Hi everyone, welcome back to Blogville. I’m having a lovely ginger tea today. Last blog I wrote about the day I arrived at my parents’ home when I was placed on adoption with them. That blog was inspired by video calls with my 9 month old grandson. Recently we have been visiting with this little guy and my heart is filled with love for him but then, suddenly, an even greater sense of loss for 9 month old me. I thought I would share more about this with you in today’s blog, there may be some lessons here.
Spending some time recently with our 9 month old grandson feels bittersweet. If you recall, in my previous blog ‘9 Months’ I talked about being placed with my adoptive parents at that age. I wrote about the way I had been simply dropped off to them with no pre-placement visits, and no pre or post placement contact with my foster parents. I know that meeting my foster parents, even having spent some time observing me with them, would have helped my mom know what my routine had been and what comforted me. Remember, a 9 month old baby is not a clean slate, they already have preferences, likes and dislikes, fears, and things they found comforting. My placement was further complicated by an immediate hospitalization that had been pre-planned, and a condition of my placement with my new parents. I needed a small surgery and my parents were able to arrange it almost immediately after I arrived at their home. To me, it should have been apparent to the professionals making these decisions that I would have been better off to have had the surgery while in the care of my foster parents than while in the care of my new parents. My foster parents had a relationship with me and would have been better able to offer comfort to me following the surgery. My poor parents and 9 month old me were really set up for a terrible attachment experience. As I see my 9 month old grandson and his secure attachment to his parents, deep feelings of abandonment are rekindled in me and tears fill my eyes on behalf of 9 month old me. Though our grandson plays with or is held by us easily, when he suddenly looks at me or my husband, then looks around for his parents with lips quivering, we quickly hand him back to his mommy or daddy where he is immediately soothed and relieved. Watching this, it occurred to me that when I felt that insecurity at 9 months old, there was no one to hand me to where I would have felt soothed and relieved. I know that eventually an attachment with my parents formed but those first few weeks or months must have been difficult for all of us. At one point in our visit we were calling our grandson’s name and as he turned from the window to look at us in response my husband said, “Well he sure knows his name.” I realized at that moment that my parents would have immediately been calling me by my new name, they may not even have been told what my old name was. How confusing that must have been for me. I suppose over time I must have realized that they meant me when they said “Lynn” instead of “Marie”. I wonder how long that would have taken? I wonder if I wondered where the people who had called me Marie had gone. After we had been with him for about a week, our grandson’s parents had to attend an appointment, so my husband and I watched our grandson for an hour or so. When we knew his parents would be home soon we started watching out the window for them together. When they pulled into the driveway our grandson started to cry at the unexpected sight through the window of his mother standing outside; he’s used to watching through the window and greeting his dad as he arrives home from work, but not his mother. He was frantic for her to come in the house and hold him. When she came in and picked him up, snuggling him close to calm him, a strong feeling of jealousy bubbled up in me as I realized I had had no one that could comfort me like that when I was 9 months old. I cannot describe how overwhelmed I felt. My husband looked at me and asked what was wrong. My eyes filled with tears and my throat burned with emotion as I said, “Nothing.” There is no way anyone in the room with me at that moment could understand what I was feeling. There was no way I could help them to understand so I simply swallowed my grief. As I watched my grandson playing on the floor with his toys I noted that he is always tracking where his parents are, as is developmentally appropriate. How would I have known whom to track in my new family when I arrived? I had never met these people, a man, a woman, a little boy, and a dog. I honestly cannot even convey my strong feelings of sadness on behalf of 9 month old me. The adoption placement procedure has changed significantly since my placement day over 60 years ago. Now there is typically great emphasis placed on slow introductions, usually in a space where the prospective adoptee is most comfortable, such as in their foster home. Many procedural changes now contribute to a smoother permanent move for children. For example, not automatically changing a very young child’s birth first name but instead, giving it great