Standing and looking over the cliff of empty nester life, I find myself surrounded by friends who are newlyweds and parents. These friends are just starting or growing their young families. I enjoy their company, listening to their stories, laughing with them and sometimes meting out advice. Every now and then, I feel a twinge of short-lived jealousy thinking I’m open to raising another child. However, I like better the idea of borrowing one of theirs and giving it back. After returning said child, I know I can reclaim my new life of responsibility for me, myself and I. I've earned this bit of selfishness after 18 years! Self reflection is a huge part of witnessing the experiences. I relate, having once been a new mom/parent also. I listen to their stories and remember my own experience of giving birth. If I shared that part of my life, you would hear all the excitement, fears and joy I felt when my son joined the universe. I know that just like me, my friends will share their stories with their children and they will claim and love it. My son loves hearing that part of his story. It is one drop amongst many others in the history of his life.
As an adoptee, that part of my own story has been fleeting. Before I learned I was adopted, I tried to imagine my mom pregnant with me in her stomach. She was always Foxy-Cleopatra-Brown-fine in her bell-bottoms, snug blouses, wigs and make up. I couldn't imagine her with a big belly, let alone birthing the four of us. She always spoke gently about our birth stories. There was rarely detail; especially with me. When I learned to do math, I figured out that she was 27 years older than me. That age seemed pretty old to be having babies in my young mind but there were too many of us to deny some birthing had in fact happened.
Always fond of the camera and pictures, even as a kid I loved browsing family photos in search of me and my siblings and other relatives. It was much later in life that I realized the tragedy of mom responding that a baby photo was one of my siblings while indicating that perhaps this or that unmarked chubby, brown bambino was me. It just didn't hit me then. Nor did it hit me when I learned I was adopted at age 10. It began to hit me when I realized that everything I thought I knew about how I came to exist was a lie. Perhaps a lie intended for protection, but a lie just the same. It hits me now when I listen to the stories of my friends and understand that I will never hear the joy my parents felt when I entered the world. I will never know if it was a difficult or easy birth. Or if my mom cried when she first laid eyes upon me, as I did when I saw my son. I will never hear about my dad pacing or fainting in the delivery room. I know now that in fact, he wasn't there. I will never see pictures of my baby room. I will never know if I stayed up all night but slept all day, if I was colicky or cried a lot. Lost further in the archives of foster parent life are stories of when I first smiled or got my first tooth. As an adoptee, it is not uncommon to learn that certain facts about your existence are lost to you. You learn to live with them. Can’t miss what you never had- right?
All in all, I'm thankful for my memories and the numerous photos I took of my son. As long as they exist, I can share them with him and his children should I have the opportunity. I tell him stories about his life now without him asking because I understand the importance. I smile at the stories of my friends and even those shared by my husband’s family of his life beginnings. I tell my friends to record and document everything. While I’ll never know parts of my own story, I try to weave parts of it together with the bits of history I picked up via my reunion. I live vicariously through my experiences and those of my friends and family. I smile with them at pictures and laugh at the funny incidents that occur when I'm present. I accept that our collective experiences may be the only opportunity and insight I receive to fill in the blanks of my personal history. Every drop counts. But sometimes that reality and acceptance makes me cry and lament over the drops that I can never regain.
As an adoptee, that part of my own story has been fleeting. Before I learned I was adopted, I tried to imagine my mom pregnant with me in her stomach. She was always Foxy-Cleopatra-Brown-fine in her bell-bottoms, snug blouses, wigs and make up. I couldn't imagine her with a big belly, let alone birthing the four of us. She always spoke gently about our birth stories. There was rarely detail; especially with me. When I learned to do math, I figured out that she was 27 years older than me. That age seemed pretty old to be having babies in my young mind but there were too many of us to deny some birthing had in fact happened.
Always fond of the camera and pictures, even as a kid I loved browsing family photos in search of me and my siblings and other relatives. It was much later in life that I realized the tragedy of mom responding that a baby photo was one of my siblings while indicating that perhaps this or that unmarked chubby, brown bambino was me. It just didn't hit me then. Nor did it hit me when I learned I was adopted at age 10. It began to hit me when I realized that everything I thought I knew about how I came to exist was a lie. Perhaps a lie intended for protection, but a lie just the same. It hits me now when I listen to the stories of my friends and understand that I will never hear the joy my parents felt when I entered the world. I will never know if it was a difficult or easy birth. Or if my mom cried when she first laid eyes upon me, as I did when I saw my son. I will never hear about my dad pacing or fainting in the delivery room. I know now that in fact, he wasn't there. I will never see pictures of my baby room. I will never know if I stayed up all night but slept all day, if I was colicky or cried a lot. Lost further in the archives of foster parent life are stories of when I first smiled or got my first tooth. As an adoptee, it is not uncommon to learn that certain facts about your existence are lost to you. You learn to live with them. Can’t miss what you never had- right?
All in all, I'm thankful for my memories and the numerous photos I took of my son. As long as they exist, I can share them with him and his children should I have the opportunity. I tell him stories about his life now without him asking because I understand the importance. I smile at the stories of my friends and even those shared by my husband’s family of his life beginnings. I tell my friends to record and document everything. While I’ll never know parts of my own story, I try to weave parts of it together with the bits of history I picked up via my reunion. I live vicariously through my experiences and those of my friends and family. I smile with them at pictures and laugh at the funny incidents that occur when I'm present. I accept that our collective experiences may be the only opportunity and insight I receive to fill in the blanks of my personal history. Every drop counts. But sometimes that reality and acceptance makes me cry and lament over the drops that I can never regain.
Interested in my adoption/reunion story? Follow/visit my other blog - findinggloriamarie@blogspot.com
