Hi everyone, welcome back to Blogville. Today I am sipping on a green passionfruit tea as I write to you a about an amazing experience I had a while back. Thanks to receiving my Social and Medical History I was finally able to know who my foster parents had been. I learned who the foster parents were that I had before moving to live with my adoptive parents, and I learned that there had been a couple of other families before them. It took a little while but I did some research and finally found my foster mother, but sadly my foster father had passed. This blog is about my meeting with her and how that went.

My former foster mother, whom I will call L, lives about a six hour drive from me. When I said I would like to visit she was very excited to see me again and meet my husband so we set up a meeting. We arrived safely in her town, and I messaged her daughter (whom I will refer to as M) to let her know that we had arrived. I asked if she and her mom had discussed any details about meeting the next day. M indicated that they had not discussed any specific plans but provided her phone number and invited me to call her. When I called, I asked M if she wished to be with her mom when we met but she indicated that we could go ahead and meet anytime as she is fine with that. She was also interested in meeting afterwards. M then provided her mother’s address to me. I indicated that I would be calling her mom in the morning to arrange a meeting and gave M my cell phone number.

I called L to arrange our visit and she told me to come over whenever I could. I said my husband and I would have something to eat before making our way over to see her. I asked her if she is comfortable with us visiting with her at her home or if she would prefer to meet elsewhere. She said, “I’m comfortable with you coming over but my kids aren’t. You come here. I want my hug! Besides there is a lovely gazebo outside if we want to use it.” Given that she lived close to our hotel (that we unknowingly booked) we decided to walk over after we had something to eat. On the walk over I worried about whether she would like me, if she would feel comfortable visiting with us, and so many other thoughts and fears. It was about a 20 minute walk and when we got to her corner I called and told her we had decided to walk over and that we were almost there. She said she would be waiting for us. The complex was a little confusing but with some help from a group of helpful PSWs (despite being on their break) we found the correct building. There was a woman sitting outside but it was not L so I called her phone number and there was no answer. We entered the lobby of the building and called/buzzed her unit number. Also no answer. I started to worry if she was ok and my husband said, “just wait 5 minutes and then call again.” Longest 5 minutes, but she did answer and buzzed for us to enter the building. We got off the elevator and her apartment was right across the hall. I knocked quietly and heard, “Come in”.

When that door opened I was met by this tiny (4’8” compared to my 5’9”) woman who immediately said, “Come here and give me a hug.” Some tears were shed as we hugged and my husband stood awkwardly in the hallway behind me. Finally she let go and said, “Come in.” As I entered the apartment she took a good look at me and said, “I see you finally put on some weight.” That was awkward, until she said, “Everyone always told me you were too skinny, so I was worried that the workers thought I wasn’t feeding you enough.” I told her that my mother had the same worry once I was placed with her. My mother said that though I ate like a horse I never seemed to put on weight. It worried the doctor and my mother was worried the worker might not let them keep me. I jokingly assured L that my magical ability to over eat and not gain weight eventually caught up with me!

We sat together on her couch and she asked about my life, my children and grandchildren. She asked if I had been happy and raised in a good family. I assured her that I had been well cared for and loved very much. She was so relieved, she said, “I always worried if they found you a good family even though the worker told me that they had.” I told her a little about my parents and my brother. She said how grateful she was for the worker who told her that I had made it through my umbilical hernia surgery very well, even though she wasn’t supposed to tell her anything. The worker had then asked her not to call her again as she was no longer allowed to give her information about me. I told L about how that has changed for the most part now, and how foster parents can usually meet the adoptive parents and sometimes they even keep in touch. We talked about life books that children are now given that often include pictures of the foster family, and even sometimes pictures of the birth family members taken during access visits they had had together. She thought that was a great for the children.

At the mention of pictures L suddenly got up and left the room. She came back with a handful of photos and proceeded to tell me exactly what was going on in each one. There were pictures of me younger than I had ever seen of myself before. That was incredible to me. L talked about one of her sons who was in the pictures, and how much he loved to make me laugh. She showed me a picture of her and I with some of her children (she ended up having 8 children) and she identified who everyone was. She talked about how she used to put me down on the bed and how her children loved to play peek-a-boo to make me laugh. I was her “baby Marie”. As we were looking at the photos and she was sharing information, she quietly leaned in and put her head on my shoulder. She seemed so content with meeting with me and I felt the same, like a circle had closed.

