on her? Netting out their own punishment for her transgression? At 3:15 that afternoon it was over. I was born. I don't know if she saw me, or held me. She did write on a slip of paper the time I was born and my weight. She kept that slip of paper in her hope chest for 30 years, knowing that some day I might come looking for it.
Most kids love to hear the story of their birth. Or whether their mother craved pickles when she was pregnant with them, but ice cream when she was pregnant with their little brother. How did they get to the hospital? Was it a slow orderly procession or a mad dash in a cab? And then they get to hear about the first time they were held, how their mother gazed down at them in awe, counted fingers and toes and they bonded in the moonlight. Retelling the story helps the bonds grow deeper, the connections to stay strong. You are reminded of your very beginning, how you came into existence.
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Andy is the contributing editor for the Adoptee Perspective. She is also a mother through adoption. She writes daily at Today's the Day.
Showing posts with label Andy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Andy. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Musical Triggers
Music has always been a big emotional trigger for me. Certain songs can instantly transport me back to a time or a place in my life, to the point that I re-experience actual sensations. I cannot listen to U2's "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" without feeling cold and damp (long story). Any song from Elton John's "Live In Australia" will make we want to curl up with a blanket and go to sleep, except for "I need you to Turn to" which just reduces me to tears. When I hear Meatloaf's "Paradise by the Dashboard Lights" I can close my eyes and see Patti and Paul acting out the chorus in our living room on MacDonell St. in a drunken stupor.
There are 2 songs that are adoption triggers for me. I've been listening to both of these since I was a little girl. As (bad) luck would have it today, both of them played on my Yahoo Music feed while I was at work this morning. I'm already having a rough week when it comes to the emotions surrounding my own adoption, so hearing these songs, nearly back to back, was almost enough to push me over the edge.
The first song is Bobby Vee singing "Take Good Care of My Baby".
Click here to continue reading...
Andy is the contributing editor for the Adoptee Perspective. She is also a mother through adoption. She writes daily at Today's the Day.
There are 2 songs that are adoption triggers for me. I've been listening to both of these since I was a little girl. As (bad) luck would have it today, both of them played on my Yahoo Music feed while I was at work this morning. I'm already having a rough week when it comes to the emotions surrounding my own adoption, so hearing these songs, nearly back to back, was almost enough to push me over the edge.
The first song is Bobby Vee singing "Take Good Care of My Baby".
Click here to continue reading...
Andy is the contributing editor for the Adoptee Perspective. She is also a mother through adoption. She writes daily at Today's the Day.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
But They Can’t Have Blue Eyes!
An original post for Bridges
One of the best things that my parents did for me as a child was to be open about the fact that I was adopted and to share what limited knowledge they had with me. I have no conscious memory of finding out that I was adopted, I just always knew. This was pretty advanced for the early 1970’s, a time which was known for secrecy and lies in adoption.
One thing that I’ve never understood is when parents try to hide the adoption from their child. Like any secret, it will eventually be found out. And from the adoptees that I’ve talked to or blogs that I have read, where they don’t find out until later in life, it has been devastating. All trust of their parents is lost. And in the cases where they don’t find out until after their parents have died, a lot of time all information is lost too.
I can’t imagine what would have happened in my grade 9 science class if I hadn’t known that I was adopted.
We were studying recessive genes as they relate to eye colour. We had to fill out a Punnett Square based on our parents eye colour to show the probability of what our own eye colour could be.*
Both of my adoptive parents have blue eyes, which is recessive. I however have brown eyes, which is dominant. Using what we learned in that science class, my eye colour was not a possibility from my parents. As it were, I was a bit of a smart ass in high school. I knew full well going into the assignment that our family was genetically impossible. But luckily for me I knew why. Because my teacher did not handle it well at all. When he was handing back the assignments he pulled mine from the pack and used it as an example of work that was obviously wrong. When I smugly told him that it was indeed correct, he went off on a tangent about how my blue eyed parents could not have possibly me, a brown eyed baby. A few kids in the class were shocked, snickering jokes about the milk man and other wild guesses as to how I came to be. And the whole time, my teacher just kept going on, looking at my eyes, “but they can’t have blue eyes! They can’t!”
Eventually I spilled the beans. “Of course my parents can have blue eyes! I’m not genetically related to them. And this is a stupid assignment! I’m adopted, so what does it matter what colour eyes my parents have?”
I wish I could say that my teacher was contrite or apologetic, but he was not. He was smug in the knowledge that he was right. 2 blue eyed parents could not and did not produce this brown eyed kid.
