​Welcome back to Blogville. I’m so glad you are here. I’ve poured myself a delicate hibiscus tea blend that reminds me of my mom’s perfume when I was a child. 

I had to separate the ‘Momma Says’ blog into two parts because it is very emotional and I tend to jump around when I’m feeling emotional. (Of course I mean jump from topic to topic, not actually getting up and literally jumping lol.) So I decided to talk in this blog about when I had questions for mom as I was growing up, and then, for part 2, fill you in on a wonderful adoption discussion she and I had just last month when I was visiting her. 

When I was growing up, discussing adoption with my mom felt very taboo. I mean, when any doctor asked about family medical history she would give him a scathing look and gesture that they needed to leave the room for any further discussion. Adopted people of my generation understand that ‘fight or flight’ feeling when trying to ask questions about adoption. For those of you not adopted, think about trying to ask your parents about sex or puberty in the 1960s. You remember that look of dread right? Well, in response to an adoption question, my mom would sometimes give me short or curt answers, and other times she would just look at me until it was so uncomfortable I said, ‘never mind’ and took off. Last month I returned to that uncharted territory and found that my interpretation of her reaction was not completely on point. Starting this conversation with my about to turn 97 year old mother was like walking on thin ice across Cochrane Ontario’s Lake Commando in springtime.

Since my mother brought it up, I have to mention my dad’s role in any adoption discussion or Q&A. How can I describe to you what it was like talking to my dad about adoption? Well, let’s just say I wasn’t sure he knew I was adopted. My mom would often tell me a story about how my dad once came home from a fall hunting trip and when I stood on my own he started to rush over to protect me from falling. My mom gleefully told him, “It’s OK, she can walk now!” That story inspired me to think that maybe my dad had been hunting when I was placed with them and he didn’t know I had arrived until he got home. I could almost hear my mom gleefully telling him, “We have a daughter now!” Not what happened of course, but truly don’t ever remember him even saying the word adoption’. As I got older I learned that I actually arrived into the family in June of 1959 on the Friday before Father’s Day. How special was that? Daddy’s little girl arriving in time for Father’s Day. I have seen the home movies and photos, he looked pretty excited and proud.

I honestly don’t think I ever really thought to ask my dad any adoption questions as my mom seemed to have been in charge of that. Last month when talking to mom about adoption she actually said she noticed that children all seemed to go to their mothers with their adoption questions. As a result she felt that, “The fathers were off the hook”. I could tell she was none too pleased about it, even in hindsight.

When we were kids we always seemed to be hanging out with other families who had also adopted children. Mom always seemed calmer when we were playing with those kids. I never really questioned why, I just noticed it. When I asked her about that last week, mom explained that she was just so happy that there were other children ‘in the same boat’ in Cochrane. It’s true, our families seemed drawn to each other and we kids played very well together. My mom said she could relax when my brother and I were playing with these other kids as they would never ‘say anything bad to you’ simply because all of us were adopted. Mom said that all the parents felt the same way, “You were our children and that was that.” but apparently not everyone in Cochrane felt the same way. As we continued to chat about spending time with those other children who were also on adoption journeys mom and I agreed that we kids were like cousins through adoption. It was like a special club where adoptive parents could send their children who were adopted and know they could just be regular kids. (I’m sure our dear friend Billy would wholeheartedly agree.)

Mom then observed, “We also noticed that you kids (cousins through adoption) would ask each other questions about adoption. Everyone seemed ok with the answers or explanations you told each other. “We parents never initiated that” she pointed out, “but sometimes we would overhear you kids talking. I think it was good for all of you.”

Sadly, my mom always behaved as if having to adopt children was her ‘fault’ and not my dad’s ‘fault’. It was as if she wanted to clear him of some shame that she carried. My mother would talk about back problems she had that caused her to have to leave school very young. She eventually needed surgery on her back when she was a young woman living in Toronto. My mother always felt that her ‘back issues’ were to blame for her inability to carry a baby to term. It was on the rare occasion that she would even talk about this so I hung on to her every word. But then the sadness in her eyes always travelled right to my heart and I would drop the subject. In hindsight, I was unknowingly leaving her all alone with her grief. 

