October 6, 1970

My friend Jenna held a Mother's day contest on her blog. This is the story that I submitted (and that she picked as one to showcase. Thanks Jenna!!)

October 6, 1970.

The woman waited in the chair, in awe at what was about to happen. Her dream was about to come true. The journey to this day had been long and bumpy, but now that it was here, all of that was forgotten. She looked over at her husband, trying to read his thoughts, but his face was a stoic mask, revealing no clues to what he might be going through.

The door opened and a woman entered carrying a file folder. It looked too thin. How could those few pieces of paper change so many lives? As she sat down and introduced herself she opened the file, pulled out a paper and began to read it to them. The woman frantically grabbed her purse and pulled out a pen and scrap of paper. She didn’t want to miss a thing, information that may be lost forever after this day. It was too important. She managed to write it all down, illegible to anyone but her, but that didn’t matter. She had it. She could type it up later.

Then suddenly it was time. She was no longer sure that her legs could carry her, and she leaned on her husband for support. They walked out of the office and into another more comfortable room . A stranger stood with her back to them, looking out the window, pacing slowly. When the stranger heard them come in, she turned around to greet them. In her arms was the most amazing baby the woman had ever seen. Because this baby was about to become the woman’s daughter. The stranger, a social worker from Children’s Aid, reached out and handed the woman the baby. And at that moment, the woman became a mother.

I am the baby of this story, adopted by my parents at 6 weeks old. For me, one of my mother’s most defining moments of motherhood was when she realized the importance of the information that the social worker was sharing with them about my first family. My mother was not so caught up in the excitement of her dream coming true that she forgot about the other people involved. She typed up the information she had and it was pasted in the front of my baby book. In a time of closed adoptions, when adoptive parents were often told to just move on, treat her as if she were born to you, don’t worry about the past, my mother had the insight to think that one day I would want to know why I had brown eyes and was taller then every one around me. She knew that the clues might help me find my first mother one day. She was not threatened by this, but embraced my beginnings as a part of me.