I have shared this story with many people over the years, including adoptive parents who had not yet told their kids that they had adopted them. And still these folks were not spurred into action. They continued to live and perpetuate a lie, focusing their energies not on sharing the truth, but on covering their tracks and spinning the web of deceit wider and wider. Their solution to the school project dilemma? Tell the teacher that the child is adopted and doesn’t know and request alternative assignments for the class. I’ve lost touch with this family over the years, so I don’t know what eventually happened. One of the kids also had a variety of medical problems, so I can’t imagine that they could hide the truth from him forever.
Kids are a lot tougher then most adults. Growing up knowing we are adopted is in no way as scarring or damaging as finding out when we are a teen or and adult. The first time I told my son his adoption story he was 4 hours old. He was bundled up in a pile of hospital blankets and I was pacing the hallway with him. And he’s been told it many, many times since then. There are enough other secrets in my own adoption that I don’t need to make new ones.
* Science has since shown that eye colour is not so simple. You can check it out here.
Andy is the contributing editor for the Adoptee Perspective. She is also a mother through adoption. She writes daily at Today's the Day.
One of the best things that my parents did for me as a child was to be open about the fact that I was adopted and to share what limited knowledge they had with me. I have no conscious memory of finding out that I was adopted, I just always knew. This was pretty advanced for the early 1970’s, a time which was known for secrecy and lies in adoption.
One thing that I’ve never understood is when parents try to hide the adoption from their child. Like any secret, it will eventually be found out. And from the adoptees that I’ve talked to or blogs that I have read, where they don’t find out until later in life, it has been devastating. All trust of their parents is lost. And in the cases where they don’t find out until after their parents have died, a lot of time all information is lost too.
I can’t imagine what would have happened in my grade 9 science class if I hadn’t known that I was adopted.
We were studying recessive genes as they relate to eye colour. We had to fill out a Punnett Square based on our parents eye colour to show the probability of what our own eye colour could be.*
Both of my adoptive parents have blue eyes, which is recessive. I however have brown eyes, which is dominant. Using what we learned in that science class, my eye colour was not a possibility from my parents. As it were, I was a bit of a smart ass in high school. I knew full well going into the assignment that our family was genetically impossible. But luckily for me I knew why. Because my teacher did not handle it well at all. When he was handing back the assignments he pulled mine from the pack and used it as an example of work that was obviously wrong. When I smugly told him that it was indeed correct, he went off on a tangent about how my blue eyed parents could not have possibly me, a brown eyed baby. A few kids in the class were shocked, snickering jokes about the milk man and other wild guesses as to how I came to be. And the whole time, my teacher just kept going on, looking at my eyes, “but they can’t have blue eyes! They can’t!”
Eventually I spilled the beans. “Of course my parents can have blue eyes! I’m not genetically related to them. And this is a stupid assignment! I’m adopted, so what does it matter what colour eyes my parents have?”
I wish I could say that my teacher was contrite or apologetic, but he was not. He was smug in the knowledge that he was right. 2 blue eyed parents could not and did not produce this brown eyed kid.
I have shared this story with many people over the years, including adoptive parents who had not yet told their kids that they had adopted them. And still these folks were not spurred into action. They continued to live and perpetuate a lie, focusing their energies not on sharing the truth, but on covering their tracks and spinning the web of deceit wider and wider. Their solution to the school project dilemma? Tell the teacher that the child is adopted and doesn’t know and request alternative assignments for the class. I’ve lost touch with this family over the years, so I don’t know what eventually happened. One of the kids also had a variety of medical problems, so I can’t imagine that they could hide the truth from him forever.
Kids are a lot tougher then most adults. Growing up knowing we are adopted is in no way as scarring or damaging as finding out when we are a teen or and adult. The first time I told my son his adoption story he was 4 hours old. He was bundled up in a pile of hospital blankets and I was pacing the hallway with him. And he’s been told it many, many times since then. There are enough other secrets in my own adoption that I don’t need to make new ones.
* Science has since shown that eye colour is not so simple. You can check it out here.
Andy is the contributing editor for the Adoptee Perspective. She is also a mother through adoption. She writes daily at Today's the Day.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Obits and Phone Books
My adoption was closed, as was the norm in the early ‘70s. One nugget of information that I did have however was the name I was given at birth, presumably by my mother. Colleen Wilson. It’s nothing like my name today, and I can’t “picture” myself as a Colleen but it is a name that will always be special to me.
I was able to know what my name was because it was on the official Adoption Decree form from the courts that finalized my adoption. One little line at the bottom stated “…and the child known as Colleen Wilson will be adopted by Mr. and Mrs. SoandSo and will hence forth be named Andrea SoandSo.” Or something along those lines.
Throughout my childhood I clung to that name. It, along with a few lines of non-id’ing info that my mom wrote down as the SW read from a file the day they picked me up were the only links I had to who I was and where I came from.
