Or: Navigating the unchartered waters of adoption, the relationships that ensue, and the lack of definition within newfound family as I create a family of my own.

One thing that has been made repeatedly apparent to me as an adoptee who has been reunited with birth families is the lack of guidance or precedent available. What exactly is the relationship you have with your birthmom? Or birthdad? Is there such a thing as being too close, too open? When are you being too aloof and distant? How do you integrate whole new sets of family into a life you’ve been living for years? How do you integrate whole new sets of family into the sets you already have? Guess what! No one can answer these questions for you. And most days, even you can’t. Unfortunately, in the past ten years since meeting my birthparents, I am often only made aware of where the boundaries are when I cross them, or don’t come near enough. Basically, when I’ve somehow upset someone, or someone has upset me, in trying to figure this tangle all out.

Girl Time
For the most part, I have been much closer with my birthmom. As a child, envisioning being reunited, I always pictured meeting her. I guess part of that was encouraged by the fact that I knew there was interest in her meeting me too, thus, no fear of rejection. And maybe part of it was playing into the fairly biased stereotype that single women who put their children up for adoption due so in part because of the father being a deadbeat who doesn’t want to be part of the picture. Whatever the reasons, I would daydream about meeting her often – what she would look like, how she would react to seeing me for the first time, would we hug, laugh, cry, etc etc. Once we met we kept in close contact, and she has been extremely generous in sharing her life and her story with me. (At times, I feel too much so, but that is a whole other post….) We’ve gotten together countless times over the years, making day trips to visit one another, traveling to a common point for a girls’ weekend, even going overseas together, sharing an amazing trip to a land new to us both. Our interests run in a very similar vein, which has made it easy to bond over common interests such as theatre, books, and a continual quest for peace within one’s self. I often introduce her to others as my godmother, because we both find that to be a fitting description of the role she plays in my life.

This past spring, though, there was a bit of a meltdown, which led to a questioning of her role in my life. A questioning on her part, I might add, not mine. And this is just one of the many (MANY) sticky areas that comes with adoption, which is unique and different for every single person. I felt that our relationship was pretty stable. We talked on the phone with some regularity, emailed, wrote, and visited whenever our lives would permit. I am, admittedly, one of those people who gets easily distracted by the life in front of them, sometimes neglecting the lives of those they love that are physically farther away, for no other reason than I don’t see them on a regular basis and fall out of habit of keeping in contact. Lame, I know. Well, this had happened some with Birthmom. And when I dropped the news on her – over the phone, I might add – that she was going to a grandma….. well, things got quiet. And awkward. And ended up with her emailing me the next day, confessing feelings of confusion as to where she fits in my life, and the life of this child. Is she part of my family? Is she her own family, that I sort of belong to? Do we just flit in and out of each other’s lives? It was a tough email to read and process. And once again, questions with no answers.

The best I could and have come up with since that time is that yes, I absolutely see her as family. But how that is defined is completely fluid and ever-changing. And is something that we both need to reevaluate with some regularity to ensure that both our needs are being met. How we (my husband and I) are going to introduce our child to her is yet to be determined. What will she want to be called? What role does she see herself playing in this little monkey’s life? I don’t know, and I don’t think she does either. But we have both come to terms with letting such decisions breathe, keeping it open and loose, and letting what feels right inform us as we go. (I know, so hippie-dippie. But really, with so much of this, it’s about feeling things out….) Only time will really tell if this is a workable solution. And if not, we’ll regroup, try to think of what comes next, and proceed with caution as we continue to redefine this relationship. This amazing, wonderful, confusing, emotional, hard, sweet relationship.

A Man’s World
My relationship with my birthdad has been much more…. scarce. (As such, this section will be much shorter, and filled with many more unanswered questions.) He’s shown some interest, as have I, but we have both been hesitant over the years, tentative in our outreach. We’ve gotten together around holidays every year or so, and always enjoy our time together, but somehow that does not lead to more frequent contact. I know that he feels unsure of how to proceed, and I do too. And I’m ok with this casual relationship we’ve developed. For the most part. Most of the time. But in the times when I wish we had more, I’m uncertain of how to make that happen, of what that next step is. It’s so much harder with men. So much harder to read. Emotions don’t play into it nearly as much, and neither do outpourings of the heart, which leaves me a little lost and unsure. Not that I need outpourings, mind you, I really don’t. But without some sort of hint or indication that he wants more also, it’s hard to determine where we stand or if we wish to stand closer, and so we continue on, keeping each other at arm’s length.

