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Momma says . . .part 1

7/19/2022

4 Comments

 
​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
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Momma says . . .part 2

7/19/2022

2 Comments

 

Well as I said in ‘Momma Says . . .Part 1’, my conversation with my mom about growing up adopted went pretty good. So, welcome back to Blogville for Part 2 of this amazing conversation. I have just brewed a lovely cinnamon apple tea for your visit. 

Let’s focus for a minute on my mom.
My conversation took place last month when I was with my mother to celebrate her upcoming birthday. As well, she needed refills on her supply of her favourite GF carrot muffins and cookies, and we often chat while she watches me bake. Realizing the golden moment that I was presented with, I asked her, “So, mom, how does it feel to turn 97 years old?” She thought for a moment and said, “You don’t really think about it until someone asks you a question and you stop and realize it is getting harder and harder to figure out the answer to their question. Also, I can no longer do so many of the things I used to easily do.” She expanded by saying, “I feel weaker and less able to do things but I’m definitely smarter.” I asked why she thinks she is smarter now and, without missing a beat, she grinned and said, “well, I don’t have to do so many things anymore, everyone does it for me”. Well, that is smart. So I handed her the muffin tin liners and put her to work! 

Back when it was mom’s 90th birthday I suggested we get her an IPad. People thought that was a bit of a ridiculous idea but I prevailed. She has loved it from the beginning and still loves it seven years later. So when she was talking about being smarter now she said, “Its kind of like my machine here (referring to her IPad). I can play cards all day and my machine has to do all the shuffling and count the points. I don’t even have to pick up the cards when I’m done. Grinning, she turned her screen to show me the cribbage game that she was currently winning.

Her memory is failing for sure. It bothers me the most when I’m visiting and she’ll suddenly just stare at me. I know at that moment that she isn’t quite sure who I am. There was a time late last year when my mother sat across the table from me and proceeded to tell me a story about how she and her had husband adopted a little girl. I realized that I was listening to the story of my own arrival into the family from a perspective I had never heard it told from before. Sadly, in my heart, I knew it was because she had no idea that, sitting across from her, was the aged version of the little girl they had adopted. 

As I explained earlier, given her age, and mom’s memory issues I decided it was the time to talk to her about adoption in general and my adoption specifically. This was the conversation I had started so many times in my life but quickly retreated because I sensed her pain or discomfort. Since, at that moment, she thought she was telling a stranger about her experience, she seemed very comfortable talking about it. So as bittersweet as it was, during this conversation I learned about her heartache at not being able to carry a baby to term, and how she and my dad learned about adoption from a visiting missionary at mass one Sunday, and how she called for information on adoption the following day. She talked of wanting a baby girl but reminisced about when they called about a 2 1/2 year old boy and how she called my dad and excitedly told him, “We are getting a little boy!” I learned 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 child away. How she felt that she had to ask her social worker if that behaviour would be ok. Though I asked about it, she didn’t remember the application process or other pre-adoption steps specifically. Her response? “You just did what they said if you wanted to get children.”

Suddenly, Mom surprised me by asking, “Did you know about the woman who had you? Her father did not want her to bring you home and he wouldn’t let her, so we got you instead.” She looked sad when she added, “I always felt sorry for her because she could have a baby and was not allowed to keep it, and I got to keep it instead.” Mom then blew my mind by asking, “Did you ever get to meet her?” (Definitely a topic for a different blog, but I finally told my mom what happened regarding my birth mother because she doesn’t read my blogs, and she’s 97 years old. I’m afraid you will have to wait.)

Getting back to my first ever real heart to heart conversation about adoption with my mom. I asked her, “Was it hard to tell people that you were going to adopt?” “I forget”, she said, “we just brought you home and said you were our children. Nobody ever gave us a hard time.” She qualified that with, “It was just what families did. If you couldn’t have children you adopted. Simple as that.”

So, I asked her how her siblings, and her mother, my Granny, took the news that she and my dad were adopting. Mom looked at me like I had suddenly grown a beard and said, “Granny didn’t think anything of it as it was something that always was. I mean, adoption.” She added, “Like in the old days when parents died and their families would take care of the children. If there was no family then a family that knew the children would take them in.” She looked me in the eye and said, “Lynn, children need a family to take care of them and that was that.” Here is where I start bawling again from simply typing the words that she added, “You and your brother needed a home and that was that, you were part of the family.” Keeping the tissues close as I write that, I remember how she concluded with, “You were such good children. I think you were so glad you had a brother when you came to us, and he was so glad to get a sister. You were never strange with each other when you came to us, it was like you both knew you were home now.” 

I am being honest when I tell you that I have never had a conversation like this with my mom. She always looked so hurt when I would ask, or would just stare at me like a ‘deer in the headlights’ and now I know that I was wrong not to have kept asking. But I was just a kid, and no kid wants to put that look of fear on the face of their parent. 

As you know, I had decided to take a bigger risk by asking my mom if she had any advice for people who want to adopt. As I noted in Part 1, venturing into this topic felt like the risk we kids used to take after the annual Cochrane Carnival fishing derby. Usually on a dare, we would run across the lake dodging (we sincerely hoped) the abandoned fishing holes. You might make it across unscathed, or you might break a leg, but worth the risk.

