My Adoption Story

by Karen A. Adams

(or Why Don’t You Want to Search for Your Birth Mother?!)

Image credit: Liv Bruce on Unsplash

I have always spoken frankly about the fact that I was adopted. My parents were very open about it, which made me feel very comfortable mentioning it to others, whether in casual conversation with acquaintances or more in-depth heart-to-hearts with dear friends. It’s understandable that people are curious.  The most common question is, “Did you ever want to find your birth mother?” Every time I reply, “No.” This seems to surprise them, and so, of course the follow-up question is, “Why not?”  The simple answer is, I don’t want to. However, the real answer is more complex.

To Search or Not to Search

The journey of tracking down one’s genetic connections can be fraught with frustration, disappointment, and a host of other complicated emotions. It can be like opening Pandora’s box. This is not to say that there are no success stories. Of course there are! We hear about them often, and I truly am happy for those who obtain the best results.

The decision to embark on the journey of discovering one’s genetic predecessor (aka birth mother) is up to the individual adoptee. I don’t judge anyone who decides to move forward with the search. In today’s world, with a variety of resources at one’s fingertips, tracing familial connections is much easier. My adoption was sealed; therefore, very little information was given to my parents. However, for me, I have never felt the need to know my genetic predecessor. I think of the person who gave birth to me as my human incubator and nothing more.  I am not particularly keen on the term “birth mother”. This was not a term I had heard of as a child. I think when more adoptees began searching for their genetic connections, there had to be a name to differentiate the “birth parents” from the adoptive parents.

My genetic predecessor was not a mother to me in any sense of the word. Whether she was forced against her will to relinquish me or voluntarily surrendered me, the result is that I was made to feel disposable, which, in itself, creates emotional complications.  This may make me sound bitter, but believe me, I am not. In fact, I feel like the luckiest person because I had a safe landing, a secure home, loving parents. Why would I want to jeopardise what I had? Feeling disposable results in insecurity. Would my parents still love me if I decided to search? Not to mention the fact that my parents would likely have been hurt by my searching, not that they wouldn’t have supported me, but rather that they might have felt that they had somehow failed me; that I wasn’t content with my upbringing. I never would have wanted to cause them any pain or give them a reason to think that I did not appreciate everything I had been given. As much as I was a gift to them, they were a gift to me. Biological parents give life to their children. My parents gave me A LIFE. Who knows where I would have been had the events been otherwise.

The Fairy Tale

There was never a time in my life that I wasn’t aware of having been adopted as a four-month-old infant. Phrases such as “when we adopted you”, or “when we brought you home from the Adoption Centre”, were as common in our household as saying, “brush your teeth, comb your hair”.  Unlike other adopted children, there was no big sit-down revelation that sent my world spinning. That may be because my parents had adopted a baby boy three years prior to adopting me, or that they were just very honest people. Adoption was discussed freely, never giving me the feeling that I wasn’t the same as other children; I was no better and no worse than biological children. The fairy tale my parents created for me was that my original parents simply couldn't afford to keep me, and they wanted me to be cared for by people with enough money to provide the necessities of life and perhaps a little more. Apparently, my adopted parents had just the right amount of money, not too much and not too little. When I became an adult, my mother gave me the scant paperwork they had received from the Adoption Centre, and I must admit that when I saw the title – Home for Unwed Mothers – I was a little shocked. Naively, I had believed their fairy tale!

What Was the Adoption Centre?

My parents always referred to the “Adoption Centre” whenever my brother or I inquired about our beginnings. There was never a solid description or talk of a social worker; only the mention that there were nice ladies who worked at the Adoption Centre who took care of me until I could go home. I imagined it like a store where we were showcased and “put up for adoption”. Potential parents came in and browsed, choosing the nicest baby. Better be on my best behaviour!  My brother, being a very particular eater, always used the excuse that he didn’t have to try any new foods because he had tasted everything in the Adoption Centre and knew he didn’t like it! Our parents always had a good laugh about that.

Problem/Solution

I wondered how young women “got themselves pregnant”, a common phrase back in the 1950s, along with “got in trouble” for unwed women who became pregnant. Naturally, there was no mention of the young man involved. Apparently, I was a mistake, a problem to be solved. My parents had a problem – they couldn’t conceive a child of their own – I was a solution. Win/Win!

Insecurity

As an adopted child, there was always a fear in the back of my mind that I could do something to make my parents reject me. If I misbehaved, if… anything, they had the option of giving me back. My brother and I both felt this insecurity, but we reacted in different ways. He was always testing the boundaries. He pushed the limits of our parents’ patience. I used to say to him, “Please be good, then they won’t want to give us back”. He used to say, “Let’s see how far we can go before they send us back”. We were always waiting for that day to come to prove we were disposable. My greatest fear was that someday a strange woman would turn up at the door wanting to take me away. I believe this has been the root of my lifelong anxieties and need for reassurance.

The Second Baby – Has to Be a Boy

Three years following the adoption of my brother (not blood related), my parents decided to go for a second baby. My mother, ever the champion pragmatist, decided it had to be a boy again, considering that they already had the clothes and toys for a boy. Why spend money unnecessarily? So, they made the phone call to the Adoption Centre that would change their lives, and mine, forever. They “ordered up” a second baby boy. The Adoption Centre informed them that, unfortunately, there were currently no boys available, but they had a four-month-old baby girl. Would they be interested?  Maybe they would like to come in and “take a look, you might like her”.  My father had a huge heart and an unlimited capacity of love to give, so he was more open to the possibility of a girl and convinced my mother to go take a peek at the girl.  To prepare for the “sales pitch”, the Adoption Centre dressed me up in a cute pink outfit, tying a pink bow around the one hair on my otherwise bald head. As my skin was covered with roseola, the nice ladies were trying to disguise the redness. They couldn’t take a chance that the prospective parents might be put off by an imperfect baby!

I know my father was at once smitten with me, and I believe my mother was as well, perhaps just a little more guarded. It didn’t take long for my charms to win her over! Once they agreed to take me home, one of the nice ladies took me to the back room and changed me out of the cute pink dress into something a little less appealing.  They had to reserve the nice dress for the next baby sales pitch.  My parents had to stop on the way home to buy some baby clothes appropriate for a girl. (Bear in mind, we are talking about the 1950s, before terms like gender neutral had entered our vernacular.)

Homecoming

As the story goes, my parents arrived home with me in their arms, excited beyond belief! My brother was there with my paternal grandmother, who lived with us. He gave me the once-over and returned to his books… his normal behaviour. Before settling down, my father had to run to the neighbours to tell them all the news. “We have a baby girl!” So much for keeping adoption quiet! Everyone in the area knew about my arrival. The neighbourhood was abuzz with excitement… or perhaps that was only my father’s perception, but, in any case, I was home at last!

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Karen A. Adams

Karen is a retired Medical Office Assistant. Her past hobbies have included dressmaking, crafts, and reading. In her retirement she volunteers at a drop-in centre for vulnerable women. She is the proud grandmother to two amazing grandsons who were also adopted.