consideration. If, after consideration, the name is changed there are helpful tips like initially using both the old name and the new name together, eventually dropping the old name once the child starts responding to their new one. Sometimes people will elect to choose names that are similar to the birth name, such as Byron and Brian, or Lena and Tina, to make an easier transition. (To me, not changing it at all is the best approach.) Although I still see flaws with some International Adoption placement procedures, I appreciate that adoptive parents are now most often expected to attend their future child’s country of origin and begin building a relationship with their new child. What I cannot imagine is the depth of the loss experience as the child loses not only their caregivers, the sights, smells and sounds of their community, but also the landscape of their entire country and culture. What could possibly mitigate the magnitude of those losses? I think these are the things we need to pay better attention to not only in International Adoption planning but in multi-racial, cross-cultural adoptions as well. Our loss is real, and it is not necessarily about anything our adoptive parents did or did not do, it runs deeper than that. Just like everyone deals with their grief and loss resulting from the death of a loved one differently, adoptees deal differently with our losses as well. My eyes sting and my heart pounds with emotion when I see that my grandson is so protected from the kind of loss my adoption visited on me, at nearly exactly his age. I’m so happy for him, grateful on his behalf really, while at the same time feeling such enormous sadness for 9 month old me. So my message to adoption professionals is to say that, no matter how busy you are, how full your caseload is, a proper pre placement plan is critical to attachment (or perhaps better identified as attachment transfer) for that child and their new family. A proper life book, or life story, is one of the best gifts you can give a child you are placing on adoption. When your supervisor, manager, or even Ministry personnel return your Social and Medical History document for clarification or revision, be grateful, for they are helping you to provide the best, most accurate, information for that adopted person. The next gift you can give an adoptee as access to vetted files increases, is to be clear, concise and detailed in your notes. You hold their history in your hands, their truth as you know it, or as told to you, for them to receive and read some day, so please strive for accuracy. This is a great honour and privilege that needs to be respected. My message to birth relatives and adoptive families, as an adoptee, is that some openness, in whatever form works best for everyone, can only help ensure the secure adjustment of their shared child, and may even help to mitigate some of their child’s abandonment trauma. I strongly believe that when a child is surrounded by love and acceptance they will learn to love and accept themselves and others more easily. As you know, I welcome comments from any or all of my Blogville visitors either here or by email at ldeiulisauthor@gmail.com.
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Our youngest grandchild just turned 9 months old. It made me reflect on the fact that I was 9 months old when my parents met me; when I became their daughter.
Since we do not live in the same community I do a video chat story time with my youngest grandson on a regular basis. I love getting to see him grow and develop even if it’s only on a ‘screen’. Partly as a result of these chats, my grandson knows who I am, he hears my voice and looks for my image. He sees my image on screen and reacts; I clap, he claps, I smile, he smiles, he belly laughs and my hearts just melts as I laugh too. At 9 months old he recognizes me. Even though we live hundreds of kilometres apart he knows who I am, and that we are important to each other. Seeing my grandson’s secure attachment made me reflect on my placement into my adoptive parents’ care at about the same age as he is right now. We all know there is a 9 month gestation period for the development of a human being, and then the first 9 months of life outside of the womb are dedicated to the development of a secure attachment. I did not have that in my first 9 months. Instead I had an extended hospital stay (for housing needs not medical ones) as a newborn, followed by three foster care placements. I was lucky that my third, and final foster parents and their children, loved and cared for me. I’m sure I must have been forming an attachment with them. I can almost see it in the few pictures I now have of my short time with them. As was done in those days, in a sudden and bittersweet moment, I was matched with my adoptive family and removed from my foster home without thought to trying to transfer that attachment. There is an old 8 mm film recording of the day that I arrived at my parents’ home to be placed on adoption with them. My mother had given the film to me on one of her ‘spring clean-up’ days years ago as