Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 215

Here are a few excerpts from a book I recently read, "All You Can Ever Know," by Nicole Chung.

This is a question that, on one hand, makes little sense—many birth parents make the decision to place their children for adoption before they even give birth, and at any rate, what can a newborn or a small child do, or not do, to offend her parents? Yet when I talk with other adoptees, particularly those who don’t know their birth families, I know I’m not the only one who’s ever wondered: Was it something we did, as babies, as little children? Something we lacked that made us easier, possible, to part with? 

I’ve never met an adoptee who has blamed their birth parents for their decision—we’re more likely to turn inward, looking for fault. Growing up, I know it would have made an enormous difference to know that I was worthy of memory. That they still cared. That the adoption was not my fault. And although I learned of my birth mother’s overture years too late to respond, I did feel better just knowing she had tried. I wasn’t forgotten. Not entirely.

Our growing family was more than a wish or a far-off possibility; it was real, the strong heartbeat a thrilling introduction. Our child was racing toward life. Toward us. The wonder and love I felt was the same known by countless mothers before me. I found that thought comforting, somehow—in this, at least, I was normal. I still had trouble thinking of myself as anyone’s biological anything, but loving this baby would be the easy part. It would come naturally. And when our child was born, I wouldn’t be alone anymore. There would be someone who was connected to me in a way no one else had ever been.

My eyes settled on the print hanging across the room. A woman, black-haired like me, cradled her pregnant belly, gazing down at it with a tender expression. The painting so strongly depicted that physical link, the original connection between parent and utterly vulnerable child. It had always been such a mystery to me—here I was now, in its thrall, and still I couldn’t comprehend it. I pulled my shirt back down and slid my feet to the floor. “Nine months seems like a long time, but it’s really not,” the midwife told us. “You’ll be meeting this baby before you know it.” 

I was going to be a mother. Someone would depend on me. Our relationship would last for the rest of my life; though it had yet to begin, I could not imagine it ending. Yet that was exactly what had happened to the bond between me and my first mother: it had been broken. We had both survived it, learned to live apart, and while I knew this—had known it for as long as I could remember—it had never struck me as unnatural until I heard my own child’s heartbeat.

Dan and I had our lives to ourselves now, but soon that would change. As incredible as it had been to hear the heartbeat, to realize that we would soon be parents to a real baby, for me our first prenatal appointment had opened up a new source of worry and doubt. Yes, I had to give birth, make sure I was prepared for it. But that was only the beginning. What questions would our child have for me about our family? How could I help them understand and feel connected to their history and heritage when to me it was still little more than a fable? So far, I’d been asked for just a few pages’ worth of family information, and I hadn’t been able to supply it. 

As we left the birth center, I couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling that our baby was destined to inherit a half-empty family tree. I wasn’t even a mother yet, and already the best I could offer was far from good enough.

If it were up to me, I knew I would have long since given up. I’d been in labor for nearly twenty-four hours; I was exhausted, digging deep for every push, and had no energy of my own left. But I felt as if someone else’s will to be born had taken over.

My daughter would always know me. She would never have to fight to know her story. She would never have to wonder if we had loved her, wanted her. Suddenly I remembered the words of a friend and fellow adopted daughter, also a parent of young children: I love telling my kids their birth stories. It’s such a privilege to be able to do that.