So many things identify us. Many of you have likely read my blogs and know that I am a home schooling mom. I am the mother of five wonderful children, including a set of twins. I am the wife of a coach. And I am adopted.
You can tell, without a doubt, that I must be adopted. The only way you could be more sure is if my adoptive parents and I were of different races. While both of my “adoptive” parents are dark haired, have brown eyes, and are almost olive color–I am blonde (or at least I was when I was a little girl), have blue eyes and am fair skinned. I would be a genetic impossibility between my parents. I guess they figured I’d notice eventually and so they told me very early on that I was adopted.
I actually can’t remember when they told me. It’s just always been a normal part of my life; an accepted fact just like the sky is blue. I remember talking about it with my mother when I was very young. She told me about siblings that I had, my birth place, and anything else I wanted to know. She even asked me if I wanted to look for my birth mother. “No,” I replied. “I just want an ice cream cone after lunch.” The matter was never closed, but it wasn’t discussed. It’s not that the topic was taboo, but rather I didn’t need to discuss it.
I wish I could say it was this one thing that my parents did or said, that led me to decide that I didn’t need to look for my birth mother. I certainly think growing up in a house where it was discussed openly, helped. But I’m not even sure that my parents being so willingly open with me is what caused me to feel such a strong sense of belonging. But I do. For better or at times, for worse, I belong to my parents. They love me and as far as they’re concerned–I’m theirs. There is no other alternative child that they can trade me for if I turn out to be a disappointment. To them, I am, and always have been a done deal–just as if my adoptive mother had been there at the hospital on the day I was born.
Perhaps I’m a naturally “uncurious” person. But since I belong to my parents so completely, I can’t imagine going to look for another mother, or what place this person could possibly hold in my life. . .