Happily Ever After

 “Finally.” She sighed as she held me tightly for the first time. I can’t  imagine the strength it must have taken for her to never see me at birth,  the small treasure she had carried for nearly nine months. Now, twenty-one
years and ninety-one days later here I was. Here I was. Completely numb to everything that was happening around me. What am I doing here, again? Who is this strange woman, and why is she so upset? I felt a miniature panic attack forming in the pit of my stomach. Amazingly, it reached my face in the form of a smile as she took our picture with her phone.  I’m not even sure what words escaped from my mouth at this point, I’m just so happy that I was rescued by my husband who jumped in with the five words of  Spanish that are in his vocabulary,  “Hi Esther,  I’m Caleb!”  We hurried  over to baggage claim and chit chatted in a mix of Spanish and English about the flight, her first impressions of the US, and about her family  back home.  After successfully retrieving luggage and finding our car in the parking garage maze, we began the trek back to South Carolina.

Growing up I used to imagine her. She was beautiful. She had long dark hair, and was petite like myself. I would imagine her married and happy, with other children who looked like me when I was their age. And I would think about her, thinking about me...

There was always that piece of the puzzle that was missing from me, and it was her.  I convinced myself that she was missing it too, and if we could just see each other then the picture would be whole. We would have a magical connection and be best friends, because she would be like me and we would understand one another in a way that no one else ever could.

Here she was. All my dreams could now come true because I found my puzzle piece. Only this wasn't a fairy tale. It wasn't even a movie, or a book. This was reality, and the reality was I had slipped into some form of a coma back at the airport that I still hadn't been able to come out of. While I was emotionless, she was every form of emotion.

Now that she had me back, she had no plans of letting me go again.

Every morning she made me breakfast before I went into work. She spent her days working on wedding favors and programs. She took every opportunity to kiss my head, wrap her arms around me, and tell me she loved me. What was wrong with me? It was all I could do to muster up a "good morning." Guilt overcame me as I began to push myself away from her, further shutting myself off emotionally. This guilt grew as I overheard talking to Caleb from another room. "I know she doesn't love me."

Did I not? Shouldn't that be innate or something, the connection between a mother and child?

And it was then I began to more deeply understand a paramount lesson. Family has nothing to do with blood or genetics. Parents are the people that love you when you fail, sing happy birthday to you year after year, take care of you when you are sick, and teach you valuable truths.  They are the ones you trust with every part of you--even the ugly parts. Family earns your respect just by being there.

But she wasn't there.

A few days wouldn't make up for 21 years, no matter how hard we wanted them to. With every picture I showed her from my childhood, every video from past Christmas mornings, I could see the longing and regret.  I tried to share old memories and adventures, finding new memories hard to make. This was not going according to plan. Odly enough, all I want to do was to go home to my mama and crawl in her lap like I did when I was scared and confused. As much as I wanted to I just couldn't make my dream come true.

I would love to tell you that all of this is one big happy ending now. That we talk regularly, and visit whenever we can, acting like best friends forever. However our relationship is a constant work in progress, one that I continue to rebel against quite simply because I don't know how to do this. I would challenge all adoptees to seriously consider the consequences of locating your birth family.  As I found out, it's probably not going to be all you imagined.  I am so thankful to have such a loving family there to support me as I work through every step of this process.  Support your adoptive children as they look for their puzzle piece, but I would strongly recommend that you encourage them to wait until they are legally adults and mature enough to accept the responsibilities that will follow. 

Things are not always as they seem, and happily ever afters exist in fantasy. They say the best things in life are worth fighting for.

She wasn't there...but she was thinking of me. She is here now...and not letting me go.

Is Your Mama a Llama?

One of my favorite books when I was a child was one by Deborah Guarino entitled, “Is Your Mama a Llama?” In it there is a baby llama looking for his mother, or at least looking for other animals like himself.  He goes to all the other baby animals and asks them if there mama is a llama, but none of them are. This was one of my favorite books as a kid, and my go to book for bedtime stories. Most likely this was due to the fact that for one, if you know me you know that I think animals are hilarious.
This creature right here:

Yeah. God definitely chuckled when He created this.