I feel that mom must have implied that her bad back was why she and my dad had to adopt because I remember, as a small child, witnessing my mother trip over a suitcase at the train station and fall to the ground. I recall being terrified that she would die, or that she might never be able to have a baby stay in her tummy. My mother was mortified when I told her that was the reason I was crying so hard. I’m 63 years old and if I close my eyes, I can still see her fall over that suitcase.

As we chatted Mom opened up about the early days of parenting children placed on adoption. She talked about how afraid she was to hire a babysitter and go for a drink with my dad at a ‘beverage house’ because they might take her children away. She spoke about how she felt that she had to ask her adoption worker if that behaviour would be ok. The worker reassured her that she should do whatever she would normally do if she had her ‘own’ children (oh that hurts me just to say it). 

When I was young and I would ask about my birth mother my mom would usually tense up and visibly run some kind of check-list about what she should say. She was always clear that my birth mother’s father had made her give up her parental rights and allow me to be adopted. Mom always said that the birth mother’s family had been ashamed of my birth mother and sent her away to give birth to me. She was always very careful that I understood my birth mother was forced into making an adoption plan by her own father, (my birth grandfather). Mom always looked sad when I would ask about my birth mother, and given her explanation, I always felt sad that I made my birth mother and her family feel ashamed. So, I asked about it less and less.

Last month mom talked about how she felt that Children’s Aid workers would try to ‘trick her’ into taking foster children that she would likely have to give back one day. That made me feel sad until mom grinned at me, leaned in and disclosed that they ‘couldn’t fool her once she was on to them’. That made the former Children’s Aid worker part of me smile. She talked about her feeling of betrayal by the Children’s Aid workers when they would call and profile a child but not say for fostering until they had her interest. She related a story of how once she was called about a  brand new baby girl and thought they meant for adoption but her heart broke when they said for fostering. As revenge, mom called all of her adoptive applicant friends in Cochrane to warn them of what the call was really about. The former worker in me almost defended the workers because of how much foster parents were, and are still, needed, but the daughter in me said, “Way to stand up for yourself mom!”

Well my thin ice conversation went pretty good. So I decided to take a bigger risk. Instead of just walking on thin ice, my next line of questions felt like the risk all the kids took after the annual Cochrane Carnival fishing derby; when we would run across the lake dodging the abandoned fishing holes. You might make across unscathed, or you might break a leg, but the thrill was worth the risk. So, with my heart pounding, I asked, “Mom, would you have any advice for people who want to adopt children?”

Pour yourself a tea, maybe a nice Chai, and come back to Blogville in two weeks to hear her advice in Part 2 of Momma Says . . . 

As usual, please know that I would love to hear your thoughts, stories and comments. If you prefer a less public forum, feel free to send me an email at ldeiulisauthor@gmail.com

I cannot decide what kind of tea to have during this blog. Something calming would likely be best. Welcome back to Blogville, my little chat room of random thoughts.

It is difficult to describe my experience growing up raised by my parents, while having a ‘mystery mother’ on the side. It will not be the same experience for other adopted persons but there may be some aspects that they can relate to. If you recall, when my parents adopted me they were told to forget about where I came from as I was their daughter now. But, I was always someone else’s daughter too. 

Who was my mystery mother? Where was she? Did she think about me? Was she looking for me? Had she changed her mind and now wanted me back? 

I think that as a society, adoption planning focused on the role of the birth mother pretty exclusively. The role of the birth father was, sadly for many young men, nothing more than a passing thought. The role of the birth father appears to have been sorely under recognized in the adoption process historically. As a result, I always considered my mystery mother to have been a poor innocent girl who was taken advantage of by my birth father, became pregnant, and was then forced by her parents to make an adoption plan for me. They even made her go to a home for unwed mothers, they were so ashamed. I think you can see how I thought she would be searching for me.