I shared a little about raising her eight children, and seemed to feel that she had a wonderful life with a loving husband and children. My heart swelled when L said she had never forgotten me and that she thought of me often. She asked how long exactly I had been in her home and, thanks to having my vetted file, I was able to let her know it was for 7 months. I explained that I had been left behind in the home for unwed mothers for almost a month until a worker could come and get me. Once I arrived in my home community I was placed in an ‘emergency’ foster home. According to my records, I had been in a few foster homes and that one of my foster mothers indicated that I was such a quiet baby. At almost 2 months old I was moved to L’s foster home. As I said this, L put her hand to the back of my head and I asked if she was remembering the sores that had been there and she said that she was. I had read about them in my file. Changing the subject, she then asked me if I knew how, when making pies, you cannot seem to wash the lard completely off of your hands? Confused, I said I did. L then said that is what made her try lard on my awful diaper rash that had been caused by my allergy to baby oil. She was so proud to say how that cleared up my rash right away. I felt that I must have meant something to her for her to have remembered that detail. 

We then discussed some of the details of my time with her family and how loved I was among them. She would have loved to keep me but that was just not done back then and that the worker had told her all along that they were looking for an adoptive family that could take me. The worker had explained to L that the delay in placing me on adoption was caused by the birth mother not cooperating with the Children’s Aid Society to sign her consent to adoption. Once that consent was signed, my parents were matched with me and I was moved. At this point, L and her family moved to the community where I was now visiting with her. For me, I had always wondered who had taken care of me before my mom and dad. Now I knew. L and I keep in touch to this day, and I think of her often and continue to be grateful she had come into my life, however briefly. 

Foster parents make a difference every day. Consider looking into becoming a foster family today.

Thank you for visiting with me today. I always appreciate knowing that you are reading. If you have any comments that you would like to share more privately than here, please feel free to email me at [email protected]

‘See’ you next time!

​Hello everyone and welcome back to ‘Blogville’. This is my place for talking openly about my adoption specifically as well as the practice of adoption in general, with a focus on the impact of adoption on all members of the process. My point of view is mostly from being an adopted person myself as well as my 25 year career in Foster and Kinship Care/Adoption/Adoption Disclosure/Adoption support for birth parents/and a pre-service trainer. Sadly the beginning of my life began with adoption trauma. Let me tell you about it while I sip a green passionfruit tea.

The day I was born, September 22nd, 1958 there were no celebratory cigars handed out. The fact is that my birth father was not even made aware of the event of my birth. The day brought no joyous, welcoming embrace from my birth mother. There had not been months of anticipation of my birth as was the societal norm. In fact, there is no mention in my records of her ever holding me. Imagine never having been held by the woman who created you. 

According to my records, she did arrange that I be baptized into the Roman Catholic Faith; which was done on September 24th, 1958.  However, my birth mother did not finalize plans for consenting to my adoption before she left the ‘home for unwed mothers’ where she had stayed in the months prior to my birth. 

Though my birth mother had already signed a consent on for the agency to make an adoption plan, the witnessing social worker had since left the agency. As a result, the presiding Judge ordered that another social worker locate and meet with my birth mother to confirm that she was still requesting an adoption plan. Given that so much time had passed, and that the worker who had arranged the consent was no longer available to confirm the birth mother’s intent to relinquish her parental rights, the Judge wanted to be sure. After much pleading with her by a worker from my parent agency, and having a judge ordering her to meet with my agency, my birth mother finally agreed to meet with a worker and signed another consent to adoption, relinquishing her parental rights for a second time.

I thought it was important to explain all of this to you so that you understand why an infant whose birth mother never intended to keep and raise her, was being held up in foster care instead of beginning her life with an adoptive family. I thought it was important that you know what happened to that baby before I was me, Lynn Dianne.

I am not sure what the nursing staff at the hospital were calling me while I stayed with them for the first month of my life. So many thoughts roll around in my mind about that. Was I called Yvonne? Was I called baby girl or just baby? Did they just use pet names like sweetie, or honey? There will never be an answer to that question. My first month lived with no identity. Due to shift work, which is the norm for hospitals, each nurse may have even called me something different. It makes me sad to think about how that impacted on the ability of future me to form a secure attachment.

So, to summarize, I was born on September 22nd, 1958. I remained in hospital until October 19th when I was finally picked up by a worker and transported to my home community. This journey took until October 21st due to travel delays, ones that my worker had not been prepared for. Once back in my ‘home community’ I was placed in a foster home, in those days they were referred to as ‘boarding homes’. I was taken to see a doctor as I had been experiencing some medical issues; diarrhea and skin rashes. I was moved on October 30th to another foster home that cared for me until November 14th, 1958. I was again moved to the foster home where I would remain until I was placed with my parents on June 19th, 1959. Remember, at this point I had been cared for by nursing staff, then an agency worker, then two foster caregivers until finally landing in the foster home where I would remain until I was placed on adoption.