she no longer had the projector it needed. I did not have any way to see it either so I simply tucked it away. Years later my brother transferred the old film onto a new format for me so I could finally watch it. The film starts with a flickering image of a smiling worker carrying a tiny white-blonde-haired baby girl down the outside cement steps to meet her new family . . . One sign of the age of the film are the blinding lights that were part of the technology back then. So throughout, there is a whole lot of squinting going on, often making my expressions hard to see. Somehow though, watching my image, I can sense what I was feeling. Appearing in the film are the worker who was dropping me off, the other foster child she was transporting, my new parents and brother, as well as other women in the background, oh, and a random tiny little infant that I will talk about later. Clearly my arrival was cause for a celebration as there were so many people in the house, including the person filming the event. If I’m not mistaken, my parents’ friends would have come over as a supportive gesture. I believe that were too many women present for me to figure out who my new mother was. My dad was the only man in sight so it may have been obvious to me who my new father was. 9 month old me, the star of the production, honestly just looks lost, confused, and uncomfortable. Today, I recognize that 9 month old me was likely traumatized. I watch myself staring into the faces of the people holding me or sitting near me, looking for some sign of familiarity, an uncomfortable smile on my face. You know that look, the one when you plop a smiling little one on Santa’s lap at the mall and they are all giggles, until they look up, staring blankly with a frozen smile, trying to figure out who this is, then suddenly bursting into tears from a lack of recognition. In the film, while my new mother spoon feeds me lunch, I stare into her face as if trying to place her, or maybe even trying to understand why my foster mother is not there to feed me. I can be seen looking somewhat longingly over at the worker who is feeding my little carpool partner, after all they were the only two people in the room that were familiar to me. I noticed that while I opened my mouth automatically to accept the spoon, and later the bottle, from my new mother, I never seemed to take my eyes off of her face. Perhaps I was ‘filial imprinting’ in case I lost this mother too. Seeing this on film hits me right in the ‘feels’, every time. There are at least two spots in the film where my parents are holding someone else’s baby (maybe to show me, or perhaps the worker, that they knew how to do it?) and showing the baby to me, even placing that baby on my little lap at one point. I feel that if my son and daughter-in-law were to be holding an infant, my grandson would be trying to pull that baby off of them, or at least be trying to move the baby so he could fit on their laps too. 9 month olds with secure attachment are territorial like that. Honestly my confused expression is only overshadowed by my complete, and obvious disinterest in that baby. My brother, who was placed for adoption with our parents at 2 1/2 years old had only been with them less than a year, and was likely just getting settled when I showed up. His disdain for me is apparent in the film. Frankly, he seemed more interested and comfortable hugging the family dog than hugging me as repeatedly directed. It was a small consolation when I saw that he too had to hold that mystery infant; his indifference apparent. That poor little boy was like an actor auditioning on a film set with the directors telling him to hug me, to kiss my little cheek, and to accept this little intruder as his sister. He did not appear impressed. However, even though it was not a great audition, we were given the role of siblings. When I look at this film it upsets me to see how many people were there on the day I met my new family. I wonder how I even knew which of these people belonged to me? If I had hurt myself, which person would I have shown my distress to and sought comfort from? I’ll even bet I felt abandoned when the worker and the other foster child left me behind in a house full of strangers. After all, they had been my only familiarity in that house. I often wonder how that other little girl, my carpool partner, felt when she was subsequently dropped off at her new placement, did she miss the worker and me too? There is one spot in the film showing me jumping in a crib looking gleefully at my image in a mirror, reaching out and trying to touch the only image I recognized in my new environment! Another spot in the film finds me on the couch squinting and rocking myself; likely a self-soothing behaviour. Anyone outside of the adoption constellation who looks at this film might see a joyous occasion and celebration of a young child joining her new family. They would see a new family supported by workers, family members, and friends. What they would not see is the trauma, after all, how could there be trauma at such a happy event? As I write