I distinctly recall swinging on the swing set in the back yard of my childhood home, pumping my little legs to swing higher and higher. I was about 6 or 7 years old. I had been singing at the top of my lungs, louder and louder, swinging higher and higher. Suddenly I began to wonder if my birth mother could sing like me, or me like her actually. If we did sing the same, what if she could hear me, would she know I was her daughter? I can still feel the butterflies of anticipation that I felt that day in my stomach. My feelings darting between excitement and fear.

In my fantasy of thought I pictured her walking on the sidewalk in front of our house, stopping in her tracks when she heard my singing, and then running towards me to gather me in her arms, crying and saying, “I have found you! You must be my daughter with your beautiful voice! I have been looking for you forever!” (By the way, I have no ability to sing, just please don’t tell my little girl self that ok?) The fantasy then changed to her trying to tell my parents that now that she had found me I must go live with her. I do not believe that I really wanted to find and go live with my birth mother, (except maybe when I was really, really, mad at my parents lol), but I’m sure I wanted to know that she cared about me and wanted to know that I was ok.

I knew, and know, that my parents loved me but our relationship was often shadowed by the mystery mother. After all, when the person who is supposed to love and protect you above all others does not, or can not, care for you, it leaves a mark. Adoptive parents, I believe that children who are adopted need to know that the actions of their birth parents in no way defines them. Thinking that maybe you cried too much, or your ears were too big, or that you had done something to cause you to need an adoption plan can impact on a person. When I got in trouble as a child I would sometimes regard it as proof that I should have been given away, or that my parents must regret choosing me. I would even sometimes think that my mystery mother had made the right decision, I was not worth keeping. 

I believe that discussions about decision-making need to happen, especially decisions that impact on others around them. Children need to know that the fact they needed an adoption plan was a decision that, though not caused by them, had a huge impact them. Literally a life-changing one. They need to be reassured, frequently, that the decision was not made because there was something wrong with them or because of something that they did. They need to know that choosing an adoption plan is a grown up decision usually made before they were even born. Adoption plans made for older children and youth are also made because of the behaviour of the adults, not the children. Children and youth deserve to be in families who can love and care for them safely. Be sure to tell them this, kindly, respectfully, and often.

I believe that children and youth who were adopted need extra reassurance when they are experiencing consequences. Saying things like, “We love you and want you to be a kind person. That is why you need to sit and think about the way you just talked to your sister.” Or “We love you and know that you just made a wrong choice. Let’s talk about what better choices you could have made.” Or maybe, “We love you, and people who love you need to set limits so you can learn and grow up to be a responsible person.” Some phrases that hold the child or youth accountable but separate the behaviour from who the child or youth is. 

When you adopt older children, they are even more vulnerable. You do not know what former caregivers may have said to them and you will be competing with that. Don’t be afraid to ask them who told them they were, “dumb, stupid, useless, ugly, fat, skinny” and so on, and talk about it. Talk about the impact people’s words have on other people as a teachable moment. Don’t be afraid to ask them who told them they were probably, “bad blood, risky, just like their mother, their father” or other thoughts people may have stated about adopted older children. Then talk to those people and educate them about the impact of their words. You cannot always know what children might over hear accidentally, or be told outright. You cannot protect them from other people’s thoughts or beliefs, but you can protect them by talking about it. Talk it through and chase that elephant out of the room! 

Even as an adult I still sometimes struggle with insecurities. I remember times when I would be having a disagreement with my husband, or having a difficult parenting day, and I would sometimes think that they must be right, after all, if my own mother did not think I was worth keeping, why should my husband accept me, or why should my children listen to me?
I often use humour and sarcasm (I’m sure all of you that know me are shocked to learn this) as a defence mechanism to protect myself. This behaviour comes from that insecurity, even to this day. My parents did what they were advised to do by the social workers, they forgot I was adopted. 