It kind of felt like that when I asked, “Mom, would you have any advice for people who want to adopt children?” Without missing a beat she replied “I’d tell them to make sure that that is what they want”. Pushing aside the little girl in me begging me to stop talking, I asked what she meant by that and she replied, “I’d tell them that it’s not just like having your own” (I thought I had just figuratively fallen into one of those fishing holes- I could almost hear my leg snap). Well folks, since I have two legs, I decided to continue to ignore the little girl in me and pursue the concept. Metaphorically, I felt mom putting a cast on my leg when she said, “They need to be sure because sometimes children have questions about adoption that you can’t answer. You can’t just tell them about the birds and the bees.” I was in it now, why not keep going? I leaned forward asking, “Why couldn’t you answer?” She replied, “Well, lots of times I didn’t know the answer because they didn’t tell me much” (meaning the adoption workers). “Other times I didn’t know the answer because I wasn't adopted.” Well I sure did not see that one coming! I flashed back to some questions I had as a child when she would give me that ‘deer in the headlights’ look. Honestly, until that moment it had never occurred to me that adoptive parents sometimes struggle to answer their children’s questions because they have never experienced what their children were experiencing. Wow! What an enlightening moment for me, and hopefully for you.

But, since opportunity was knocking! Something I have always been curious about but was too afraid to ask my mom was why, when a doctor would ask about family medical history, my mom would give him a look and the two of them would leave the room. I remember thinking that she was sharing some magical secret about my biology with the doctor, or revealing some terrible medical facts about my birth family history. So today, I took the plunge, I worked up the nerve to finally ask, “Mom, I’ve always been curious why, whenever family medical history questions would come up, you and the doctor would always leave the room to talk?” In response, my beautiful 97 year old mother looked me straight in the eye and said, “I have no idea.”
Are you KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW??? 

Nope, no clue, not even a twinkle in her eye. Sigh.
I love you mom!



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


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Duck and Run

7/18/2022

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Hey there! Good to see you back at Blogville. Today I’m having a steeped tea with a splash of milk.

Remember when you were a kid, selling tickets at Stedmans, or chocolate bars, or seeking sponsorships? Remember trying to raise money so you could go on a school trip, or to camp, or to a Boy Scout Jamboree? Remember standing in the rain or snow or high humidity trying to get sponsorships for a walk-a-thon, skip-a-thon, or some kind of thon, raising money to support your hockey team, or ringette, or baseball, and other teams or organized activities that existed to keep us all busy and out of trouble? 

Well, if you remember that, you will also remember the people crossing the road, or suddenly becoming very interested in their jacket’s zipper, or deciding they did not need that item after all, the one found only in the store where they would have to cross your path to get to. You would remember the lack of eye contact from the same people who, on a normal day, would stop you and bore you with a hundred questions about your parents, your siblings, your progress in school, and your latest bowel movements. People and their money were not easily parted, even with the plea “hey Mrs. Etmanski, wanna sponsor me for . . .” 

If you have ever tried to fund raise or sell something in a mall then you have been where I was very recently, during my first public book signing. The book signing took place at our local shopping mall. It was well organized by a very enthusiastic bookstore employee who had many wonderful plans but, to her dismay, more and more technical challenges as the event loomed closer. Murphy’s Law applied to many of the event details (some of you will need to look up the concept of Murphy’s Law) but despite everything that had been, or was currently going wrong, this young woman pasted a smile on her face and the event moved forward driven by her heart and determination.

I was in the company of some wonderful author colleagues and we introduced ourselves and got to know each other a little. Our books were an eclectic collection of words on pages with our hearts inserted as bookmarks. We were all local authors in the North from Sudbury to Moosonee, ergo the creative and appropriate name of the event, billed as ‘Northern Pages’. Among us were an author with a TV series deal in the works, and an Indigenous Order of Canada recipient, a poet, a lover of fantasy writing, a thrilling mystery storyteller, a fun loving children’s author, and me, with my book for families travelling an adoption, kinship or other alternative care journey.

There was the usual ‘newness factor’ discomfort that comes with mixing people who have never met, people with experience and those without, as well as differing personalities. We all turned a comparative eye to each other’s works and were both intimidated and encouraged. Many of us were new to book signing events such as we found ourselves in, while others had been there, done that. Some of us were equipped only with our books (proudly labeled with stickers that said, “Local Author” and “Signed by Author”) to stack on on tables covered with green tablecloths. We lovingly placed our books next to the supplied bottle of water, pens, and a plastic book stand. Other, more experienced authors got busy setting up retractable banners and promotional display monitors. I noted that the mall IT guy seemed less than enthusiastic when trying to find a working outlet in the temporarily repurposed, otherwise empty, storefront. IT folks really are unsung heroes aren’t they? He made it work.

The bookstore and the mall had promoted the event, paper flyers evident at each entrance as well as invitations on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and TikTok. Each author attending had promoted the event on our social media, some of us even doing Facebook live feeds at the book signing itself. We had told our friends and family where and what time the event would be taking place and exactly at noon, we overcame the tummy butterflies some of us had, put on our best and most confident smiles, and sat or stood filled with pride in showing our books! 

We were authors, ready to meet the public! 

So, getting back to the fundraising/sponsorship experiences from our youth, I was transported back in time while at this event. People would glance in at us wondering who we were and what was going on in the normally empty storefront. We, holding our breath in anticipation that they might cross the threshold and look at our books, patiently waited. Some folks would look around outside the storefront for signage and discover that we were “local authors”, most then turned and took a sudden interest in what a phantom friend, just out of our site, wanted. Duck and run! Evidently disappointed that it wasn’t a comic-con preview, or some kind of give-away free sample event, off they went. People we knew and called greetings to by name turned red and walked faster in the other direction. Those same people were the ones that would, in this very same mall, normally bend your ear for 30 minutes about nothing in particular and everything in general.

I know, I have felt it too, the pinching obligation to buy tickets or sponsor someone you know for whatever they are raising money to do. I get it, I have felt the same obligation to go look at the quilt or earrings or baby outfit someone I know has crafted (but if I’m honest, only if they made eye contact with me). I know that I too have been guilty of faking that I see an invisible friend just out of sight that I must talk with right away, or of quickly turning away so I don’t make eye contact. I have done it too. But suddenly the shoe was on the other foot (another expression to look up) and I felt invisible. 