and edit this blog I feel many things, grief for the way I was introduced to my family, and pride that as an adoption worker, I tried to do things better. There is always room for improvement but generally speaking adoption workers now try to mitigate the confusion of moving from one family to another. Pictures and videos are sometimes used before the parties meet. There are pre-placement visits between the foster home and the adoptive home before the big move. Visit calendars are created and information is provided (likes and dislikes, favourite foods, things like that) so that the receiving family is somewhat prepared. Thankfully, foster parents now play a huge role before a baby, child or youth is even introduced to their new family, and after they are moved. I mention these things to give prospective adoptive parents an idea of what types of pre-placement activities they should expect, or even request if necessary, to help that baby, child or youth transition to their family. I believe that, to mitigate some of the trauma of changing families, contact with previous caregivers should be eased off, not cut off like the umbilical cord, no matter how challenging it might be for the adults. A huge bonus is when contact continues through openness. I remember when I finally met my last foster mother (I was in my 60s and she in her 80s) and she talked about her grief at having me ‘just gone’, no further contact, never knowing if I was okay. She never got to tell my new family my likes and dislikes, or my usual routine so that I could be comforted. All those years, she worried about me while I wondered who she was and if she missed me. Our relationship mattered. If this blog has struck a chord with you, pun intended, feel free to leave a comment here, or email me at ldeiulisauthor@gmail.com Thanks for visiting and having tea with me in Blogville. I hope you have poured yourself a nice cup of tea today for our visit in Blogville. My tea of choice is called Turmeric Glow and I hope it will help me ‘digest’ my feelings as I write this blog.
Today’s blog is going to reach in a different direction a little bit, by way of trying to explain my professional and personal experiences with both adoption disclosure and my work with birth parents. I ask that you keep in mind that my adoption journey, both personally and professionally, mostly took place when adopted persons and birth relatives were fighting the Ontario government for the disclosure changes people impacted by adoption are benefitting from today. When I would ask questions about my birth history, my mother would often tell me maybe I would find out when I was grown up. I’m not actually sure what she meant back then given that mine was a closed adoption and adoption disclosure did not exist. I think maybe it was just a delay tactic as she, like most adoptive parents, had little or no information themselves about their adopted child’s history. I think my mother’s tactic actually impacted on my future work as a birth parent counsellor, an adoption worker, and even influenced me as an adoption disclosure worker. I think I will start there. First, I have to note that I do not typically use the term “reunion” when birth relatives are about to meet. By definition the word, ‘reunion’ implies those people have met once before and are now getting back together after a period of separation. As a result, I feel that the term reunion should be used exclusively to describe circumstances where birth relatives and a child or youth that was placed on adoption have had some type of relationship, or at least had met each other, before they sought ‘reunification’. When I met my birth father for the first time it was a meeting, after all, I don’t think I could technically have a ‘reunion’ with a man who did not even know I existed until I was an adult and a parent myself. I feel that a birth parent who spent some postpartum time with their baby before the adoption for example, will technically be reunited with that baby, (now usually an adult), making that an actual reunion. Even a birth father, who was aware of the pregnancy but stayed distant (voluntarily or otherwise) from the pregnancy and birth would technically be meeting that person for the first time, not reuniting. Other birth relatives, who never met the baby, are also meeting the person for the first time, so in my mind, even the term ‘reunion’ is a misnomer. I know it is a matter of semantics but it has always been a pet peeve of mine. Real life adoption planning is often not a “Hallmark” moment and “Hallmark” filmmakers will not buy our scripts because there really is no romancing adoption. It is often a painful and traumatic event. As a birth parent counsellor, I have been present at births where the birth mother did not wish to even see the baby once they were born, some did not want to name the baby, others just wanted to leave the hospital as soon as medically possible. I was also there with birth mothers who held, named, and visited their babies until they were placed with their adoptive parents. Some birth mothers even met the adoptive