He knows I’m pregnant, and has expressed heartfelt congratulations. And sometimes I think to myself “You’re going to be a granddad”, but I know that’s not really true. He’s not, cause I don’t think he sees himself as even a dad, or birthdad. Did he father a child? Yes. Does he care for said child very much? Yes. Has he ever reached out in a way that would indicate paternal instinct? No, not really. But then again, I don’t know him that well, so this whole post might be entirely unfair. It’ll be interesting to see how he interacts with the monkey. I am trying very hard to be better about keeping in touch with people, now that it’s not just me, but my family, and he is one of the people I am most hopeful about furthering our bond. As for what his role is? I could only guess at how he might answer that. I think he could only guess at an answer. And that’s ok. For the most part. Most of the time.

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*No, I cannot help myself when it comes to a bad pun. Consider yourself warned.

I wouldn’t say that my birth dad and I have a close relationship. Perhaps respectful and distant are better adjectives. We don’t talk for months, even more than a year at times. Every year on my birthday, I receive a bouquet of flowers. We’ve had some great interactions, I’ve met much of my paternal family, but we both seem to be comfortable with keeping each other at arm’s length.

I’ve recently had a new reason to reach out, to re-establish contact. That reason is the little monkey rapidly coming to full gestation in my tummy. How do you tell someone that is barely a parent that he’s going to be a grandparent? Apparently with an email and sonogram pictures…. He took it well, maintained contact, sounded happy even. Will this be a new start to this somewhat tenuous bond? I guess time will tell. And I know a little more effort could be put forth on my part. Maybe this time I’ll follow through.

Birthdays have always been bittersweet for me. Specifically, my birthday. Now don’t get me wrong, I love presents and cake. But being adopted, this day, the whole reason behind it, the whole reason for me, left me feeling a little sad. I didn’t know my birth story, didn’t know the woman who carried me for 9 months, didn’t know the circumstances. There were just a lot of unanswered questions. A piece of me (a very important piece) was missing, and each year on that day I was reminded of it’s absence.

Also, I hate attention. I don’t deal well with people complimenting me or focusing on me for very long, so the day felt slightly torturous in that regard.

But, having met my birthmom, I now know my birth story. I know the woman who made this huge decision with my best interest in mind. And I am so grateful for that. It’s helped me deal with birthdays with a little more grace.

And yesterday I discovered that holding themed parties helps! Mustache Madness was a blast, and my friends were willing to come over, don facial hair, and have a great time (without really focusing on the fact that it was my birthday… although that may be because a lot of them still don’t know.).

Then

Now

It was the summer of 1999.  One of the early days of July, if memory serves.  I was 17.  The papers had been signed – by myself, my parents, and her – and sent to my social worker.  Upon receiving all of the documentation, the social worker called with the news, with the name and phone number of my birth mother.  My palms sweated as I wrote it down, and after hanging up the phone, I just stared.  I eventually took the cordless phone and went into my bedroom with that piece of paper, and eventually worked up the nerves to dial the number.  I tried to play out all of the potential outcomes of the call – would she want to talk, would she sound like me, would she be excited or scared or happy or frightened or upset?  Or?  Or?  Or……

I dialed, and a gruff yet warm male voice answered, one I would get to know well.  I stammered my way through an explanation of who I was, why I was calling, and he was very understanding, knew just who I was.  Unfortunately, he informed me, my birth mother was away, spending the weekend on a long bike ride through the mountains.  I gave him my contact info, and asked him to pass it along to her.  I hung the phone up and felt crushed.  It was not the first reconnection I had thought it would be.  Hell, it wasn’t a reconnection at all.

The next day, the phone rang and I lunged.  On the other end of the receiver was a soft female voice, gentle.  It was her.

