Hold on to your cocktails my dear 6 readers…Martini Mom is going to stray from the usual banter and self deprecating humor in favor of something a bit more serious. Rest assured, this will not happen often and I will resume blogging about nonsense in no time.
This week Oprah (whom I heart dearly) introduced us to her newly found half sister. They share a Mother who gave Patricia (the new sister) up for adoption in the 60’s when Oprah was 9. Now that Patricia's found her family, she says she feels connected, a sense of wholeness. Where am I going with this? I have seen many shows about families reunited after adoption and hear adoptees talk about needing to find what they have been missing and while this does create a much more sensational TV show there is always another side to everything.
I am adopted. It is not a secret; I cannot remember a moment of my life when I did not know this. When I was 4 days old I was adopted by my Mom and Dad and became a part of my family, complete with two older brothers (whom I heart dearly; way more than Oprah even). I have never felt abandoned or rejected and have only gratitude for the person who gave birth to me and had enough love for me to recognize that I would have many opportunities and blessings in my life, without her. I admire her fortitude to carry through on her decision knowing that she had other options. I did not think much of her sacrifice until the day I gave birth to my first child and realized that while she surely doubted her ability to care for me, she should never doubt her own strength because her decision required more than I could ever imagine.
I have never felt compelled to find the woman who gave birth to me, or see if there are any half siblings walking the same earth as me. I do not consider her my Mother; my Mom has been with me every day, good and bad for the last 39 years. Like every adoptee, my birth certificate has my Mom and Dad on it. I was adopted in the 70’s and like most adoptions during that time, it was a closed adoption. My parents purposely went through the process learning as little about who I came from because they didn’t see the need to know those details and I think given the situation that was a wise choice. People were not always tactful, asking my beautiful fair skinned, blond Mom how she got such a dark baby. I found people just as rude when I toted my own fair skinned, blond, biologically born daughter around; and so it came full circle.
I do not know my nationality. I am Middle European and who the heck knows what that is? This has never bothered me, although the elementary teacher who didn’t believe me when I was asked to do a report on my nationality certainly got an earful from my Mom. As an adult, someone once told me that I would never amount to anything because I didn’t know where I come from. But I do know where I come from. When I was adopted, I was adopted into a family, with roots and all and they became mine. It makes no difference to me if you want to think I am Italian, Greek or Middle Eastern. Sure, maybe I am.
As I get older and face the toll aging has on my health, I am reminded that I am a genetic crap shoot with no medical history. I am not overly concerned but I am diligent. Now that I have my own children this matters to me a bit more but not enough to sour me. When I was pregnant, I joked with my husband that who knows what we’ll get. And sure enough, my blond haired blue eyed beautiful daughter was a bit of a surprise, in such a very good way! I have never looked like anyone in my family and admittedly hollered “I’m not supposed to!” at many who commented on how I didn’t look anything like my older brothers. When I had children of my own, wouldn’t you know, all three look just like their Daddy and the dark little girl I envisioned while she grew in my belly turned out just the opposite of the picture in my mind. God has a way of giving us a good laugh when we think we know his plans. So I am super blessed and still one of a kind.
I have always felt wanted, chosen and deeply loved. My whole life I have felt special because I was adopted. Being adopted is not something that is on the forefront of my mind and I often forget and say things like “when you had me” or “I get that from you” to my parents. Although I have been known to point out to my Mom that unlike my brothers, I never put her through labor…and then she reminds me that I made up for that during my teen years. And then I think how comments like that sound just like any other family, which is exactly what we are and why I have been fortunate to feel connected and “whole” my entire life.