The bookstore manager popped by to introduce herself and helped me feel visible again. Then one of us would welcome a friend or acquaintance who had come out to support them, some even had one or two fans arrive, so again we felt seen. We welcomed chatting with the bored partners of shoppers, even though we knew they were just killing time. Many of us, almost in tandem, would half rise from our seats in anticipation, eternally hopeful that someone coming through the door may be coming to see us. Maybe they had even heard of our book(s).

Unexpectedly, I had two friends come in with their previously purchased books for my signature. They could have easily come to my house or gone out for coffee/tea with me to the same end, but they didn’t, they came to my first ever book signing! I know I’m an author but there are no words to describe what that meant. I won’t name names to avoid embarrassing them, they know who they are. Thank you for coming.

Let me tell you what else happened at this book signing. I got to know six other authors. I met these other kindred souls who want to make a difference in society, whether by entertaining or by teaching. I learned about, and could relate to, their writing challenges and successes. In differing ways each author I met that day helped me through my very first book signing so that I can approach the next one with infinitely more confidence.

Oh and this happened at my very first book signing . . . my husband, who originally planned to poke around the mall’s stores and maybe go home for a bit and come back later for me, pulled up an empty chair and sat with me instead. He’s obviously already read the book and doesn’t need my signature on anything but the occasional form or cheque, but he takes our partnership seriously. When someone would approach my table he would stand and wander casually off, maybe get a tea refill for me, and let me do what I do best . . .talk. Thank you for staying with me at my very first book signing, one in a number of firsts we have been through together.

Through this event I have been reminded of the talent that residents living in Northern Ontario possess; an often overlooked natural resource. In this life there are many opportunities open to us and what we do with them is a choice. This experience has taught me to never again purposefully avoid artisan vendors when I am somewhere that they are. To give your attention to the work someone else has poured their heart and soul into costs you nothing, they really want to hear your thoughts about their work more than anything. No artist wants their work purchased out of obligation and stored away never to be seen again; though they will of course gratefully take your money if you find something you honestly like. 

Finally, I have also learned that a rare and beautiful sunny July afternoon on a weekend in Northern Ontario is probably not the best time to draw people to the mall for a book signing.
But, thanks for trying Gina. Well done!

As usual I would love to read your comments and if you prefer a less public forum than commenting here, please email me at ldeiulisauthor@gmail.com! 




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To keep or not to keep?

7/4/2022

3 Comments

 
Welcome back to my little Blogville. Today I am enjoying a ginger tea with a wedge of lemon, what is your tea of choice?

Special note: Before you begin reading this blog I want to you to take note that I am not referring to Hoarding Disorders (HD) as defined in the DSM-5. That is a condition that should be diagnosed and treated by mental health professionals.

What I will be talking about is the concept of ‘Decluttering’. Unlike most people I know, the need to declutter our lives literally baffles me. I can’t be the only person who asks why? “It’s just stuff”, they say, “they are just things” they tell me, “they don’t matter…”

When I explore my reaction to the concept of decluttering, I wonder if my response is impacted by being an adopted person. Throughout my childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood, I was a person without a birth family history. Until I found and met my birth father and his children (when I was around 32 years old), and until I met my maternal birth half-sisters (when I was about 59 years old), my history was confined to the contents of an 8 1/2 X 11 inch business envelope and a clear bag containing the clothes I was was wearing when I was delivered to my parents at 9 months of age. When I was a child I remember asking my mom how come those clothes looked so sad and she responded with, “Oh honey, they keep the good clothes for the next foster children because they know adoptive parents can buy nice things.” My child mind processed that to mean, “Your foster parents did not buy you anything, everything you had when you were there was used.” I was 62 years old when I finally found out that I did get new clothes as needed, as well as gifts (actual new things) for my first Christmas in my foster home; something I had always wondered about. 

I acknowledge that those little baby shoes collecting dust on my bookshelf are not important every day, nor do they impact on my daily life. But when I pick them up intending to discard them I am flooded with memories of the little baby feet that they once protected, and the first steps that they once supported…if I throw them out, what will inspire those memories? 

Those aren’t just baby shoes, they are mini transporters that turn me into a time traveller. As soon as I touch them I am transported back in time. I can hear her giggle, I can see her little feet, I can even see my young hands tying up the laces. If the shoes are gone, what will make me think of those moments?

“Throw it out mom, I don’t want that junk anymore.” That junk!The book we waited in line for at 6 a.m. so you could be the first to buy and read it. That Lego set that lit up your little face on your birthday just when you had given up all hope that it might be one of your gifts. . . junk? Throw it out mom, its just junk, that toy you HAD to have, life or death . . .“ppppuuuuulllleeeeaaaaassssseeeee mom!”

When all of my children moved out what if I HAD thrown out all those toys? When that baby grandchild came to visit what would have inspired that giggle as they reached out for that indestructible telephone, or stacking toy, giggling just like the baby, my baby/their parent had done while playing with that same toy. Chubby hands placing the farm animals just so, sitting on the floor with the parent whose now strong and capable hands once placed the farm animals the same way. Why does this not matter? 

​I believe that grandparents keep special toys to inspire in their adult children, now parents themselves, the same joy they felt. The next thing you know your adult child is making the cow moo, helping their baby to stack the next ring, and reverting back to play, leaving the adult stressors aside for just a moment. Now that grandparents have time to sit back and watch, it is a special moment when the child of your child plays with those old toys, that junk.  

I need these mini time machines to help jog my memory now that I am at an age where every day feels the same. I love being transported back to the special moments that I spontaneously relive when my memory is jogged by photographs, certain smells, conversations, and that ‘junk’. 

I can be transported to a time when I mattered as my parents’ daughter, my brother’s sister, my friends’ friend as I was growing up. I am reminded of those times when I look at faces in old photographs, or when I open my mother’s cedar chest and look at my first mittens, or some art projects, or the ‘used’ outfit I was wearing when my social worker delivered me to my parents. When I open that cedar chest, I can smell my childhood.