parents in a time where that was rare in public adoptions. Every single time I was present at these births, or when I thought back on them, I always wondered what my own story was. Did my birth mother see me or spend time with me following my birth? I would remind myself that I was born in a time when often the doctors or nurses would cover the baby’s face to block them from the birth mother’s view; a time where birth mothers had few options. I was born in a time where it was believed to be easier to say goodbye to your baby, if you never said hello in the first place. My mother was mistaken when she said I might find these things out when I was a grown up. Even as a grown up, all I have come to know is that I will never know what happened between me and my birth mother the day I was born, partly because it was never noted in my records, and partly because my birth mother passed away without choosing to meet me. My newborn relationship with my birth mother, if there was one, remains a mystery. In the years past, choosing not to see the baby may have been as traumatic a decision for birth mothers as looking into the face of a baby she would not be parenting. Likely due to my own experience, in my role as a birth parent counsellor, I would usually write a letter to the child about the day that they were born, things like the weather, the labour and delivery, and so forth, so that some of their future questions might be answered. I also made sure to place a copy of that letter in the file that that child would one day have the option to read. I tried to ensure that if they wanted to know these things in the future, the details would be there for them because I knew how it felt to never know. Giving birth and leaving hospital without the baby was difficult for every birth mother I worked with, whether they saw the baby or not. As a birth parent counsellor, when appropriate, I would try to bring the birth mother a small plant, one time I even brought a goldfish, for when she was discharged. I personally believe that, no matter the circumstances, when a pregnant woman attends a hospital and gives birth, psychologically she expects to leave with something alive in her arms or hands, so I tried to mitigate that trauma, even a little. When I participated in meetings between adult birth children and their birth parents and/or birth siblings in my role as an adoption disclosure worker I learned many things. Some birth parents taught me that they had dreams for a ‘better life’ for their child if they chose an adoption plan, but I also learned the pain of others who had no legal say in the matter. I learned how devastating it was when an adoption plan was made for them and not with them. Some birth parents talked about being forbidden to bring a baby home, the lack of societal support, and the pain of not having a choice. I met several birth mothers who could not remember what they named their baby or the baby’s date of birth because the experience had been so traumatic for them. Birth parents were often afraid of meeting their adult birth child, partly because they worried that the child would hate them for making an adoption decision. More often, I found they were afraid their birth child would meet them, judge them, and never want to see them again. Birth parents taught me that they were terrified of finding and then losing their birth child twice. Adult children of birth parents taught me about empathy and acceptance. Despite their parents’ fears that they would not understand, for the most part I saw how their adult children felt sad for their parents and what the adoption experience must have been like for them. Adult children felt sad that their parent once had had to choose not to, or were not allowed to, parent their baby. Accepting their newly found sibling often had an impact on their own identity, especially with regard to birth order (“but all my life I have been the oldest in our family”) or even gender roles (“but I thought I was your only baby girl”). In my experience the adult child would experience a period of grieving the loss of their birth order, or their gender role, but eventually concluding, as grief often does, with acceptance. Open adoptions have begun to and will continue to change the secrecy and lack of information in adoption for birth parents, adoptive parents, and their children. It is my hope that domestic and international adoption workers, or even prospective birth and adoptive parents may happen to read this blog and consider how important details of their birth history and their story are to any child or youth about to embark on an adoption journey. That is why I believe in answering your children’s questions honestly and to the best of your ability at a developmentally appropriate level. Otherwise, your child, like me, may be left with an empty promise of more information “When I’m Grown Up.” As ever, I welcome your comments here or less publicly by sending me an email at ldeiulisauthor@gmail.com I hope you have poured yourself a nice cuppa of your favourite tea as you delve into this post in Blogville.