Finally, on June 19th, 1959 I was placed with my adoptive family. I am sure you will agree that little baby me must have been confused about attaching to people.  Of note, until my placement with my adoptive family, my workers, caregivers and the Judge had been calling me Yvonne Marie or ‘the infant’. Suddenly people around me were calling me Lynn! 

In those almost 9 months of life I had experienced an extraordinary amount of caregivers. In my next blog I plan to discuss my final foster care placement before my parents got to have me finally in their home. In my case, my experience in this final loving foster home was probably what saved me and allowed me to have a healthy attachment with my adoptive parents. I have met the my fourth and final foster mother and my next blog will talk about that, and what my former foster mother and I meant and still mean to each other. 

Thank you for reading my blog today. I wish I could say that things have improved in terms of multiple placements for infants and children in care, but sadly, this is still not fully the case. I must say there have been improvements but the system is still lacking in many ways. If you think your family might be able to foster a child, you should contact your local Child and Family Services agency and discuss the application and approval process. Maybe you can make a difference in a child’s life. Thank you for joining me today, ‘see’ you next time! 

Hello Blogville friends! Welcome back, it is so nice to see you. This morning I am drinking a hibiscus tea as I write to you. My last blog of 2025! As an adopted person I feel it is important to continue to open up a dialogue about adoption topics (and sometimes other topics too) that impact on so many of us, so you will hear from me again in 2026! 

As you may have heard, within adoption, trauma and grief exists. Theirs, theirs, and yours. The birth parents’ grief, the adoptive parents’ grief, and the birth child’s grief. Plus, we all experience trauma as well. When life does not go as planned or expected, it is traumatic and we grieve what could, should, or might have been. Our lives are filled with ‘what if’s’. 

For those of you who grieve as birth parents:
If you were one of those birth parents who conceived ‘inconveniently’, remember the awful things people said to you, or about you? 
First they judged your sexual activity. Then they judged your choice to ‘bring shame to your family’ by walking around the community obviously pregnant. Conversely they judged you for going away to a home for unwed mothers, not even considering your grief at the loss of your support system. That was, for most birth mothers, traumatic. 

Later, they judged you for relinquishing your parental rights, while ironically, they would have also judged you for choosing to be a single parent. All through these judgmental times you were likely grieving your ‘reputation’. Interestingly, there appeared to be very little judgement toward the birth fathers. After all, ‘boys will be boys’ right? They were 50% a parent to that child but without the stretch marks, and likely little or no grief. 

You were unaware that one day your birth child would be judged for grieving the loss of you. They would feel grief when they understood what you went through to give them life. People expect anger from relinquished birth children toward their birth parent(s), not empathy, and they find your birth child’s grief confusing. 

For those of you who grieve that you  could not conceive:
Remember the awful things people said to you about your plan to adopt?Remember hearing them voice their pity behind your back, or even to your face, that you could not conceive a child of ‘your own’? They did not know how you may have grieved having to choose adoption as an option to raising children. 

Remember their horror stories about ‘failed adoptions’ and other ridiculous preconceived notions about ‘bad blood’. You did not know how much your family and your adopted child or children would be judged too. 

For those who fostered and then  adopted:
Society is divided about judging you; you are either heroes or gullible. Some people see your adoption of a child who happened to be placed with you as heroic. That you would adopt a child whose birth parents know who and where you are seems so brave to others. 

No one sees you grieving with the child while you offer them a permanency plan.

Others see you as being taken advantage of by the Child Protection staff. They worry that you haven’t thought this through and that the ‘real’ family might interfere, or worse, one day come back for the child. 

For those who fostered TO adopt: Maybe you too could not conceive and people’s pity turned to judgement at this decision. They thought that fostering meant that you were ‘trying out’ children before offering permanency. 

People were dumbfounded at the idea that the child’s ‘real’ family would know who and where you are; like adoption should be more like a game of hide and seek than teamwork.

I believe you grieved for the child and their birth family’s inability to safely reunite before offering permanency. I think you see yourself as a part of a child’s life team, offering permanency when their birth family members cannot. I do not think you see yourself as a replacement. 

Trauma and grief are a huge part of adoption because adoption always involves loss. How a family grows through adoption reminds me of a new little green leaf pushing through the spring layers of earth and the winter debris to reach nourishment. The odds of that little green shoot surviving are multiplied by the nutrients that surround it. 

Recognizing that trauma and grief are a part of the adoption process and learning how identity and talk about it as a family is very healing. I know you will find the words, just look inside your heart. 

Thank you so much for visiting with me today. I so enjoy your company and I hope you enjoy my stories. As always, feel free to comment here or send me an e-mail at [email protected]. Don’t  forget, follow me on Goodreads so you can be one of the first to get new blog post notifications. See you next time. 