I do not want your adopted children or youth to experience what I have experienced. Communication is the key in my view. I am communicating one adopted person’s experience and opinion on how you can help. There are many experts in adoption, kinship, attachment, trauma, emotional regulation, and other related fields, who know much more than I on the subject. There are support groups who will welcome you. Parenting is best done as a community! Reach out to yours as needed. Your children are worth it!

As always, I would love to read your comments. If you are not comfortable commenting on this public forum please feel free to email me at ldeiulisauthor@gmail.com

Culture to Culture (As if born to you)
 
Ok, so envision if you will, attending a large family reunion at an arena where a whole bunch of folks are gathering to celebrate their ancestry and the success and fortitude of their ancestors. Picture being seated in ‘family groups determined by lineage’. Think about being surrounded by people who look like each other, some slightly, and some greatly, and suddenly feeling more comfortable talking with their partners because the partners weren’t searching your face or stature for some familiarity. Imagine standing at the picture displays of generations of families. I truly appreciated the historical value of the photos. These were photos that captured generations of immigrant families who farmed, milled, built homes and barns, rode horses and drove buggies, married, had or raised children and built new lives in their new country! Their accomplishments were monumental to me, even if they did not make me feel sentimental like others around me.
 
I honestly believe that was the only time that I thought, “you just don’t get it, do you?” about my mom. She seemed disappointed that I really had little or no interest in looking at photos of large families of people who did not look like me. It was bittersweet that these are some of the rare times I think she forgot I was adopted. She would constantly note similarities between me and some of the family members pictured, while I was simultaneously noting the lack of similarities. All the while I was wondering who I actually looked like.
 
To put things in context, my parents applied for, and adopted my brother and I in the late 50s early 60s. In those times adoptive parents were advised to not worry about where the child had come from, things like culture, traditions, languages spoken by the birth family members, and other such details. Adoptive parents were advised to introduce their culture to the child and to make that the child’s culture. They were to raise the child, “as if born to you”. Personally, I think the “as if born to you” attitude was disrespectful to adoptive parents and led to unnecessary struggles for inter-cultural aka “inter-racial” adoptions. What was wrong with just assuming adoptive parents would simply raise their children? Not raise them “as if born to you”, not raise them “as if adopted by you” just, I don’t know, maybe raise them as their children? I always felt that these attitudes demeaned and disrespected my parents and my role as their child.
 
I was raised within the Polish culture of my both my parents, a culture rich with traditions and values. In fairness to my parents, to my knowledge they were never told the ancestry of my birth parents, or my brother’s birth parents, so how could they have educated us about any cultural norms and traditions from the heritage of our birth families? You can’t teach what you don’t know, right?
 
Every summer we travelled to our parents’ childhood community where they had been raised, met, and were married. Both of my grandmothers were still living and we got to see  many of our aunts, uncles and cousins. It was, and still is, a wonderful little Polish community, one of the first Polish settlements in Canada. Apparently, the only other culture in that community were the Irish people, who had settled there generations ago as well. Two of my Polish aunts married a pair of Irish brothers. Well, that is definitely a topic for another blog.
 
My dad’s mom spoke very little English and lived with significant hearing loss, but Gramma loved to whistle and to sing in Polish. I have fond memories of hearing her say my favourite word, “cookies?” as she pointed to the special tin. When visiting, I spent many minutes in the morning hesitating in the doorway, watching her cook bacon and eggs on the woodstove, flames rising and falling, as she calmly whistled to herself. I would wait in the doorway and watch for her to look in my direction before I would step forward as she could not hear me coming. I didn’t want to startle her. I’m pretty sure there were some inappropriate Polish words she would yell when we accidentally startled her, lol. Family was very important to Gramma and she loved our visits. Every time we would leave for the long trip home, she would stand on her porch with a tea towel in her hand, or a corner of her apron, wiping away the tears at our parting. She always called out as were leaving, “This is the last time I will see you.” The summer when I was 16, she was right and sadly, we had seen her for the last time.
 
