Welcome back to Blogville my friends, I’m so glad you decided to visit today. Please join me in a cup of berry blast tea while I briefly reflect on what tomorrow means to me. So get comfy, put your feet up, and travel this journey with me.
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I’m pretty sure I’ve talked with you before about June 19th. I guess because June 19th is tomorrow (as I write this blog) I am just reliving birthday dates, birthday meanings, birthday celebrations, and birthday grief. I am an adult adopted person and the anniversary of my birth and relinquishment is very painful for me. It is not painful for all adopted people but you might want to consider their feelings around their date of birth. 
Yvonne Marie was unwanted and born on September 22, 1958. 
Lynn Dianne was placed on adoption probation as a much wanted child on June 19, 1959. 
Which date would you celebrate?

Pretty much everywhere I have ever worked celebrates their employees’ birthdays. Sometimes it is a ‘surprise’ cake, though if the employer gets a cake for every employee’s birthday, every year, it is hardly a surprise right? Sometimes colleagues decorate the birthday person’s office, cubicle, or other workstation. Again, no surprise! Sometimes employers announce staff members’ birthdays via announcements in newsletters, staff bulletin boards, emails, and/or other social media platforms. I have even heard of employers that give staff the day off for their birthday!

Why? Why do employers have to announce to other staff members when your birthday is? Oh wait, of course, it is to celebrate the day you were born. I have learned that if one objects to having their birthday acknowledged, they are seen as party-poopers, or even that they are ashamed of their age. It begs the question, if one was married and then divorced, do people continue to celebrate their anniversary each year? No! The relationship no longer exists, so the wedding date is irrelevant now. If the person remarries, it is commonly accepted that this new date becomes their anniversary date without question or debate! 

It is not about my age, I am not now, and never have been ashamed of my age. I am, however, ashamed of having been born. My birth caused a whole bunch of heartache, embarrassment, and humiliation. My impending birth was so awful that my birth mother had to leave her community to hide and give birth to me in secret, like an elopement. My birth date may have brought life to me, but it brought shame to my birth mother and her family, so it simply marks the annulment of our mother/child relationship. Put that on your bulletin board!

My birth was such a shame to my birth mother and her family that when given the chance to meet me as an adult, my birth mother said no. She consulted her husband who said ‘no way’, reminding her that she had to hold to her promise of living in silence about letting me go. She consulted one of her brothers who also advised that she should just let the opportunity to meet her adult child go, just like she had let the infant go. Can you just see a Hallmark Card for adopted people’s birthdays? The outside reading, “Happy Unhappy Reminder of the Day You Were Born!”, with the inside reading, “Another year older but still unwanted/unwelcome!”

How then, does one begin to celebrate that date? How does one plaster that fake smile on while cutting the ‘surprise’ birthday cake to share with her colleagues? How does one listen to singing of the traditional birthday song a stark, off-key reminder that no one had been ‘happy’ on my birth day. The familiar song taunting me; knowing that I have never met anyone who could tell me about the day I was born, and worse, knowing that I never will.

Why then, must I share this very emotional and confidential information with my employer, or with my colleagues, in an effort to stay emotionally safe on the anniversary of the date my untimely and unwanted arrival? September 22, 1958 was the day Yvonne Marie was born, and left behind in a cot, therefore enabling my birth mother to continue on with her life uninterrupted by my untimely birth. Hardly warranting a celebration. No one’s business but mine.

Soooooo . . I had an idea. I researched and found out that the date I arrived at my parents’ home was June 19th, 1959. THAT is the date that Lynn Dianne was born. So, that date became my ‘work birthday’. If people at work asked when my birthday was I would happily say, June 19th! Silently I was daring any Human Resource person to breach confidentiality and correct me. My family, the government, Human Resources, and some close friends knew my true date of birth, a date the one person who should have celebrated it with me likely grieved it, or worse, had forgotten it; the unwanted baby girl’s DOB blocked out and covered up like my existence on this earth. To me September 22nd is a date for mourning, not celebrating. 

So if you want to celebrate me, send good wishes to me tomorrow, June 19th. That is the anniversary of the date I truly became someone’s loved, cherished, and wanted daughter through the adoption process, the day my parents got their precious baby girl! Happy Birthday to me! I think I’ll light a candle!
​ Thanks for reading! 

I thank you for joining me in Blogville today. BTW You can follow me on Goodreads and be notified of new blog posts! I always appreciate your comments on my thoughts whether here, or more privately, by email [email protected] Take good care of each other. 

