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

I drove nervously in the busy Atlanta traffic.

I didn't really understand why because other than my physical anxiety emotionally I felt numb. I waited my whole life for this one moment. Why did I not feel excited, scared, or even adventurous? I felt my fiance's eyes on me and tried to focus on the six lanes of traffic instead. He was giving me that look that said, "You're shutting me out again...Hello? My name is your other half, the one you can't fool?" I took a ragged breath as I parked the car. I knew it was coming. Don't lose it Kate. You don't do that, remember? Other idiots would, but not you because you have something to prove.

He gingerly reached for my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "You ok?" he asked. In twelve days we would be married, and the day could not have come soon enough for me. The stress of a new job, finishing my last semester of college, tying the knot, and oh yeah, meeting the woman who gave birth to me but I hadn't ever met before and was about to me in 10 minutes was about do me in.

My father had instructed me as to where exactly in the busy Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport I needed to wait for this reunion. "If you want, I'll go with you," he had sweetly offered. Why were so many people worried about me? I was fine. Really.

I stood calmly at the base of the huge set of escalators. My stomach sank as the first few passengers from the South American flight began riding down towards us. I felt his teary eyes staring at me as he pulled me closer and said, "This is it. You ready?" Thank you Lord for three years of acting classes. I shrugged nonchalantly, "I guess."

 

***

"When the time came to completion, God sent His Son, born of a woman, born under the law, to redeem those under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons. And because you are sons, God has sent the Spirit of His Son into our hearts, crying, “Abba, Father!”

Galations 4:4-6

I feel so blessed to have been hand chosen for as beautiful a family as the Cashions. They took me into their home, and cared for me like I was their own flesh and blood. I have been asked many times, "When did they tell you...you know. That you were...adopted?" And I always respond, "I don't know. I just always knew." It's kind of like knowing your colors, or trying to remember when you learned Jesus Loves Me, I just always was told that I was special. My two big sisters, fifteen years my senior (but don't tell them that, they still think they are in their twenties too ;), dressed me up like a baby doll and passed me around to their classmates at school showing me off. They loved me, and kissed me, and to this day have never made me feel like I was Cinderella, they my stepsisters. I wouldn't have this any other way.

If you are thinking about adoption or you have adopted, and are thinking about not telling the child this fact, I would have to strongly discourage that. Being adopted never made me feel strange or unwanted, it made me feel loved and special. Don't get me wrong, I have my issues that I struggle with, but none of them are related to the fact that my parents never kept my adoption a secret. I only ever loved them more for choosing me when they didn't have to.  

I think this is partly why God sent Jesus the way He did. How much love He demonstrated to us by sending His one and only "biological" son to die for us - the orphans. Christ redeemed us! Praise God I have been adopted twice! We now can have fellowship with Him as His children. I, an heir to the thrown with Christ (Romans 8::22-23,29-30). My Father loves me and He set me apart.

Sometimes, I don't know where I belong. I grew up in a Caucasian family, but I look more like Jennifer Lopez (perhaps a slight exaggeration, but I can dream can't I?), and have often been called mixed.. Yet when I go to Venezuela, they call me a "Gringa" (or white girl). This I have often struggled with, but one thing I have never been confused about it is my identity in Christ. No mater what anyone else thinks about the ethnicity written in my passport, God calls me His.

He chose me. He loved me. Redeemed me. In Him, I am unabandoned.

 

***

I am no one special. I'm not an accomplished author. As much as I love the theatre, I have never been on Broadway or starred in an Oscar nominated film. But I do have a story, and just like each one of you it is unique. For now I would like to share with you the story of how I was unabandoned.

I wanted to write this blog because I know many other adoptees like myself, as well as many families who have chosen to adopt. Adoption is a big thing right now, and while I am all for it, I want those who are doing the adopting to understand exactly what they are doing and what that means for the life they have stepped into and radically changed forever.

If you know me you know that I am a very private person, and for me to share such an intimate part of myself is not easy. I am not comfortable sitting down and talking about certain aspects of my adoption experience. Yet the Lord has laid on my heart this need to share my story that I might in some way speak to those like myself and their families, and also that through writing I might find healing.

My goal is to write for twelve months, at least once a month on the different issues and experiences associated with adoption. I am a type A personality, so setting a goal like that is pretty important for me :). If this helps you in some way please share that with me, as it will greatly encourage me to keep going. If you have a specific question or problem, don't hesitate to ask and I will happily do what I can to respond and help. I want this to be informative and educational.
 

Thank you for reading,

 
Kate