Unfortunately Wilson is a pretty common last name; 8th most popular English surname in North America. If I had had a name like Shrapnel, or Doodyman I might have had an easier time searching for family members. But as a kid I didn’t know that Wilson was common, after all I didn’t know anyone with it. I decided that my mother’s first name must be Colleen and that she named me after her to make it easier for me to find her. So I was on the hunt for Colleen Wilson.
Click here to continue reading...
Andy is the contributing editor for the Adoptee Perspective. She is also a mother through adoption. She writes daily at Today's the Day.
I was able to know what my name was because it was on the official Adoption Decree form from the courts that finalized my adoption. One little line at the bottom stated “…and the child known as Colleen Wilson will be adopted by Mr. and Mrs. SoandSo and will hence forth be named Andrea SoandSo.” Or something along those lines.
Throughout my childhood I clung to that name. It, along with a few lines of non-id’ing info that my mom wrote down as the SW read from a file the day they picked me up were the only links I had to who I was and where I came from.
Unfortunately Wilson is a pretty common last name; 8th most popular English surname in North America. If I had had a name like Shrapnel, or Doodyman I might have had an easier time searching for family members. But as a kid I didn’t know that Wilson was common, after all I didn’t know anyone with it. I decided that my mother’s first name must be Colleen and that she named me after her to make it easier for me to find her. So I was on the hunt for Colleen Wilson.
Click here to continue reading...
Andy is the contributing editor for the Adoptee Perspective. She is also a mother through adoption. She writes daily at Today's the Day.
Andy's Story
Andy is the contributing editor for the Adoptee Perspective. She is also a mother through adoption. She writes daily at Today's the Day.
I was born in 1970. It was a time when there was a stigma to being a single mother and expectant women were often sent away in order to avoid the shame that their pregnant bellies would bring to their family. And this is what I grew up assuming was the story of my beginnings. A young girl, pregnant, with limited resources and support placed me for adoption so that she could get on with her life. Turns out that this wasn't quite what happened.
After 10 years of searching on and off, I was finally "reunited" with my mother, with a Children's Aid social worker acting as our go between. After all the obstacles that I overcame to find her - sealed records, lengthy wait times to have my file even looked at - I was finally going to have my questions answered. Who did I look like? Why didn't she keep me? Alas, there was one more obstacle to overcome. She didn't want to meet me or have any further communication, so please don't ever call, thank you very much, have a nice life.
Crap. Now what?
Growing up as an adoptee in the era of closed adoptions has given me an insight into adoption, loss, relationships and family that really, no one should ever have to have. Knowing what I know now, there was no "real" reason for me being placed for adoption. I wasn't in danger, my mother wasn't the homeless crack-whore that the made-for-TV movies want you to believe all first mothers are. She was a single mom with a seven year old daughter. She owned a house and worked full time. But society being what it was at the time made her feel that we would all be better off if she chose adoption for me. Did I end up "better off"? Not really. My life ended up different then then one I started out with, but not better or worse, just different.
And here I am now. I will always have the label of "adoptee". I can now add the title of "reunited adoptee" since my mother eventually overcame some of her fears and that has allowed us to have contact and to get to know each other. I am also a mom through adoption. I am re-navigating the emotions of growing up as an adoptee as my six year old son begins his own journey of awareness and understanding.
I was born in 1970. It was a time when there was a stigma to being a single mother and expectant women were often sent away in order to avoid the shame that their pregnant bellies would bring to their family. And this is what I grew up assuming was the story of my beginnings. A young girl, pregnant, with limited resources and support placed me for adoption so that she could get on with her life. Turns out that this wasn't quite what happened.
After 10 years of searching on and off, I was finally "reunited" with my mother, with a Children's Aid social worker acting as our go between. After all the obstacles that I overcame to find her - sealed records, lengthy wait times to have my file even looked at - I was finally going to have my questions answered. Who did I look like? Why didn't she keep me? Alas, there was one more obstacle to overcome. She didn't want to meet me or have any further communication, so please don't ever call, thank you very much, have a nice life.
Crap. Now what?
Growing up as an adoptee in the era of closed adoptions has given me an insight into adoption, loss, relationships and family that really, no one should ever have to have. Knowing what I know now, there was no "real" reason for me being placed for adoption. I wasn't in danger, my mother wasn't the homeless crack-whore that the made-for-TV movies want you to believe all first mothers are. She was a single mom with a seven year old daughter. She owned a house and worked full time. But society being what it was at the time made her feel that we would all be better off if she chose adoption for me. Did I end up "better off"? Not really. My life ended up different then then one I started out with, but not better or worse, just different.
And here I am now. I will always have the label of "adoptee". I can now add the title of "reunited adoptee" since my mother eventually overcame some of her fears and that has allowed us to have contact and to get to know each other. I am also a mom through adoption. I am re-navigating the emotions of growing up as an adoptee as my six year old son begins his own journey of awareness and understanding.
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