I mattered as a young woman making a life of my own.  I remember this when I look at my husband’s pressed boutonniere from our wedding day, or when sipping wine from glasses that transport me to a warm sunny day on our honeymoon when we watched a young artist etch our names onto them. I mattered to employers in those first jobs. They trusted me to do my best and I trusted them to let me learn, to teach me. I know I mattered when I look at my resumé and the attached letters of recommendation.

I mattered as a young wife and mother, in the days when I looked down and my hands were young. I was once someone’s whole universe, the most important human being in the life of another human being. I know I mattered when I look at my poorly crafted-more-beautiful-than-anything-else-in-the-world special occasion (popsicle stick picture frame, pot holder, candy dish…) gifts. When I touch those gifts I am immediately transported back to looking at the pride on my child’s face as they handed it to me. 

I think my father-in-law started to understand this just before he passed away. When he retired he started a project. He began taking the family vacation photos and other family adventure photos and trimming them into collages. I now feel that he was doing two things. First, he was reliving these events as he went through hundreds of photos. Second, consciously or unconsciously, I feel he began to understand the old adage about the journey not being as important as who you take the journey with. He was cutting away much of the scenery and focusing on the people with him, because their expressions became the most important memory for him. (This is a “decluttering” I understand lol.)

When I met my birth father’s adult children, two of my (then quite young) new nieces presented me with home crafted gifts, a book mark and a popsicle-stick keepsake box. (These items actually appear in one of the instagram posts promoting this blog.) When I look at these gifts, I am reminded of those children expressing such unconditional acceptance of a new person in their world. How do I chuck those? 

I have a box that I keep the things my birth father sent me in. He would send me letters, postcards, and even the odd book. The greatest gift he sent me was in the beginning when he sent a card, created like a birth announcement. It said, “Mr. Scott *** is delighted to announce the Discovery of his charming daughter, Lynn Deiulis. A sister for Leslie, Craig & Beth. In the card he included a tiny little cigar wrapped with a tiny pink ribbon bow on which he had handwritten “Its A Girl”.
I waited 32 years to begin learning about my birth roots. Is it too much to ask to keep this box when/if I “declutter”?

When my older maternal half-sister (Lynne) and I met our younger half-sisters we all brought each other little gifts, tokens to say hello. I feel like Lynne’s and mine meant, “nice to meet you” while theirs said, “welcome to the family”. An example of being welcomed is a tiny family tree with all six of our birthstones on it, and another was a gift of bracelets for each of us with our name and birth order number. They resembled the hospital baby bracelets of the past. We took a very neat photo of each of our hands/arms wearing these bracelets. I usually wear my bracelet when I’m making presentations as it reminds me that I represent many people when I talk about my adoption journey, and to be respectful as all of our journeys are different. One person’s clutter, I suppose.

When we met our maternal birth half sisters we all went together to meet their father. He is a lovely man, and judging by his daughters, was a good father. It was a very emotional meeting. But, in a gesture that makes me weep every time I remember it, our new sisters offered Lynne and I each a ring that had belonged to ‘our’ mother. Apparently, when she passed, there were six rings and the sisters had each chosen their favourites and put the other two away. I wear this gifted ring every day, right beside my family ring, where it also belongs. Cluttering up my hand.  

My grandchildren call me, “Meemaw”. They give me great works of art for the coveted fridge spots. There are two refrigerators in our home. Sadly, I still only have so many fridge magnets, and so much room. My grandchildren notice when their works of art are moved by me but accept it when I tell them that even great works of art in museums are moved occasionally. Sometimes, my grandchildren secretly place their works of art over their cousins’ pieces. It does my heart proud the times when I see that the cousin noticed and did not say a thing. Though impossible to keep it all, there will always be cherished pieces. These works of art clutter up my heart. 

I understand the need to get rid of 5 of your 6 roast pans, or 8 of your 10 sprinklers, but I cannot bring myself to get rid of what I call, “linked” items. These are the things that link me to my roles in life, a birth child, a daughter, a sister, a wife, a mother, an aunt, a grandmother, a friend, even a work colleague. I started my life without an attachment, and I know I will leave this life without those trinkets, but in the meantime I am very attached to the tiny time machines my clutter represents to me, and hope you understand me, and people like me, just a little bit better. 

Thanks for reading!
(Whatever you do, don’t print this blog and clutter up any space with it!) 

As always, I would love to hear from you. If you prefer to comment using a less public forum feel free to email me at ldeiulisauthor@gmail.com
3 Comments

There is no adoption stork

6/20/2022

1 Comment

 
Welcome back to Blogville. I think a nice camomile tea will suit this chat but you can decide. Maybe make a pot, this is going to take a while.

I want to talk to prospective adoptive parents a little about my professional experience with matching children and families, and what birth parents have taught me about the matching process. I hope that this will help you to prepare for the roller-coaster ride known as “approved adoptive family” awaiting a placement. I wish to note that my experience is limited to domestic (Ontario) public adoptions specifically.

If you are adopting due to an infertility issue then you have learned from ovulation monitoring, fertility drugs, intercourse on demand, medical procedures, and other attempts to conceive that there is no actual stork. If you are adopting as a single parent, or as a member of the LGBTQ2s+ community, you know there is no actual stork. 

So, now that we have acknowledged all of that, I have to inform you that there is no adoption stork either (no matter how tall or slender your adoption worker might be, lol).

We simply need to acknowledge that, instead, there is an adoption “system” that comes with guidelines, rules, procedures, and what feels like a hundred other hoops and/or barriers for you. What I want to focus on in this blog is the matching/selection process.

I think it is important to state that (typically but not always) adoption workers review selected approved home studies and usually narrow the candidates down to three families that they feel best match with the child or youth’s needs and the wishes of the birth parent(s) where applicable. 

