Adoptive Parents: Please Support Your Child In Their Search Efforts!

I’ve written about this topic before (see “Adoptive Parents: Don’t Make Your Child’s Adoption An Either-Or Situation” on 9-11-2019). During these weeks of  “shelter in place,” I’ve been revising my memoir (SheWritesPress will publish, Twice A Daughter, in Spring 2021), and this topic became front and center for me again.

I’d like to share an excerpt from my memoir, followed by a reflection, for there is no stronger way to make a point than by sharing a tale:

For a second, I reconsider the errand which has brought me out on this nasty, December night. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom pick up her wine glass and swirl the golden liquid.

I twist my hands in my lap, and blurt out, “I have some shocking news to share.” 

Mom’s head snaps up, and Dad drops the remote to his lap.

“It’s not bad news,” I assure them with a wimpy smile. “My birthmother contacted my confidential intermediary.  She’s changed her mind about meeting me.”  I don’t offer that all this happened in August.

My mother’s eyes close.  She tenses as if wrestling within herself.  Her knuckles whiten around the stem of her wine glass. 

Dad clears his throat. “Why that’s wonderful news. Now, besides the health history she gave you, you can learn more about your ancestry.”

I want to leap up from the chair, envelope my Dad in a suffocating hug, and thank him for being such a dear, human being. But I don’t.  I don’t because I’m waiting for my mom to speak. 

The dog groans and rolls over wiggling her back against the carpet. The three of us watch her as she does this over and over. Finally, Mom reaches down and gently massages the dog’s belly.  Her silence is like a slap. My cheeks burn.

The words pile out before I can gather them back into my mouth. “I’ve met her.  This past weekend.  She’s married to a nice man named Howard who has Parkinson’s.  He was a widower with three adopted children when she married him. How about that for a twist?”

I smile wanly at my mother, hoping she’ll respond to the irony of my birth mother having step kids who are adoptees like me, but her eyes follow the dog’s antics.  I carry on, not spitefully, but anxiously to get all the answers to their questions out in the open, to be done with this dialogue, and to go home and sleep like a baby. 

Mom’s face is hard to read, but Dad leans forward as if he’s interested. “What’s her name? Where does she live?”

I answer him and try not to flaunt the joy in my heart. “She’s the oldest of thirteen.  Isn’t that a coincidence, Mom?  You, being the youngest of thirteen.” 

My mother nods, but her eyes never leave the dog’s pink belly. 

I carry on like a teenager trying to talk her way out of trouble. “Shirley is German and French and there’s some American Indian thrown in there, too.  She gave me all sorts of pictures of our ancestors.” I paste on my best fake smile and spread my hands wide.  “Now, I can finally start my family tree on the ancestry site.”  I steal another look at my mom who disregards the dog and gapes at my father.

Sensing he may have inadvertently skated out onto thin ice with his excitement over my shocking news, the tremors in Dad’s left-hand resume. I suck in my breath, mortified that my update may have thrown him under the bus with my mother.

When my mom speaks, Dad and I are like magnets. “And your birth father, have you met him too?” Her voice is as icy as the Buick’s windshield.

I gulp hard. “No.  We’re looking for him.  The intermediary, I mean, is looking for him. We have his name, now. Thanks to my birth mom.  If you recall, we didn’t have that before.”

Encouraged that Mom has entered the conversation, I try something I think might appeal to her sensitivities. “Shirley, wanted me to be sure to say how thankful she is to both of you for taking such good care of us.” I smile to myself thinking how Shirley had teared up when expressing this sentiment to me.

Mom is on this like there’s no tomorrow. “My goodness, there’s no need to thank us.  We did what all parents should do: love and nourish the child that was given to them.” Mom drains the chardonnay and clanks the goblet down on the glass top of the coffee table.

The nuances of my mother’s statement settle into the room like the aftershocks of an earthquake. My mother is giving herself credit for acting like a responsible parent while criticizing the woman whose circumstances provided Mom with two children whom she’d been desperate to have.

I look from my dad’s pale face to my mother’s flushed one and play the last card in my losing hand. “She looks forward to meeting you both sometime.”

My mother jumps to her feet as if I’ve insulted her.  The dog startles and yelps. 

“I … do not … want … this woman … in my life,” Mom fumes.

There it is.  The truth is in the room.

Throughout my life, my mom and dad reiterated that they’d help if I ever wanted to look into my adoption, but when the day came, it was obvious that my father supported it and my mother did not. When the above scene transpired several years ago, I asked the Catholic Charities social worker who moderates my adoption support group how to think about my mother’s behavior.

She said, “We see this a lot. The world your mom created for her family is threatened. She’s afraid she’ll lose you.” At 51, I was incredulous.  She went on to say, “It’s the day they never wanted to come.”

As I thought about what happened that night when I disclosed that I was in reunion with my birth mom, Shirley, Mom had acted poorly. She defended her right to be my mother and threw a net around our family unit, one which did not include birth relatives. Her love was angry, fiercely protective, honest and selfish. I also know my mother’s love to be kind and gentle, effusive and expansive. So often, she offered the perfect remedy to the hurts and struggles I experienced growing up. What disappointed me that night was that her love couldn’t extend beyond her own needs and fears to incorporate what I needed as an adult adoptee. She still isn’t there. Eight years have passed, and I’m not certain she’ll ever make that leap. While I have accepted her position, her reluctance to acknowledge my need to know my birth family has fractured our relationship.

If you are an adoptive parent, don’t make the same mistake as my mother.  Get to know your adopted child, learn about their needs and wants and innermost desires, and then step past your own limitations to be the best parent you can be.  Trust her, it will be hard as hard can be, but in the long run your child will be closer to you as a result.

            Thanks for reading and listening to my point of view.

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