Ok, so firstly, I swear that this is the truth and that it all happened this morning my Blogville friends. I am sitting down to write it immediately in order to: a) process it all; and b) share it with you. I even stopped at Tim Horton’s on my way home and treated myself to an extra-large orange pekoe tea.


So, let me start by saying that recently hubby and I popped into a Casino to donate my usual $20.00 but I won $100!! I cashed out immediately and out popped a $100 bill. I am not sure if I have seen too many $100 bills but I can attest that this was the first one I have ever had in my wallet!

Anyway, I had to pop into the bank this morning to get a money order that I need for this coming Wednesday. Our downtown is under major road construction with many detours. I had mentioned to my husband the other day that I simply park a few blocks away near a cathedral because there are always spots available, and then I simply walk to the bank from there. As I was driving to this convenient parking spot, I noticed that one of our homeless shelters has a brand new van (donated I am sure) that is very nice and looks very comfortable.  I was happy for them as they do such good work for our homeless population. In hindsight however, I call this foreshadowing.


Anyway, I found my usual parking spot, popped a looney into the meter and noted I had 1 hour 20 minutes for my little trip to the bank. I was on my merry way and got to the intersection where I usually cross the construction area in order to walk the last half a block to the bank. A nice young man in a hard hat smiled and me and said, “Sorry ma’am, the sidewalk is closed. You have to cross at Cedar Street.” Noticing my perplexed expression he instructed, “Oh, just go down this laneway (gesturing to where I had just passed) and then go through the laneway on the other block and you should be good.” He had a lovely smile given the awful words he was spewing at me.


So, being the obedient citizen, ‘Change of Plan’, I turned around and started down the first laneway. I was about halfway through the laneway when I came upon a small inset area that I think was perhaps once an entrance to a part of City Hall. My ‘spidey senses’ were tingling when I noticed a young man in there facing the wall. For my own sanity I have changed this detail from what I think he was doing, to the idea that he was pouring a hot lemonade drink onto the wall. I simply lowered my head, kept my eyes forward, and hoped that he did not suddenly turn around. From when I was a very young girl, my mother had always warned me to stay as far away as I could from doorways and entryways when I was walking alone. Thanks for that great advice mom!


Quickly continuing on my way, now feeling a bit anxious, I could not remember if I was at the correct intersection where the sidewalk would now be available. Searching for a street sign I leaned around the corner and saw two fellows lighting what I can only assume were ‘crack pipes’. What the hell, “Excuse me fellas, can you tell me if the sidewalk is available on this block?” I asked. They lowered their pipes, the first fellow smiled toothlessly, and the second fellow mostly toothlessly, also smiled at me. One of them shook his head and said, “No ma’am, you need to go another block down.” I mean they would know, right? ‘Change of Plan.’ So I turned around and backtracked halfway down the block where I found the entrance to the second laneway that I was supposed to take. Just my luck there is a small homeless shelter right beside said laneway, and I guess it was that exact time when the shelter patrons have to leave for the day. So, witnessing the exodus from the doorway right beside the laneway I decided, ‘Change of Plan.’ (After all, I had my fancy $100 bill from the casino right there in my wallet and I planned to keep it!) I kept on walking toward the end of that block, got my bearings, and made my way the few blocks more to my bank. 


As I didn’t need the money order until Wednesday my original plan was just to pop into the bank and ask about how I go about obtaining one, and then returning Wednesday to actually get it. ‘Change of Plan.’ So, I left the bank clutching my purse (containing my precious money order and $100 bill) and wondering why the hell I brought a purse when I normally do not for a simple bank run. A purse is easier for someone to grab from me than my bank card and any cash in the pocket of my jeans would be, so I usually leave it at home. But this was not a simple bank run, it was more of a Q&A, and I was not sure what documentation I might need. Ergo, the purse. Suddenly I had a thought, popped back in the bank and asked the teller if the Spruce Street sidewalk was available past (or through) the construction area. She said she did not think so. Well, its only a block over so I went to see for myself. She was right. Suddenly I was not prepared to go back the way I had come, especially with a shiny new money order in my purse. ‘Change of Plan.’


