For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a mother. I’m not exactly sure why. It could have been because my mom did such an amazing job when I was little. Maybe I just wanted to be like her. It could have been because I didn’t know my biological parents. Maybe I wanted more for my child. Maybe somehow I thought I could do even better. I just knew that one day I would be a supermom to my flesh-and-blood children.
I had a happy childhood. It was full of happy times and fond memories. The family that adopted me was my “real” family. They were my life. I am not one of the many adoptees who always felt a part of them was missing. My desire to find my birth family came about much later in life.
I was always told how much I looked like my mother. It was true that we looked alike, sort of. We both had blonde hair, blue eyes, and fair skin. It was a close enough match that people never doubted the relationship. In response to comments about our “striking resemblance” we would just smile and nod. I didn’t usually think about my being adopted, but those comments always seemed to remind me there was no biological connection. When you are adopted, people will often tell you that biology doesn’t matter. They say you learn everything environmentally and that birth parents are simply DNA donors. I have found that to be incorrect.
The truth is that I never considered adoption as an option. I really believe that if adoption had been the only way for me to have kids, I would have given up my dream of motherhood.
I was 26 years old when my first son was born. Until that day I had never known a single person who was related to me. I didn’t know anyone who had my ears or my smile. I don’t regret that I was adopted. I wouldn’t trade my family for anything. As luck would have it, that beautiful baby boy looked exactly like his father. We share blonde hair and blue eyes, so it’s not as if we look like we don’t belong together. But, after all that, I was a smidge disappointed to hear people say daily, “He looks just like his Daddy.” Nevertheless he was healthy and happy. He was my one and only relation. We had the same blood running through our veins . . . almost. Leave it to me to have a child with a different blood type than my own. I resigned to the realization that I wasn’t meant to have family resemblance with anybody. We decided not to have any more children.
My husband and I got married on our ten-year anniversary. God’s wedding gift to us was another pregnancy. Nine months later I gave birth to a wrinkly baby boy. To my surprise, over the next several months, he turned into my twin. He is two-and-a-half years old now, and I see my baby pictures in his face every day. There is something reassuring in seeing yourself in someone else.
I am well aware of the hundreds of thousands of kids in foster care who need loving homes. My heart breaks for them. I am very much in favor of adoption. I spend a large portion of my time as an adoption advocate. I know better than most how adoption is actually saving lives every single day. I also know that adoption wasn’t for me. Sometimes you just have to be honest with yourself about what you want.