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What we talked about is ultimately unimportant.  I guess I should be able to recount each word, but I can’t.  What I do remember is what bio-mom told me at a later point, what her experience was the night that I had made that first call.  When she got into camp and called her husband, she not only received big news – that I had reached out, that her first born child was trying to establish a relationship – but she had some big news to give…. She was pregnant!  17 years after relinquishing a child, she received  a second chance at motherhood.  I can’t imagine how she felt, but overwhelmed comes to mind.

A couple of good friends had their first child on Tuesday.  It’s been pretty amazing to watch the journey, of her belly becoming increasingly rotund, of them preparing for this change in their lives, and now, to see them holding this incredible, little, scrunched up being that is their son.  

Being so close to someone who is pregnant really messes with your head.  Or at least it did mine.  Being the youngest child in my family, and one of the younger kids among my cousins, pregnancy wasn’t something I ever really encountered.  I never felt a baby kick inside someone’s belly.  I never had the opportunity to hold a brand new life that I was somehow related to.  I was never told my birth story.  In fact, until I was about 17, I didn’t have many details of my birth, except my weight (7 lbs. 10 oz.) and that I was healthy.  I was never breast-fed, wasn’t brought home from the hospital.  From the hospital, I went straight into foster care for my first few months, until whatever legal matters had to happen for a set of adoptive parents to be mine, and me theirs.  I know that my birthmom had named me Megan Ruth, and then my foster family renamed me in turn, although I have no record of what they chose.  I was “brought home” at 2 months 4 days, and renamed by my parents.  The earliest baby picture I had of myself was me from that first day ‘home’, with a wild mess of jet black hair and wide blue eyes.  

At 17, I had the good fortune of meeting my biological mother (aka bio-mom), and we have kept in touch ever since.  She brought with her on that first day an envelope of materials to share, and it was then that I was shown the belly I grew in, and the pictures of what I looked like as a little, scrunched up being.  She even had the ink footprint the hospital made, although it has the name section cut out.  (I’ll come back to this day many times, I’m sure, fill in more details of the that first meeting, but not now.)  

So, back to today.  I have this wonderful family in my life, and this lovely little man.  And my husband and I have talked off and on about having kids, but always come back to not being ready.  I once told my mum that I wasn’t sure if I would want children, and her response was anger.  While both she and my dad have always been open and amazingly understanding with me, and my quest to discover where I came from, I guess I had never thought about what they were not able to have.  I wouldn’t be theirs if they had been able to conceive, to have a child naturally.  And now, I see this baby, and it makes my insides cry out and turn flipflops, and I wonder what it will be like when I’m pregnant, how will my mum feel then?  I know she’ll be happy, over-joyous, ecstatic, but will there be a divide?  She’s a nurse, and has always been the person I talk to when I’m sick or have injured myself, or even if I just don’t understand what was going on, medically, in Grey’s Anatomy last night.  What happens when my body starts going through something she was never able to experience?

Ok, here’s the basics.  The absolutely bare-bones basics.

I’m adopted.  I’ve known this my whole life, like I’ve known I have blue eyes.  There was no big “talk”, no sit-down with my parents where they gently break the news to me, no shocking discovery of documents in the bottom of a drawer.  It’s just been a fact of my existence, part of who I am.  

My parents, my mum and dad – the ones who raised me and changed my diapers and have supported me since I was two months old – are wonderful people with a messy, messy past.  To give you an idea, they met while serving in Vietnam in 1968.  This past has made a number of appearances throughout my life, mostly in the form of chronic PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder).   

I have been battling depression since I was 12 or so.  It runs rampant in my family (see PTSD, directly above), and I later found out that it’s also genetic.  

I have met and know my biological families.  I am close with my bio-mom, her husband, and my younger half brother, and share Christmas cards with many others.  These extensions of family are huge, and while I am not in touch with them as much as I should or would like to be, I am extremely grateful for how open and accepting they have been.

I married my high school sweetheart at 22.  (I recognize that it’s sickenly sweet, but once you get to know us, you’d realize it’s not.)  Extremely young, I know, much younger than I ever thought I would be, but it felt right, and still does.  We’re young and overly responsible.  His grandmother had a saying of him – he could fall in a bucket of shit and come out smelling like roses – and this sort of good fortune has seemed to rub off on me too over the years.