When you are clearing things out following the loss of a loved one, it is a challenging task. People often trivialize the task by saying, ‘oh, they are just things’. Are they? I am looking at a photograph of our son, wearing his grandfather’s sweater that was lovingly knit years ago by our son’s grandmother. In the picture, our son is sitting in a rocking chair holding his new infant son, who is also wearing a sweater knit by the same woman, the baby’s great-grandmother. My mother was a talented seamstress, could knit, and crochet, made beautiful quilts, and she could even tat lace (some of you will need to look that up). I see my children and grandchildren wearing the ‘Newfoundland’ mitts my mother lovingly made for them; generations of children with warm little hands. Out in the world there are countless sweaters, hats, mitts, scarves, socks, and slippers that she knit to “pass the time”. I can still hear the rhythmic ‘tic-tic-ticking’ of the knitting needles. It is a sound I remember from my childhood when she would fit knitting in with all the other tasks and obligations a working mother of that time had. Later, when we no longer lived in the same community, I remember talking with mom on the phone and hearing the tic-tic-ticking in the background. My mother’s love for her immediate and extended family and friends was entwined with every knit and purl. When I became an adoption worker many years ago my mother started knitting little outfits that were obviously too small for my children or my niece. She was knitting and storing these pink, blue, green, and yellow outfits in a special drawer. One day she took me upstairs, opened the special drawer and told me to take them, because the outfits were for the babies I was placing on adoption, or for babies in foster homes. She wanted them to have something nice. I was always proud to offer these outfits to families when I was placing a baby on Adoption Probation and would tell the new parents that it was knit with love by an adoptive mother. After she passed, and as I was emptying mom’s dressers, I suddenly came across the little outfit I was wearing when I arrived to my new family. Now over 60 years old, the tiny, threadbare outfit was still carefully wrapped and tucked away in the bottom of that special drawer. I was flooded with memories. I remembered the first time I had accidentally found this outfit in a cedar chest in my parents’ home, many years ago. I fantasized that my birth mother had chosen this outfit carefully for me to look beautiful and cared about when I met my new family. I imagined, and searched for, her tear stains from the pain of having to let me go. I put the little outfit to my face, hoping to catch her scent. Oh, what that would have meant to me. My mom had found me in the room that long-ago day, holding the tiny clothes in my hands. Somehow she read my mind and told me those were the clothes my foster mother had dressed me in for my special day. Even though I was already an adult at that time, I remember bursting into tears at how pitiful the outfit looked. It was especially sad-looking when compared to the beautiful outfits my mom had knit for each of my own babies to wear when we brought them home from the hospital. My mother tried to console me by reminding me how old the outfit was and that it had been sitting in the bottom of her cedar chest for many years. When that did not seem to console me, she tried saying that my foster parents knew I would have nice clothes in my new family and chose to send me in those clothes in order to keep the nicer outfits for their other foster children. I know mom meant well with her words, but all I took from that was, not only was I not good enough to keep, I did not even deserve to wear a nice outfit to meet my new parents. So you can see why my mom knit all those baby outfits for me to give to families, so another adoptive mother would not have to wipe her child’s tears when they saw their coming home outfits, or even pictures of them. When I think of all the families receiving their child on Placement Day wearing something my mother had made with love and care, I feel such pride, however, the little one in me still feels some envy, some despair that I did not deserve a pretty outfit when I met my new family. Such a little thing wrapped up in the meaning of loss for me. My mom had pretty much given up knitting by her mid-90s, but the yarn basket, patterns, wool and needles were waiting patiently beside her chair, until the day I had to box them up; that sad day, when their silence was profound. Knowing those needles are meant to ‘tic, tic, tick’ I have passed them on to some good people whom I know will keep the magic flowing out of those needles and ensure that another generation will be warm and loved. Getting back to the photograph of my son and grandson each wearing a sweater knit by my mom, if you look closely, the baby’s hand hovers above a worn spot on the wood. This spot was worn out by years of his great-grandfather’s thumb rubbing consistently on the arm of that rocking chair. A rocking chair that had belonged to my dad’s mother-in-law, handmade by the baby’s great-great grandmother’s brother. It says so underneath the