Adoption workers present your profile to birth parent(s) to help them to choose a family for their child. If the birth parent(s) are not involved, then a selection committee will review your profile instead. My point is that the people who may be selecting you to parent a child or youth will be making their selection based primarily on the profile you created, and follow up questions they ask your adoption worker.

But I get ahead of myself. As an adoption worker, this is how I saw the practice of adoption matching in Ontario. Others may not see it the same way, but this is my personal view after 25 years of experience. (It is also my view as an adopted person.)

Once you are an approved adoptive applicant, a “check list” profile can be placed on the AdoptOntario website. I used to describe this as the ‘Plenty ‘O Fish’ of adoption. The website provides quick facts about you that workers can consider when they are looking to match a child with a family, while also providing quick facts about a child that workers are looking to match with a family. This website profile has prescribed descriptors about you that do not require any creativity, just the facts. Workers can then follow up if it looks like there might be a match.

As part of the search for your child, you may attend adoption conferences, such as the Adoption Resource Exchange (A.R.E.) that takes place in Toronto, Ontario usually twice per year. If you plan to attend, your worker will recommend that you prepare a profile to present to the workers at the conference. In many cases you can preview children’s profiles on the AdoptOntario website prior to the conference. You will likely make note of which agencies you will want to speak to at the conference regarding children who caught your eye. 

I cannot reinforce enough how important it is for you to leave the fantasy version of your ‘perfect child’ at the A.R.E. door before you enter. Bring an open mind with you instead. Falling in love with a child or youth’s photo can actually impair your hearing. Don’t just listen for the things you want to hear, make sure you listen actively, even if you may not like what the worker is saying. I call this ‘future heartbreak prevention’.

The A.R.E. Conference looks a little bit like a science fair when you arrive, with booths and displays everywhere. I used to describe the conference as being similar to ‘speed dating’. Often there are lineups of families waiting to introduce themselves to the workers representing children available for adoption. Prospective parents moving from booth to booth to booth, armed with multiple copies of their profiles, and filling out expression of interest forms, or not. A good pre-conference exercise I recommend is to imagine which agency’s booth you would go to, to find out more about a child or sibling set,  if you could only go to one.

At the A.R.E. you will usually find workers representing older children and youth, children with special needs, and/or sibling sets. Be aware that the longer the line, the less time the worker will have to meet you, so be ready to make an impression. What impresses workers? Honesty. Have an honest list of what special needs, behaviours, medical conditions, you feel you can truly manage (not necessarily what you originally told the home study worker). Children need you to be sure.  I call this ‘future heartbreak prevention’.

As always I would love to hear your comments. If you are not comfortable sharing them on a public site, please feel free to email me at ldeiulisauthor@gmail.com.
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Where is my ice cream?

5/31/2022

2 Comments

 
The tea for this blog must be strong. This visit to Blogville might be hard. You might not be able to finish reading it all at once, and that is ok.

I never had the chance to celebrate even one of my birth mother’s birthdays with her. When I look at the family photos my birth half-sisters have of her 80th year celebration I immediately feel the absence of my older birth half-sister and I. We never met her, and she passed away. Do I even have the right to grieve?

I have started and restarted this blog so many times because the topic is difficult. On the one hand, I’m so afraid of offending or even triggering anyone, but on the other hand, I think it needs to be talked about. It may validate, or even make sense, for so many other people when they are feeling their feelings.
Maybe I am meant to be their voice.

I am reminded of seeing an old black and white picture my birth father sent to me once I had found him. He was posing with his small children after a visit to the ice cream store. Each of them had a cone, and I distinctly remember strongly feeling, “Where is my ice cream?” I felt a great loss at that moment. Grief at not being a part of my birth father’s family, and sadness that I met him so late in life that we had so little time to get to know each other. I felt a loss that his other children, my paternal half-siblings, were already adults.

I want to talk about rejection in this blog. I want to qualify that this is my experience, and mine alone, however, I feel there may be meaning in here for others. Rejection in adoption can be a bit of a theme.

Loss for birth parents is it’s own journey. When the pregnancy was discovered, they may have felt rejection from each other, from their families and friends, and even from their community. The mere fact that there were homes for unwed mothers to hide or be hidden in supports this concept. Many pregnant girls were rejected by their immediate circle and sent off to live with a ‘sick aunt’ in another community. For birth fathers who wanted to make a plan to take responsibility for the pregnancy, their thoughts and ideas were often rejected as their own future needed to be ‘protected’ in the bigger picture. The theme for birth parents? Rejection and powerlessness.

Fact: Did you know that birth mothers did not, and do not, somehow rob their boyfriends of their sperm just to impregnate themselves? Something to think about.

Loss for many adoptive parents begins when their own bodies rejected the idea of creating a biological child.
For people struggling with infertility it may be a lonely journey, friends becoming uncomfortable sharing pregnancy news, baby shower invitations dwindling, society’s awkwardness apparent. Hormone therapy, temperature taking, intimate moments becoming clinical, all in an attempt to achieve what seems to come easy to everyone but them. Smiling through advice about relaxing and letting nature take its course. Listening to stories of people just having to ‘look at each other’ and finding themselves pregnant. More rejection by what feels like everyone around them, and by their own bodies.

That is just the beginning for adoptive parents. Then they faced fear of being rejected during the adoption home study process or never being selected to parent a child. Loss of a dream. They fear that their family may not accept their adopted child. Then they fear that the adopted child might reject them as parents.

Step-parent adoptions are not immune from feelings of loss and fears of rejection either.

For the adopted child, rejection comes in many forms. Adoptees can only assume that the news of their existence was not a welcome experience for their birth parents. To be rejected before you are even born may not be felt in those critical nine months of gestation (that we know of anyway), but it is felt for life. How does one cope with their accidental existence?

