Adoption Day is Like a Birthday

As National Adoption Awareness Month evolves, there are an increasing number of newsclips and stories depicting children and their adoptive families celebrating their Adoption Day. Some of the children and teens are being adopted by the families that have fostered them, yet others are legally becoming a member of extended family or birth relatives (called kinship adoption). Some but not all these adoptees have information about their backgrounds and the circumstances that led to adoption. Yet, many have little information and no ties to the people that brought them into the world.

Because my twin sister and I were the product of a closed adoption, we had no knowledge of what happened on the day we were born. So, we did what many adoptees are forced to do. We latched onto the importance of our Adoption Day, the day we joined our adoptive family. At almost ninety, my adoptive mother still tears up when she recounts “the call” from Catholic Charities informing her she was going to become a parent. 

My mother’s vivid retelling of this moment has become so real to me it’s almost as if I was in the room with her when she picked up the phone. As the story goes, she was immersed in a lesson plan with her busy, third-grade class at St. Cletus in LaGrange, Illinois. There was a knock at the classroom door, and then the school secretary stepped inside the classroom.

“You have a phone call in the office,” she said. 

The entire staff at St. Cletus knew my folks had experienced a half dozen miscarriages during their five-year marriage, and that they had been waiting nearly two years to adopt. Mom left the administrator in charge of her class and rushed down the wide hallway to the office. With each hurried step, my mom hoped the phone call she was about to take was the one that would change her life. 

“Hello,” her voice soft and wishful.

“Mrs. Ryan?  This is Marge, the social worker at Catholic Charities. Sorry to disturb your school day, but we had a question about your adoption paperwork.”

“Yes…” 

“You checked the box next to ‘Twins.’ Did you mean to do that or was it a mistake?” 

My mom did remember putting a neat checkmark in the box next to “Twins,” but in all truthfulness she wasn’t sure why she had done so. The decision just felt right. The youngest of twelve, my mother yearned for a big family like the one in which she’d grown up. 

“Yes, I checked the box. It was no mistake.” 

“Well, in that case we need to set up a time for you to come to St. Vincent’s Orphanage and pick up your twins. Infant baby girls.”

Several days later, my parents pulled their sedan out of the detached garage behind their two-bedroom ranch in Western Springs and eased onto on the chaotic Eisenhower expressway. When they reached Chicago’s Gold Coast, my father maneuvered the car into the private lot behind the massive, red-brick structure at 721 N. La Salle Street: St. Vincent’s Orphanage.

Mom scooped up the baby gear she’d packed, and they walked together around to the main entrance. They strolled through the shiny, black-enameled gates, joy etching smiles onto their young faces. Inside the spacious, marble-floored vestibule, they were directed to the elevator. Shivering with new parent nerves, my folks took the elevator up to the administrative floor. 

When the elevator doors opened, Sister Mary Alice Rowan, the prioress of St. Vincent’s was waiting for them. The stout, heavily robed nun ushered my soon-to-be parents into her office. She signaled for them to sit in the two chairs facing her large wooden desk, and then she rambled around it, settling her large frame into a chair across from them. In this final interview of the eighteen-month adoption vetting process, Mom committed the ultimate sin of daring to ask Sister Mary Alice a question.

“Sister, can you please tell us a little about the girls’ background?”

Through a thin smile, Sister Mary Alice offered a chilling admonishment. “Do you want these girls or not?”

“Yes, Sister. We do. We desperately want to be the parents of these two baby girls”

“Then there will be no more questions. Understood?” Mom nodded.

Sister Mary Alice stood and slid around the desk. My parents followed her dutifully down the length of a glistening, linoleum hallway to the chapel where they waited for my sister and me to be brought to them. Not too long after, Sister Mary Alice led two nurse’s aides into the sacred space, each with a swaddled baby in her arms. When the prioress gave the nod to her staff, the young women placed us into our parents’ eager arms. 

Because my sister and I lacked details about the day we were born, the rich descriptions our parents shared regarding Adoption Day gained in importance over time. The stories our parents recounted served to ground my sister and me in belonging. Like a birth, Adoption Day connotes the beginning of a life, our family life. 

So, each time I come across a testimonial of an adoptee expressing the joy they feel about joining their new family, I am reminded of my own beginnings. And I am touched. Touched in that tender spot that only an adoptee knows. A place deep within that holds a strange cocktail of emotions: loss, longing, rejection, doubt, regret, hope, joy, and love. 

Adoption Day is special. Like a birthday, it is celebrated only once a year, but its meaning is felt for a lifetime. 

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