Secondly, I think I always felt like the baby llama. The llama wanted to connect with his animal friends hoping that one of them had a llama mama like his. I think I actually would have enjoyed the book better if in the end Lloyd (the baby llama) was the son of a giraffe instead.   Don’t get me wrong, as a child I was happy and healthy with friends and a very loving “giraffe” family. Yet it is very easy to feel out of place sometimes when you are an adoptee, especially if it is an international adoption. You want them to look like you. When my sisters began having their beautiful baby girls, they would look like them or look like my parents. Just once I wanted one to be born with coal black hair, or brown eyes!  That, I believe, is where the initial desire to search for your own llama mama begins.

I have been blessed throughout my lifetime to have many mothers.  As both a missionary’s kid, and a pastor’s kid I had an endless supply of sweet ladies who spoiled me and called me baby, sweetie, and sugar, giving me gifts on my birthday and making my favorite treats for me.  They made me feel special and loved every time I was around them. 

My sisters were about 15 years old when I was born. I was their living baby doll, that they changed, dressed up, and sometimes got me to say words I wasn’t supposed to!  They nurtured me as well as any mother ever could.  As I got older and began dating my now husband, my mother in law (who only ever had sons and grandsons) treated me and my sister in law like we were her own daughters.  She would take me in on the weekends when I was in college and feed me.  She goes shopping with me, checks on me whenever I am sick, and always hugs me and tells me she loves me.

Then there is my mother. Not my “adoptive” mother, like some people refer to her. She is my mama. It doesn’t matter if our DNA isn’t the same. It doesn’t matter that now I know my birth mother. That is my mom, and no one can change that.  I couldn’t have been born to a sweeter, more loving, and godly woman than the one who took me in at two day’s old.  She lovingly corrected me when needed, and never failed to make me feel like anything less than a princess.  I was her baby, and she told me this daily.

Ladies who are adoptive mothers.   If you struggle with your child never really accepting you as their mother, don’t. Just love them like they are your own flesh, and don’t worry about the difference in color if there is one.  They love you more than they probably even realize. Even if they go through a period of time when they seem to rebel against you and claim you aren’t their “real” family—especially as teens, just have patience.  Always support them in their desire to find their “llama mama,” because one day they will remember and love you for it. If they do find her, they will also find that flesh and blood doesn’t equal a relationship.  They will still be strangers.  When that woman (or girl) gave up that child she entrusted it in your care and gave up her rights as title of mother—no matter how difficult that decision may have been for her.  She didn’t change the diapers, help with homework, or deal with the disappointment after a lost ball game or failed audition. That was all you. Is it right for you to throw this in your child’s face when they start telling you that you aren’t their mother? Absolutely not. They already know how much you love them—they just feel out of place.  Help them find their place in your family.

Mother’s Day is a little over a week away.  I can’t imagine how painful that must be for a woman who has given up her child. A Mother’s Day in our house never went by that we didn’t talk about my birth mother and thank God for her.   My family will never know how much that openness meant to me. But Mother’s Day was always about my Mom for me. A day to thank her for all she had done, and let her know how special she was to me. I didn’t spend it gloomily depressed because my mama didn’t look like me, and the one who did gave me away. This is important for you to remember if you are adopted. Life is far too short to spend angry with two women who have always loved you in their own way.

I didn’t know this until just recently, but the day before Mother’s Day is known as Birthmother’s Day.  According to adoptionhelp.org, this day was created in 1990 by a group of birthmothers to honor their role in a child’s life.  There are some birthmother’s, however, that feel this is an insult to them because it says they aren’t real mothers.  Check out: http://www.exiledmothers.com/speaking_out/birthmothers_day_ccnm.html

Personally, I think this is good idea. It is healing for the birthmothers, and also gives adoptees a chance to recognize their roots.  That way as an adoptee you don’t feel like you are compromising one lady for another. Many adoptive families do something special to honor this woman who gave their baby life. 

In short, this year I will be recognizing two ladies.

On Saturday I will write my birthmother and thank her for the hard choice she made, and the new life she was able to give me through it.

On Sunday, I will call, write, send a small gift to, and dote on my real mother. She is the reason I am the woman I am today, and I love her very much.

Happy Birthmother’s Day…

…Happy Mother’s Day...you are all greatly loved.

KT