I Know It’s Not Mother’s Day

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength;
loving someone deeply gives you courage.
– Lao Tzu

     May has come and gone and so has the day for publicly honoring mothers and maternal figures.  Yet, I would argue that we never tire of saluting the women who impact our lives. I know it’s not Mother’s Day, but I have an overdue tribute to offer.  Five years ago this month, my diminutive mother-in-law (she shrank from 5’2” to 4’10’ over the course of her adult life) passed away at eighty-eight. She wasn’t just the wise mother of my husband, or simply the doting grandmother to my four children. Mary Lou, “ML”, was my trusted confidante, able adviser, and bold co-conspirator. She was also instrumental in my becoming a writer and telling my tale. 

     For most of the years that I knew ML, she flaunted a closely cropped haircut like Audrey Hepburn. Even into her eighties, one had to hover above her to spy the random threads of gray in her nut-brown hair. ML honed her sharp wit and intellect with NPR, The New Yorker and several daily crossword puzzles.  In her prime, when most mothers did not work, she edited a publication called The Sunday Visitor.  Her love of words included stints as a librarian, an adjunct professor teaching seniors reminiscence writing, and two very demanding book clubs.  Wherever she sat, a stack of hardcover library books resided, as well as, a full ashtray of cigarettes.

     When my children were little, she toted picture books from her library to read till the kids napped on her lap. Sometimes they accompanied her to the library for a Saturday afternoon children’s programs, or stayed strapped in car seats while ML delivered large-print books to housebound elderly. Getting down on the floor to build Legos or dress dollies was not in her repertoire.  Known as Lil G by her grandkids, she was not so much about toys and play, but rather think and do, as in letters, words, writing projects and Scrabble. ML was a grandmother best suited for big kids, teenagers, and young adults – all of whom adored her.

     I have two other mothers. One raised me and the other passed on her DNA to me.  My adoptive mother and I share the familiarity that comes with years, and our bond is complicated.  When I was three weeks old, Mom got a call from the Sisters at Catholic Charities: fraternal twin girls awaited her in the orphanage’s nursery.  Fond of saying that my sister and me are “her gift from God”, we are in fact a gift from another mother. A woman whom Mom didn’t want me to find – even when at 48, a breast biopsy affirmed family medical history could prove helpful.

     My birth mother had something in common with my adoptive mom besides being of German descent. She did not want to be found.  An unwed mother during the late 1950s, an era ripe with unforgiving social mores and customs, my birth mother spent years coping with shame and blame.   Her pregnancy and our adoption was a closely held secret until I came banging on her door.

     During the eight years that it took to locate birth relatives and gather a full family health history and genealogy, I did not have the support or interest of my adoptive mother.  My adoptive father was a gem, but he didn’t dare oppose my mom. In my camp, however, were my husband, children, twin sister, and friends. They boosted me when the search hit its numerous roadblocks, they listened to me lament, and they encouraged me to press on. One of the biggest champions of my personal cause to connect with my roots was ML, my mother-in-law.  

     Here’s the thing, she wasn’t just idly interested in the juicy details of my adoption search.  She was in it.  If she wasn’t physically nearby, she was waiting by the phone with her books and cigarettes.  As soon as I received my original birth record (OBR), I dialed her number. When the name my birth mother used on the OBR turned out to be an alias, I sought her counsel.  Her infamous raspy chortle, “Oh, no. You’ve got to be kidding?” led to a welcome barrage of questions and plan-B’s. 

     As I struggled to own my adoption story while dealing with recurring health concerns, I turned repeatedly to my mother-in-law.  I shared the he-said-she-said-and-this-happened-and-that. I never once had the sense that she was letting me talk or that she’d rather be somewhere else.  ML listened; she heard me. Through the phone lines I could feel her noodling the nuances and ramifications of my adoption probe like a grand crossword puzzle.  She’d offer, “Have you thought about…?”. Always, before she hung up I’d hear: You know you have to write about this. It’s too good of a story.

     I took her advice. First, I kept a journal then I tried my hand at memoir. As a mother and grandmother, ML was adept at encouraging younger generations to expand their minds. As a mother-in-law, you would think she might’ve taken a step back, not been so forceful in her opinions and ideas, but I’m grateful that this was not her nature.   ML made several things clear: that she was rooting for me to succeed in locating and developing a relationship with my birth mother; that it was vital for me to accept and forgive my adoptive mom’s stance on that quest; and, that I attempt to heal that widening rift. 

     On the fifth of September in 2014, my mother-in-law died in her own home on her own terms. Her death occurred eight months after I shared my first birthday with my birth mother, and eighteen months before I located my birth father and two siblings.  While she did not travel with me through the entire journey of my adoption search, I felt her presence and support. Always. I take comfort in that she was with me through the tough times – when I needed her most. From her study, I inherited personally annotated books on writing and memoir.  They have become some of my most prized belongings.

     So here I am.  Seven years after my mother-in-law died, I write a weekly blog, pen a monthly column in a local paper, and I’m about to sign a publishing contract for the memoir about the search for my birth relatives.  From whatever reality her soul flourishes, I believe that ML is cheering for me to press to the finish line. She has skin in that game. Kisses to you, ML. You are not forgotten.

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