I was parked 2.5 blocks from my bank. That parking spot and subsequent detours ended up taking me about 7.5 blocks including the one laneway shortcut. After leaving the bank, the new path that I would have to take was now a ‘walk’. I walked past the public library and bus station, past one of our larger parks/playgrounds, past a grocery store and small row mall, past a Tim Horton’s, and then along another 4 or 5 mostly residential blocks until I finally got back to my truck. Well, well, I still had 5 minutes in the meter! I know, you were all waiting for the parking ticket weren’t you? Please, my morning was pretty crappy already. Gratefully, I hopped in my warm truck (did I not mention it was a chilly 4 degrees celsius this morning and I dressed for about 12 degrees?) and drove straight to Tim Horton’s. ‘Change of Plan.’ I did not drive to the location I had just walked past, I drove to one located way far away from the downtown area. Now, I sit here drinking that Tim’s XL tea and sharing this experience with all of you. 


I sincerely hope you all have a great rest of your day. If anyone out there has had any similar experiences, feel free to comment! 

Welcome back to Blogville friends. Thank you for always coming back and listening to what I have to say. Even I am surprised by my thoughts sometimes. This blog is a good example. Maybe it is because Mother’s Day just passed and with Father’s Day looming I keep thinking about mom and dad and how I wish I could pick up the phone and say all of my unsaid words. But, sadly, it is too late for that. So I have decided to write them a posthumous letter instead while I sip on my hibiscus tea. I thought I might share it with you. (Trigger warning- emotional, grief)

Dear Mom and Dad,

The other day I picked up the phone to call my friend and was almost finished dialling your old phone number before I realized what I was doing. I feel that maybe, subconsciously, there were things I left unsaid before each of you left this life. I wonder if this many years needed to pass after losing each of you before I could say these things out loud. I’m sorry I could not say them sooner, or say them to both of you but here they are with all my heart.

Mom and dad, I thank you for being there, for saying yes when the worker called to ask you if you would be interested in adopting me, a nine month old baby girl. So the story goes, you called dad at work to share the news and make sure he was in agreement before you called the worker back to say ‘YES!’. I know that you then called all your friends, most of them also adoptive parents, to tell them the good news. I know you felt especially fortunate to be offered a baby as young as I was because you used to tell me how only people who could afford to adopt privately got the newborns. I’m sorry I was so old when I moved in with you mom but other than often hearing the story about private adoptions and newborns, I know you were excited to begin parenting a fairly young baby. I also know that if you knew how it made me feel, you would have stopped telling the “private newborn” story in front of me and my brother who was 2 1/2 years old when you adopted him. How could you have known how it felt to have been reminded that you were a consolation prize? Dad, when I look at the film of the day I arrived, I can see that you thought I was pretty small, young, and breakable judging by the fear on your face when mom handed me to you for the first time (even though you were trying to look natural and relaxed). Despite my being adopted, you and I had the same sticking-out ears, which was obvious in the film clip where you first held me. Our similar ears, blue eyes and our tall, thin builds made us a great accidental match as father and daughter. If the whole town hadn’t known I was adopted, I bet we could have fooled people. Mom and dad, I thank you for the excitement and pride you both demonstrated on the day I arrived (and I really thank the family friend who brought a film camera that day). To me, my arrival day film is like a birth video without all the yelling, blood, and people passing out!

Mom, I know you had to advocate with your family doctor and with the hospital to arrange for my umbilical hernia surgery, a condition of my placement with you. After meeting my foster mother a while back I learned that whole thing was kind of a race. She, who wanted to keep me as long as possible was trying to make arrangements in her community for the surgery and my recovery as soon as she could, while in some weird kind of custody race, you were trying to make those same arrangements in your community happen sooner. You won! I could hear the hurt in your voice mom when you would tell the tale of how I had to be hospitalized for that surgery almost immediately after arriving into the family. It hurt you deeply when I was more easily comforted by the nursing staff than by you. I wish you had known mom that I had been cared for by nurses (likely in uniform in those days) for many weeks from my birth until my agency sent a worker to collect me. So, naturally, nurses would have been more comforting to a nine month old baby than you, sadly a virtual stranger to me at that point, would have been. I had already lived with a few strangers (multiple foster home placements) in my short lifetime, so I’m pretty sure I was somehow just trying to protect myself. I’m sorry mom, that must have been so hard for you, thank you for continuing to visit with me despite my apparent rejection of you while in hospital. If you were still here , I know you would simply say, “Oh, that’s just what mothers do Lynn.” 