So, I was a ‘chosen child’. My point of view? That someone had to reject and release me, so that I could be chosen. For international adoptees I feel that they may experience even more levels of abandonment: first by their birth parents; then by their extended family; then by their community; and finally, by their whole country. Did no one value them enough to make a plan to keep them home?

It is a lot of work to find value in yourself when your existence was and is surrounded by so much grief and loss . But adopted persons do it every, single, day. With or without support.

So I want to talk to you about interacting with adopted people. This may not apply to all adopted people, but I believe it applies to many of us. Again, these are my own feelings and reactions, however, I don’t feel they are unique to me. In our interactions, if you reject me, or if I perceive you are rejecting me, I accept that I deserve it. After all, if my own birth parents did not want me, why would you? These types of feelings may be what you are facing from deep within the adopted person you love, and they cannot tell you because this sense of abandonment is buried so very, very deep.

Some examples? When you look at your phone when I am talking to you, and then you don’t pick our conversation back up, I feel that what I had to say did not matter. I will likely never bring that topic up again. When you say you will help me with something, I trust you, and then if you forget, or make other plans, I feel I deserve your abandonment. I will figure out a way to get it done myself. When you spend time with other friends instead of me, I understand, but at the same time I feel that they are better friends than me. You value them more. Given that I was not valued by my own birth family, how can I expect anyone to really, truly, value me? In my case, if these things happen, you should picture a small blonde child covering her head with blankets, or pouting and stamping her foot, because she is my ‘child-me’ reacting. Please do not  mistake this blog sharing as self-pity. I have already had so much loss. Losing people I care about is my greatest fear, and the fear of many adoptees, so I just wanted you to know. Why do you think I, and many adoptees, are such people-pleasers?

If you ever meet me, you will meet a strong, confident person who appears to be very self-assured. But if you don’t return my call, cancel a lunch date with me, criticize me (constructive or otherwise), or ignore me in some way . . . inside me a child hides and cries. I withdraw, not to punish you, but to punish me for thinking I deserved your attention, your friendship, your love. The people who were supposed to love me the most, did not value my existence, why should I expect you to love me or care about me?


Oh and let’s not forget society’s obsession with the term “real parents”. Ironically, birth parents grieve the loss of their parental rights when society never seems to fully transfer them to the parenting parents. Side note, when people talk to birth parents about searching, do you think they ask if they want to find their ‘real child’? 

People used to ask if I wanted to find my real parents, and I continue to acknowledge my mom and dad as my real parents, and I not only met them, I grew up as their daughter. But, did I want to find the birth parents who created and then rejected me? YES!!! Unequivocally YES! But maybe not for the reasons society thinks. I needed to know why? What had I done that made them abandon me? I was just a tiny baby. Maybe if they can explain this to me I can forgive myself for having been created and causing them so much pain. But then, I am afraid. What if I find them and they reject me again? What if they tell me it really was my fault?

From the birth parents’ perspective, I believe they are thinking, ‘what if my birth child finds me and hates me for what I did? What will my other children think of me if they know I had, and relinquished my rights to parent their sibling (half or full). What will my friends, coworkers, and extended family think of me? Will they still value me?’ For my birth mother, who declined the opportunity to meet my birth sister and I, I believe it was fear of this rejection that caused her to say no. I don’t need to tell you that accepting her decision to relinquish her parental rights to me as an infant was one thing, but her rejection of the adult me (no matter how valid her reasons) really left a mark. She has four beautiful daughters whom she raised with her husband in the way it ‘should’ be done. I think she feared what would happen to her relationship with them, and her grandchildren, if they learned about us. Would they no longer respect her? Would they think less of her? The sad truth is, when we met our birth sisters following her passing, they honestly wished that she had told them, and wished that she could have met us too. My birth sisters do not believe they would have felt any different about their beloved mother as a result of learning about us.

I believe that what truly matters in adoption is: Do I have value? The answer is YES. You have and are living a life path. You matter to so many people and to yourself.
Birth parents, your child is living a valued life because you allowed that to happen for them. Birth children, you are living your best life because of all the parents that you have or had. Adoptive parents, your child is living a valued life because you allow that to happen for them. Step-parents, your child is living a valued life because you allow that to happen for them. Kinship parents, your child is living a valued life because you allow that to happen for them. Whomever you are to a child, if you value them, you matter to them, no matter who or where you are.

You know what my take away is from this? I am valued. Equally important is that I value others. I value them enough to hurt when they don’t have time for me, or when I feel rejected by them. I value them enough to keep trying and to keep working on the self-image of that little blonde girl in me so that she feels valued too, because in my heart, I know she truly matters to you!
In my heart, I know that I matter to you, and to me, and that I am valued. Thanks for reading.

As always, I would love to hear your comments. If you would prefer a less public forum, please email your comments to me at ldeiulisauthor@gmail.com. 







2 Comments

Adoptee: coming of age

5/18/2022

1 Comment

 
​​
Welcome back to Blogville! Thank you for joining me. The tea of choice today is Red Raspberry or ginger. The reason may, or may not, become apparent as you read on. 

​If you aren’t comfortable with the word puberty, you should probably stop reading now and move on to another blog. 

I was with some friends today and for some reason, the discussion turned to puberty. Weird right? After all, we are more menopausal than pubescent. As you can imagine, my friends are a bit odd, just like me. That’s how I keep them! Anyway, it seems puberty developmental events were different for me than my friends who were raised by their birth parents. I had not really thought of that. Not knowing when my birth mother, or any of her sisters started their period was a bit of an issue, a mystery, a game of chance, (not that I knew whether or not she had sisters). In today’s world, when you adopt a child who identifies as female, her social and medical history should contain the approximate ages when others in her family began their menses. This is to give adoptive parents at least some idea of when to prepare their daughter for this life event. (Not so in my day.)

