​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 [email protected]

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 [email protected]!