I thank you and dad for saying yes despite having minimal information about me and virtually no information about my biological family members. In fact, it turns out there was even huge misinformation, such as being told I had an older birth brother who had been kept by the family and that my birth mother had been made to give me up because her parents did not want to ‘encourage that behaviour’. As it turned out, that baby boy was actually a baby girl who had also been placed for adoption. When I found this out in my twenties you were pretty ticked off that you had been given the wrong information. You felt complicit in the lies, though you were as innocent a victim of misinformation as I was. The adoption process in those days was incredibly poor, but you and dad made it work. The trauma I experienced was caused by my abandonment at birth, not only by my birth parents but by my entire child protection agency, and finally, by suddenly being moved (again) from a foster family that actually cared for me. These traumas were not caused by you and dad, but you were left to manage my trauma behaviours without any real support. Thank you for doing your best to mitigate that early trauma. 

Thank you for maintaining friendships with other adoptive families in our community (long before support groups became a thing) so that I didn’t feel like a weirdo. All of us children were aware that we had been adopted and I strongly believe there was some comfort in knowing that adoption was a ‘thing’, that it wasn’t simply because of something I had done to make my birth parents not want to keep me and parent me. I remember watching an old show in those days filmed in Toronto called “Family Finder” where children available for adoption were showcased in the hopes of finding them adoptive families. I also recall seeing a newspaper column called “Today’s Child” with the same goal of matching children with adopting families. I would sometimes wonder if any of my adopted friends had been ‘found’ that way. I remember my brother treating Family Finder’ a bit like a shopping channel, searching for that baby brother he always wanted (but never got). I also remember when I was a bit older wondering if I would have been dressed up and made to go on tv or to a photo shoot if you hadn’t said yes to the adoption worker when she called, although I’m not sure if that television show or the newspaper column existed when I was made available for adoption. Apparently the TV show was sponsored by Mattel and all the children profiled got some pretty cool toys for their starring roles as available orphans. Hmmm, a new Barbie or you two as my parents? I think I got the better ‘prize.”

Mom, you were always gentle and as truthful as you thought was right when I would ask questions about my story, or my adopted friends’ stories. Dad, I think you were terrified of saying the wrong thing, so you would get that ‘deer in the headlights’ look and say, “Go ask your mother.” Mom, you were always kind about my birth mother and her ‘situation’, although it sometimes hurt when you would say her loss was your gain. I know you meant well, but her loss was my loss too. In fact all of us adopted children who played together had trauma and loss issues that impacted on many of us in different ways as time went on. I do thank you for building relationships with other families who became like my extended family. Oh and growing up as an adoptee at least I knew a worker had delivered me to you, not some weird Stork!

Fast forward to when I sought out that birth brother, who turned out to be a birth sister! I will never forget the support I felt from you in seeking a relationship with that older, biological sibling. Not that at age 32 I needed your consent, but as your daughter I felt that I needed your blessing. You gave it freely. When you met my birth sister mom, you were warm, accepting, and curious. You even told her that if you and dad had known about her, you would have adopted her too, and I knew you meant it. Afterwards, you would always ask about her, and how she was doing. I know that must have been hard for you and dad, and I thank you for understanding my need to find her and for accepting her into our lives. 

When I found and met my birth father, I never told you dad. I cannot explain why really, except that it felt like somehow I was betraying you. There was a little daddy’s girl in me that did not want to ever be the cause of any hurt in your eyes. I think people accept that adopted children might one day want to find their birth mother to understand why they were given up, but the birth father is somehow seen simply as a sperm donor left out of the tough decision making. This is not completely true, many birth fathers did not know they have a biological child in the world and are happy when they are ‘found’. When I told you mom, that our birth mother was not interested in meeting my birth sister and I, you simply said, “I’m sorry to hear that, but Lynn, it’s her loss if she doesn’t want to meet you and your sister.” That’s not completely true, it was actually a loss for all three of us, but I understood what you were saying. Thank you mom, for making that situation about her, not me, and for making me feel that I was worth meeting. 

Mom, when I was in my 60s and you in your 90s I was able to locate and meet my last foster mother, the one who fought hard to keep me for the surgery. When I told you about meeting her and what a nice person she is you heard me out, looked me in the eye, and then said simply, “Did you thank her for me?” 

I miss you Mom and Dad
Love, Lynn

Once again, thank you for jointing me in Blogville. I always appreciate your comments on my thoughts whether here, or more privately, by email [email protected] I’ll ‘see’ you next time.