So, this is how it went, to the best of my recollection. When I was around 10 or 11 years old my mother dutifully bought me the pads and belt (remember I was raised in the 1960s) to put/hide in my closet for “that day”. She told me that I could not use tampons before I got married because I wouldn’t be a virgin (Oh, that is a topic for another blog . . . Or not lol). My mom had apparently started her period, or got her “monthly visitor” quite young. So into the closet these secret supplies stayed, gathering dust, for what seemed like a very long time. I think I even once took the belt out of the closet only to find it had lost most of its elasticity. My mother kept trotting me to the doctor to ask what the holdup was, why was I not starting my menses? I felt like I was doing something wrong, but not exactly what.

During today’s visit, my friends and I started figuring out how old we were when we each actually started ours. One of them was around 10 or 11 years old and the other was slightly older. I had still not started by those ages. By those ages girls were usually busy figuring out how they could go swimming, or if they could wear short shorts, for fear that people would notice they had their “monthly visitor”. I was busy reading pamphlets and books and using a mirror to see if I could figure out what was going on down there that was preventing me from starting my menses. So, my mom decided that I was not humiliated enough with being 14, 15, 16 years old and still not having my period, so she took me to the doctor AGAIN for a reasonable explanation. Essentially he told her that I was too busy growing tall and when my body stopped doing that, it would begin to develop. 

You are going to love this bit. Keep in mind that I was adopted. I honestly remember being afraid that I’d be like my mom and would not be able to have biological children. How many of you just re-read that sentence? Yep, I was afraid that I had inherited my mom’s infertility. So don’t tell me that adopted children don’t feel like their adoptive parents are their parents. Having lived that herself, I believe my mother was afraid of the same thing. By the way, I’m no doctor but I’m pretty sure infertility cannot be genetically transmitted. Just a guess. 

Oh, I’m also pretty sure that teen pregnancy is not genetic either. So many adopting folks I have met were not sure if they should tell their children that the birth parents were teen parents. Or they extra supervised adopted children in their teen years. Pregnancy is caused by the same thing no matter how old the birth parents are. Again, I’m no doctor, but I am pretty sure that pregnancy is caused by the fertilization of an egg by a sperm cell. I do not think that people are genetically predisposed to having that happen at a particular age. So, adoptive parents, please stop worrying that your adopted child is at any greater risk of teen pregnancy than birth children are. 

If you are interested, my adoptive mother, who loves me and has always been dedicated to caring for my brother and I used an unusual method of birth control, or preventative tactic with me. When I was of dating age, she would warn me that should I become pregnant, I would be making adoption plans for the baby. I was very confused by how she made it seem like a bad thing? I will admit, given that she was speaking to an adoptee, she was really kind of making an empty threat. I thought adoption was a good plan. I was living that same exact plan. (Plus, I still didn’t even have my period yet so it was rather a moot point.)

So, back to the present, sitting with my friends talking about menstruation. One of them asked me if I knew when my birth sisters started their periods. Nah, I never thought to ask them that. By the time I met my birth sisters I was closer to menopause than puberty and my daughters were all adults by then so I guess I just didn’t think about it.

Instead my friends and I began talking about the horrors of puberty.

Remember, my family doctor said I was too busy growing tall than developing? I must say that I paid the price for that in grades nine and ten. There was a toy made by the Ideal Toy Company from 1969 until 1973 called Flatsy Dolls. By the way, these are valuable collectors’ items now, but for me they were an instrument of torture. If you look up ‘Flatsy Dolls Jingle’ on YouTube, you will hear a song that some of my loving peer group would sing to me as I walked down the hall in grade 9, or when I was at my locker. The chorus went like this:

“Flatsies, Flatsies
They’re flat and that’s that 
Ooooooo”

I think you get the picture. Those dolls and their jingle, plus the fact that I was taller than most of the boys I knew, combined to make a miserable start to high school. I started signing out using the excuse of “cramps” to either go lie down in the nurses room or go home, hoping that people signing out after me would believe I had my period. It was really a cover story for the fact I did not start until I was almost 16 1/2 years old. I could drive a car before I had to go to the store to finally replace that elastic belt in my closet.

So, my advice to social workers completing social and medical histories today, please don’t skip the question of when birth family members began their menses. I know it is an uncomfortable question but it is less uncomfortable than it will be for a child or adoptive parent later on. My advice to adoptive parents, please ask the question if it is not readily apparent on the social and medical history. Even if you are adopting a child identified as male, one day this information may be important for his daughters. Maybe you should consider asking for a family history of when facial hair and changing voices began in the birth family? Puberty is tough to begin with, knowing when to expect changes can make it easier!

As always, I welcome you to share your thoughts here or more privately via my email at ldeiulisauthor@gmail.com. 
1 Comment

Mystery Mother

5/9/2022

3 Comments

 

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
3 Comments

What is a sibling?

4/11/2022

0 Comments

 
So, I was going to write about culture for this blog but then, Siblings’ Day happened on Sunday (April 10) and a whole bunch of feelings cropped up, so I though I would ruminate about that instead.

One of my new sisters (as my brain calls the maternal half-sisters I met in 2018) is the person who keeps on top of these types things. She posts the birthday and anniversary wishes, the left-handed day celebrations, the sunset pictures, the family reunion announcements, and so forth. This sister is sort of the `bellman` or `town crier` of the family. Thankfully she is an early riser so the rest of us can see her posts and respond accordingly, as if we remembered or were already aware. So when I saw on Facebook that it was National Siblings Day my first thought was, “I wonder which picture of the six of us she will post?”