rocking chair’s seat. I value the rocking chair because of who made it, and because of the memories I have of my granny sitting in it, chatting and laughing. Later my father would sit in that same rocking chair, in the same spot in the kitchen, whistling while lost in thought, and exchanging waves with his neighbours who were walking by on the sidewalk. I remember for a while after he passed noticing that many would still look up at the window and wave, perhaps forgetting he was gone, or in memory of him. When dad would sit in that rocking chair I can still picture his thumb wearing out that one spot on the arm with his habit of rubbing it back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, every time he sat there; and he sat in that rocking chair a lot. My dad created that little worn spot that my grandson’s tiny hand hovers over in present day, while he is being held in the loving arms of his father. After my dad passed, and when my family and I were visiting, if my mom was not sitting in that rocking chair, usually because she was playing cards or napping while ‘watching’ Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, whoever was in the kitchen would immediately race for the coveted rocking chair. No matter who sat there, you would see their thumb gently rubbing the worn spot on the arm of that chair, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth; you honestly cannot help yourself! In addition to remembering my father in the rocking chair are the memories; first of my grandmother, and then my mother holding their grandchildren, and later, their great-grandchildren while seated in that chair. I look up at my fridge and see the photo of my mother holding her twin great-grandsons smiling proudly in her rocking chair. That chair, and its occupants who rocked so many babies to comfort them or put them rhythmically to sleep, meant so much to generations of children. Now in my home, I hope it will continue to bring comfort while I am rocking the next generation. Daily, I will miss my slippers that my mother constantly knit for me, and that I wear every day. My mother always made sure I had a stockpile of them so my feet would always be warm, and protected. The pair I am wearing (light blue and burgundy) while I write this are wearing out on the bottom. If I would have known that these would be the last pair she would ever knit for me, I likely would never have worn them. Though mom would have thought that was a great waste of her time. That is the true meaning of my slippers, the time mom spent knitting them, thinking of me. Thank you for reading, I always enjoy thinking of our ‘visits’ as I am writing my thoughts to share with you. Thinking about the theme of this blog, I am sure that there are many things that mean so much to you too. Feel free to post about them in the comments section, or email me at ldeiulisauthor@gmail.com I would love to read about them. (Remember, if you follow me on Goodreads, you will get notices when I post new blogs.) Welcome back to Blogville, thanks for joining me. Today I am enjoying a Hibiscus tea as I remember my childhood in the 1960s. I am wondering if the Children’s Aid Society knew the safety risks when they placed me with a family in Cochrane, Ontario lol? Let’s find out.
So, I am sure my social worker talked with my parents about the adoptive family’s pledge to keep children placed with them safe. I am also sure the worker heard their assurances about always keeping me safe from harm while raising me ‘as if I was born to them’. Obviously my parents gave all the right answers, for that era. Their idea of keeping kids safe was, of course, relevant to the standards and practices of families in the 1960s. Please note, I was raised when there were 70 mph (115 km/h) posted speed limits on highways and there were no laws about seatbelts in vehicles. Kids would lay across the top of the back seat, just under the rear window, and sleep. Especially if the family didn’t have a station wagon where a kid could sleep in the back, while on the highway, with their 5 siblings and 4 cousins sleeping alongside them. Families were often on their way to the cottage where the kids could swim freely, or canoe, or drive speedboats, all unencumbered by those silly life jackets. Once tired of that, the kids would hop in the bed of a neighbour’s truck for a ride, all the while trying to push each other out onto the dirt road. A kind of moving ‘King of the Castle’. People of my generation reading this are saying, ‘OMG I remember that, how did we ever survive?’ But survive we did. The thrill of screaming while seated on our bikes, or standing up on the pedals, flying down paved streets with the highest grade slope (in my case 6th Avenue), with no hands, and a blurry side view unencumbered by helmets! We had little regard for the stop sign at the bottom of the hill as we wanted only to be slowed down by the street’s uphill grade once we blew through the intersection. On long summer days our parents would collectively shoo us out the door, often with the responsibility of a younger sibling in tow; much to our dismay. But at least we had each other. Groups of us would spend our days wandering around, or playing pick up games of baseball, or tag, or hide and seek. We were known to play a few rounds of ‘rap, rap, ginger’ where we would hide, and the kid who drew the short straw would have to run up to a home’s door, rap real hard and loud, and RUN! The rest of us, our hearts in our throats, watched to see if the kid would get caught, and if caught, what the grown up would do about it. If we got thirsty on those hot summer days every home usually had a water hose laying in the yard that we could grab a drink from. If we were hungry there were crab apple trees and vegetable gardens to raid. Oh how I miss grabbing a fresh carrot from a garden, washing it using the nearest garden hose, or in worst case scenarios, wiping the garden dirt off on my shorts and taking that first bite of the carrot, tasting both the carrot, and the ground it came out of. As well, people often had raspberry bushes in their yards that we called, ‘dessert’. Even way back then our parents had warned us about ‘stranger danger’. We were equipped with the knowledge of how to scream, kick, or bite anyone trying to get us into a car. In my case, fully street-proofed, I once stepped out of school into intense rain, a Cochrane tsunami! This car pulled up and a woman said, “Lynn, come on, I’ll drive you home.” Did I tell you how hard it was raining? Well, I hopped in the car and said, ‘I’m not supposed to take rides with strangers.’ She said, “I’m not a stranger, I know your mom and dad and where they work.” For a second, as is the life of an adoptee I held my breath and thought, ‘could this be my birth mother?’ So I started asking her questions, all of which she patiently answered while driving me the 4 or 5 blocks to my house. ‘Where does my mother work? What is her name? Do I have a brother? What is his name?’ All of which she knew the answer to. No, I didn’t ask if she was my birth mother, strangely, I always regretted that. We arrived at my house and I practically leapt out of her car saying politely, “thanks for the ride” before slamming the car door shut. I ran in the house and told my mom immediately of my error in taking a ride with a stranger. I explained that she knew her and she knew dad and she could answer all my questions. Rather unconcerned, my mom said, “Oh, who was she?” My mom could barely contain her smile when I realized, and admitted, that I hadn’t asked her that! Obviously, I never accepted a ride with a stranger again. Oh, but nothing beats winter in Northern Ontario. So much to do. We were fearless. We would toboggan down steep laneways, often not stopping until we were in the middle of the street at the bottom of the lane. There would be as many kids as could hold on to the toboggan screaming and laughing all the way down, or at least until they fell off. Then there would always be that brave kid who would stand mid-toboggan, pull the rope as taught as possible in their mitt-covered hands, and see if they could make it to the bottom of the lane still standing! Some made it, while some left blood in the snow. I mean, when you are 10 years old, blood in the snow is pretty awesome. One of our neighbours had a huge St. Bernard dog and we would put on our slipperiest boots and ask to walk him. You see they lived in the middle of a steep hill and at the end of our walk we would aim him down the hill toward his home. Oh, how that dog would run! We would be flying behind him holding tight to his leash and suddenly he would turn and bee-line it to his house. We would release the leash and, propelled by the dog’s speed, we would almost fly, screaming, the rest of the way down that hill! During the Cochrane winter carnival there would be a fishing derby on the lake in the middle of town. Hundreds of holes were made with ice augers by fishermen hoping their catches would win some carnival prizes. But after the derby was over, those abandoned holes in the ice surface became our challenge. We waited for the first post-carnival snowfall. Then, like a reverse Whac-A-Mole game, we would challenge each other to run blindly across the lake’s frozen surface hoping not to step in one of those boot-eating holes in the ice’s surface. Yes, we were worried about losing our boots, but innocently, we never really thought about breaking a leg or ankle. Magically, to the best of my knowledge not one of us ever broke a bone during this challenge. However, I’d bet there are more kids’ boots at the bottom of that lake than there are cars from the carnival’s annual car-plunge contest! So my friends, we made it. With a little skill and a lot of luck, we survived all those 1960s childhood shenanigans. Here is a challenge, let’s work very hard at getting our grandchildren away from their screens and outside to enjoy some terrifying fun, like we did. There must be a big hill to slide down, or a field for some pick up baseball still left on this planet. But, don’t forget to go home before the sun starts to set. Supper will be on the table. As always my friends your comments or questions are always welcome, here, or by email at ldeiulisauthor@gmail.com I look forward to hearing from you. |
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January 2024
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