Hello Blogville friends! Welcome back, it is so nice to see you. This morning I am drinking a ginger green tea as I write to you. As an adopted person I feel it is important to open up a dialogue about adoption topics (and sometimes other topics too) that impact on so many of us. 


I also hope that adoptive parents read my blogs so they can talk with their children about tough things and help them know that their feelings about having been adopted, and having been freed for adoption, are normal and that they can, and should, talk about them without feeling guilty. 


I have been thinking a lot lately about what my birth mother might have done differently that may have made my journey a little easier. I began to wonder what a difference it might have made if she had left me a letter. I wonder what she might have written in that letter to me.


What if she had left me a letter explaining why she was leaving me behind? Would that have helped me feel less worthless? Maybe if she explained why she felt that she had to give me up, or whether or not it was fully her decision, maybe I would have felt less like an inconvenience, or a mistake that had to be corrected? 


What if she had left me a letter telling me about herself, what her dreams were, and how keeping me was simply not an option? Maybe I would have felt less disposable. Instead, I could have grown up knowing whether I was like her in any way. Knowing I was like her even the smallest way might have comforted me when I felt alone. Honestly, you really can miss someone you never even knew.


I wish she would have left information about her relationship with my birth father, or even just what he looked like and the kind of person he was. I always wondered if he loved her and was kind to her. It would have meant a lot to know if he knew about me, and if he cared. It would have been important to know if he had agreed that I was not worth keeping.


In her letter she could have offered her rationale for having to leave me behind, sparing me a lifetime of wondering what was so wrong with me that my own mother did not want me. You can see how that can leave an impact on a child, even as that child grows into an adult. Perhaps I may have found some peace in  knowing that it was her hopes for her own future that drove her decision instead of some act I had committed in utero.


Maybe even just  knowing how she felt being pregnant with me and what her labour and my delivery had been like would have brought me some peace. I know how much my children enjoyed hearing about the day they were born. I would like to have known that too. Did I cry when I was born? Did she hold me and look me in the eyes before they took away. Did she speak words of explanation that I may not have understood, but I surely would have stored on some cellular level. 


In her letter she could have told me if she would think of me on my birthday each year, and if she would miss me, even a little bit. Maybe I would not have been so sad on my birthday, wondering if she missed me and was thinking of me too. In her letter she could have told me what she named me when I was born and what, if anything, the name(s) meant to her. Then I would have known what name she used when she thought about me. I cannot imagine that she went through life without ever thinking about me. I hope I mattered more than that.


In her letter she could have told me if she planned to come and find me one day. Maybe I would not have been wondering if she was secretly in the audience when I was in a school play, or when I would perform on stage as a ventriloquist. I often wished she would have left a letter telling me if there were any ventriloquists in her family, besides me that is, because maybe I got that talent from her. Or she could have told me about other talents in her family. I might have had more confidence to try new things if I had known what some of my birth relatives were good at. 


In her letter she could have told me it was ok for me to be raised by other parents and to belong to another family, and that by choosing an adoption plan she actually wished this for me. Maybe I would not have felt disloyal for really loving the family that chose me. Somehow, I think it would have been easier if she had given her permission for me to love my adoptive family.


It hurts my heart when I think about how she never left word in a letter that I had a half-sister who was also signed away, left behind in our birth mother’s quest for happiness. I think it may have helped to know that there was someone just like me out in the world and that I was not alone. Maybe my sister and I could have found each other sooner.


In her letter she could have prepared me for the future. She could have told me not to look for her, that she planned to get married and raise a family one day when she was ready, and that I would not be welcome. She could have warned me that when she would be offered the chance to meet me one day, she would say no. I might have been better prepared, or at least have been somewhat prepared. I never expected her to say no, or that she was capable of abandoning me twice.


In her letter she could have told me that she did not plan to tell her future children about me, and that to one day meet and introduce me to them would somehow sully her reputation as their parent. In her letter she could have told me she was afraid of altering who she was and what her children might think of her. I wish she would have known that one day when I actually met them they would welcome me and her other birth daughter with open arms as their sisters, their mother’s other daughters. That might have brought her some peace.


I wonder if my parents had had a letter to share with me, if it would have helped them to answer my endless questions about my birth mother? Well, it could not have hurt, that is for sure. Finally, I wonder if knowing whether or not she cared about me and hoped that I would be loved and happy in another family would have helped make my existence feel less accidental, or knowing that she had held me in her arms, even once, would have made me feel, well, less disposable. I wish she would have left me a letter.


Thank you so much for visiting with me today. I so enjoy your company and I hope you enjoy or at least benefit in some way from my thoughts. As always, feel free to comment here or send me an e-mail at [email protected]. Also, you follow me on Goodreads to be one of the first to get new blog post notifications. See you next time.