Motherhood and Birthdays..

Well, I had planned on waiting until Mid-May to post on the whole “Motherhood” topic, but, since it’s my birthday today, and I’m feeling a little pensive, this is what we’re starting with.

It’s interesting, how, after you become a mother, birthdays take on a newer significance.  Before Spenser was born, apart from my own, birthdays were just birthdays.  After he was born, I started looking at them as rather “shared” days… that is, between Mother and Child.  The thing is, the word here is “birth”day, and, while the child is welcomed into the world with great gusto, his first day was brought about because of the Mother and all of her efforts.  She gets congratulated on that one day, and that’s about it.

I am guessing that every Mother, on her child’s birthday, thinks back to that original day, when her little one was brought forth into the world.  She thinks about her pregnancy, her labor and delivery, and how the days/months/years have passed since that original day.

On my birthday, I have cause to think about this particular day in my history, and it is filled with many thoughts and wonderings, since it is a day of which I have never heard “the story.”

I happen to be adopted.



I have heard all of the stories of how my parents were initially my foster parents, of how they fought in court to be able to adopt me.  I have heard of how loved I was, how chubby I was, how my mother thought that I had a problem with my nervous system because I never cried.  I have a million stories of growing up, how my father was the first one to tell me of my adoption (the first story that I actually remember, that is), and consider myself a very blessed woman to have been  picked by the right Family.  I have often joked to others that I am the poster child for adoptions and how successful they can be.  My story is a very good one, and perhaps I'll have to have an "On Being Adopted" theme week, as well.

It seems a little unfair that I should start this themed week with talk of my biological mother, because it is my true mother, and my true family, who deserve all of my love and affections.
While I know and have lived the story of my upbringing and my life through my family, this one person, this stranger, is the only one with whom I share a true secret.  No one can tell me this story from their perspective; in this case, on this one occasion, it’s just about Me and Her.

I don’t know much about my birth mother, as I’m sure is the case with many adopted children, particularly the ones who were adopted many years ago.  I happen to know her name, that she died in her early 40’s due to breast cancer, that she had two other daughters.  I know that she was married at one time.  I believe that I was conceived while she was separated from her husband, and I’m guessing that I was a bit of an unwelcome surprise.  I have seen some pictures of her, I have met my bio-sisters/half sisters, and some cousins.  I have been told that she released me for adoption because she was too ill to take care of me, but I suspect that it was more of the “shame” factor that was present, and perhaps the illness was a more gentle way of explaining it to me.

Other than that, I know nothing of her.  I try to think of her situation and what she may have been feeling on the days and months leading up to my birth-day.  Was she embarrassed?  Confused?  Shunned by the rest of her family?  Did she have morning sickness?  Did she try to hide her pregnancy?  Was she sad the first time she felt me kick?  These are things that I never really fully thought of, prior to having a child of my own.

I will say, though, that, every year on my birthday, I think of this woman.  When I was younger, before I knew that she had already passed away, I used to imagine that she was thinking of me, too.  I imagined her out in the world somewhere, looking out from the window of her castle (ahhh, the fantasies we have…), and thinking back to that May 1st in 1968 when her now-a-mystery daughter was born.

I wondered if she was tortured by her decision, if she was regretful, if she was forgiving of herself, or if she even cared.  I imagined that she felt sadness, but hoped that she felt assured that her decision was the right one.  I would whisper prayers and thoughts to her over the years, thanking her for that decision, and assuring her that I had no bad thoughts or ill will towards her and the memory of her.  I whispered apologies for any discomforts that my arrival had brought into her life, and hugged her, in my mind, with the hopes of smoothing the wrinkles of her troubled thoughts or days.

I’m not sure if this is an odd array of thoughts, or if perhaps this is something that many adopted children ponder on their birthdays.  Perhaps this is something that all people, adopted or not, ponder upon.  If it’s not, it should be.

I’m not trying to get all Hallmark-y on you here, but, on your next birthday, consider the fact that your original one was shared with a truly singular lady.  Your birth-day may retell a touching story,  a funny one, a tragic one, or, it may not tell much of a story at all.  Regardless of whether you know your mother, or how either of you turned out, she gets shared credit for that one day. In the end, your day is not just about you, it is really about two people.  You, and Her.

Don't forget that.