My mom’s mom was a quiet woman, but Granny could silence a room of grandchildren with one look.  I do not ever remember hearing her raise her voice. She loved our visits and would cook for days in anticipation of our arrival. We thought it was wonderful to visit this Polish community and hear people speaking to each other in this foreign, but familiar language. My Granny would send us across the road to pump water from the well, and would “tsk, tsk” when we said we were afraid to go to the outhouse in the dark. Her garden was amazing. She was a strong, but silent woman who taught me many life lessons and skills. I had the privilege of living with her, and learning from her, for three months when I was 18. We lost Granny when I was 22 years old.
 
My brother and I were enveloped in our maternal and paternal families without ever feeling that we did not belong. They taught us Polish culture and traditions. I can honestly say I do not ever remember any remarks from our cousins about us being adopted. They did, however, have plenty to say about how badly we played baseball or fished from the dock. We loved our summer vacations with our extended families.
 
Sometimes my mother would say I looked Dutch. I eventually learned that she was correct as my maternal birth relatives came from Holland. Sometimes I wonder if she actually knew that but did not want to outright tell me for some reason. I also eventually learned that my birth father was of Scottish descent. Other than wooden shoes and windmills, I really had no insight into the Dutch culture. I knew nothing of Scotland, or people of Scottish descent. Well, other than what I had learned in the 1995 movie, Braveheart.  
 
The Northern Ontario community where I grew up was a melting pot of cultures, mostly due to being a railway town I suppose, or even being a tourist destination. The community I grew up in was Cochrane, Ontario, home of the Polar Bear Express. The Polar Bear Express train ride would take tourists from Cochrane to Moosonee round trip in one day. My brother and I loved to go down to the railway station and look in awe at the vehicle license plates from all over North America. Sometimes we would find the fanciest car or cars from far away places and pretend they belonged to our respective birth parents.
 
When I met my birth half-sister, Lynne, I discovered that she had been raised in a completely different religion from me. I wondered how that could happen? We were told that my brother and I had both come from Catholic birth families and, as a result, had to be placed with Catholic families so I assumed my birth sister would have been placed under those same ‘rules’.
 
When I met my birth father, he spoke about his Scottish ancestry but did not really have any traditions or cultural practices that he had raised his family practicing. While writing this blog I reached out to my paternal half-sibling, Beth, who said her (our?) dad really did not express any real interest in his Scottish heritage. His mother apparently did though, as she gave him a string of Scottish names when he was born.
 
Lynne and I had eventually learned that our birth mother and her immediate family had emigrated to Canada from Holland. When we met our maternal half-sisters, we saw how richly they had been immersed in their Dutch culture. Some members of my birth family host a family reunion every year and when Lynne and I attended one, it was both a surreal and a familiar experience for me. The experience reminded me of family reunions I had attended over the years with my adoptive family, only this time, I was looking at faces and statures of the people present, searching for familiarity, and I was much more interested in the ancestral pictures on display!
 
In today’s world, we encourage adoptive and kinship families to celebrate not only their culture but the child or youth’s birth culture as well. Customary care, practiced by indigenous families, helps children and youth to preserve and honour their community relationships and connections.  Culture and heritage give people a sense of belonging and identity. Children and youth living in their adoptive or kinship family’s culture learn about that culture every day. Talk to children and youth about their birth culture, as it will benefit them to feel interest and acceptance, and they should feel comfortable and proud talking about their birth culture as it will help them develop a healthy sense of self.
 
Just ask my Polish, Dutch, and Scottish self 😊

As always, please note that I would love to read your comments/experiences. If you would prefer to share them privately, rather than this public forum, please feel free to email me at ldeiulis.author@gmail.com