This led me to wonder what my Happy Siblings Day post would look like on Facebook?
Would it be my brother and I, raised by our parents (adoptive parents if I need to be specific)?
Would it be of me and my maternal half-sister that I met 30 years ago (each of us adopted by different families if I need to be specific)? 
Would it be me with my birth father’s other children (paternal half-siblings if I need to be specific)? 
Would it be me with my birth mother’s other daughters whom she raised with her husband (maternal half-siblings if I need to be specific)?
Or should I just post a picture of my adult children and wish them a happy Sibling’s Day? 
Or should I post a picture of my grandchildren and wish them a happy Sibling’s Day?
See what happens in my adoptee brain? Means nothing to anyone but me, but to me it means a lot!

When you look up the definition of a sibling, you will primarily read that a sibling is one of two or more individuals having one common parent or both parents in common. When I think of a sibling I think of my brother. My brother, the guy who parachuted into our family roughly a year before me and who is 2 1/2 years older me, is probably the only one who I think of as an actual sibling. Not by definition necessarily but by experience. My brother is the one who helped me when my boot got stuck in the snow, and the one who laughed at me when I got my boot stuck in the snow, and who threatened, “The next time you get your boot stuck in the snow I’m leaving you there!!” (After the 5th time of saving me that day likely.) Then he did leave me there once, I called and called his name, then eventually walked the block to our house in one boot and one sock foot. I put on the waterworks about his desertion of me in the snow covered field. Of course, our parents sent him out for the boot. Funny, that boot always seemed to get wet inside faster than the other one after that day. Hmmmm

I think of my sibling as the brother who could be so mean to me but look out anyone else who might be mean to me. We had each other’s backs. We unlocked the door for each other after curfew. We lied to people about where each other was when that clingy friend called and called. We walked around the lake in the middle of town as a family and he would protect me from those often mean swans. In the same breath he would shove me off the dock just to hear me scream. We did dishes together, climbed trees together, loved and hated each other, often in the same day, sometimes the same hour. But he was and is my brother.

When my brother did a search for his birth relatives I will never forget when he told me all about his birth family members, and all he had learned. But when he said “I have sisters” I can, to this day, remember how my face felt hot and my stomach turned and I thought. “What? I AM YOUR SISTER!” Did they cover for you with mom and dad? Did they put up with your b.s.? Did they run and interrupt our parents into the middle of a house party they were hosting because you were bleeding all over the kitchen from a snowmobile accident? WHO is your SISTER buddy? Those feelings came as quite a shock to me. It took me much longer than it should have to accept that he has sisters other than me, but I take comfort in the fact that I am the only “growing up sister” he has (wink wink). 

So, adoptive parents, I invite you to think about this little story when people ask about ‘real’ birth relatives in your children’s lives. I personally feel that being a sibling is about experience, not just biology.

Meeting my maternal birth half-sister was so weird, her name is also Lynne, (having the same name is the topic of a previous blog, “What’s In A Name” if you are interested). She and I had been separated through adoption, both of us having been adopted by different families. She lived in Western Canada and I live in Northern Ontario. At the time we met, I had a newborn at home and was late to the airport to pick her up and was nervous as a cat for the first 2 hours. Had I invited a serial killer into my home and family? We laugh about all that now but it was a tense few hours. The rest of our visit was wonderful. We are so opposite, I love to read, she worked in a university library and hated reading, she loved to play Bingo, I hated it. We don’t even look alike! Oh when we look back now, we can laugh. We have known each other since 1991 and have become truly great friends. 

When I met my birth father’s adult children, it was a little complicated. I had not yet met him but while on a business trip, I was going to be in the area where they live (ironically on adoption worker business) and they invited me to come a bit earlier and stay with them for a few days. So, I did. Imagine, being met at the train station by a sister you have never met? I did not expect to feel as overwhelmed as I did. They were all so warm and welcoming. Their children were great. But it all felt surreal. As they talked about being raised by their dad I simply could not visualize my face in the family portrait. I truly enjoyed my time with them and what I learned but felt like an outsider. I don’t feel that way any more and keep in touch in some way with each of them today but it felt, I don’t know, foreign. 

Lynne and I never gave up hope of one day finding and meeting our maternal birth half-sisters. In 2018 that is exactly what happened. To help the new sisters know which of us they were talking about they nicknamed us West Lynne and North Lynn. There are four of them and two of us, that made six daughters born to our birth mother. It was just an incredible few days. Looking at each other, looking away, examining the carpet or curtains instead soon turned to laughter and shared stories. Medical conditions in the family soon turned into favourite foods instead. We met their father, to whom our birth mother had been married for 57 years. We spent some time in the family home where they grew up together, and had many laughs. The girls had lost their mom the year before they met us, and they later shared how much they feel I look and sound like her. It had made them uncomfortable initially but that soon wore off. I think Lynne would agree that since 2018 we have each developed different relationships with different sisters, just like I believe would have happened if we had been raised together. Siblings meeting siblings because we were born to the same woman. Siblings now learning how to be sisters to each other.

As you probably know, my youngest half-sibling is Krista Donnelly, the illustrator of our book, What Is Your Story? Let’s talk about adoption and kinship, www.whatisyourstorybook.com. This was a sibling project that turned into a sister project! Krista and I have had the opportunity to learn so much from each other. From her, I learned what it was like to be raised as the baby of the family by our birth mother.  Then I learned from her what it was like to find out your mother had given birth to two other girls who were adopted. She learned from me about growing up as an adoptee and what the experience of searching for our mother had been like. 

So, what is a sibling? Sorry Alfred Adler for throwing a wrench in your birth order theory www.birthordertheoryadler.com! I honestly feel that your sibling is a person you were raised with and have history with no matter who parented you. 

As I have said, I would love to hear your story and if you prefer to share it directly to me and not on this public forum please send it to me in an email ldeiulisauthor@gmail.com
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Culture to Culture

4/8/2022

1 Comment

 
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

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    Lynn Deiulis

    Lynn Deiulis' personal and professional journey sparked a passion to write a book that offers an opportunity for children to learn about how they came to be living together as a family or living with another family.

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