Tough Questions

Finding the right words is hard.

Yes, that's a pretty big, generalized statement but I think it rings true to most situations we find ourselves in. It's easy to say the wrong thing, isn't it? Being diplomatic, professional, kind, understanding, whatever can be difficult and when you add emotions and a toddler to the mix, it becomes nearly impossible. I know this because F has a tendency to ask questions about things that I can't always find the words to answer with. At least not totally truthfully. 

But I can't lie to him.

A couple of months ago, F overheard me speaking to someone over the phone about the passing of my great-uncle. It piqued his interest. Who died, Mommy? he asked, innocently. Death is a big thing for a little guy to grasp. I explained who had died and asked if he remembered the man whom my family will miss so much. He didn't, and I wasn't totally surprised. Has he gone to be with my fishies? F asked a few minutes later. I figured telling him that no, we won't be flushing great-uncle AJ down the toilet might not be the right response, so I said yes. He's with the 4 fish we successfully managed to keep alive for a very short time. The idea of Heaven was much easier for him to understand. Heaven is so magical. Death is so final. So big.

His tough questions are coming more frequently as he grows up, and while I'm glad to see that he's taking things in and he's curious, I'm not always happy with the line of questioning. And I can only use "God made it that way," or "God put that there" so often, and even then he tends to follow up with the number-one toddler favourite: WHY?

The toughest question hasn't come flat out yet, but F dances around it regularly. Dad. 

Is Grampie my dad? he'll sometimes ask, hearing me refer to my father that way. He's your grand-dad, we all respond. No, F often responds, He's my fah-ver and in a lot of ways, Dad has been. It was doubly hard when Red left, after telling F that he would be his dad and it will continue to be hard because kids sometimes don't know better but often are mean. Explaining that Red loved him, but wasn't his dad was excruciating. How do I tell him that the man who should have been there wasn't? That he won't be? 

My parents never lied to me about my adoption. I always knew I was adopted, but I always lived with the pain of not really knowing. It pains me to think that F might feel that way forever, because even knowing hasn't helped. Even holding them hasn't helped - the hurt remains. And, in the time between now and the day F asks me the question I dread, I'll work on how to tell him the truth in a way that a little boy can understand.

So, if you need me, I'll be drinking coffee and contemplating that. 

Unwanted

I spent some 18 years of my life feeling like I had done something wrong.

As if I, as an infant, had been so awful that I'd been unwanted. In spite of growing up in a home filled with love and support I struggled with the whys and hows and the questions I hadn't dared ask surrounding my adoption. So, as a coping mechanism, I worked towards perfection. I would be so great that everyone would want me on their team, as their friend, in their life. But, that back fired and I'm really glad.

That's how I learned it's OK that we don't all want the same thing.

For as much as I wanted to unearth the answers about my biological family, my half brother didn't. For as much as I wanted to speak with my biological father, he didn't. For all the answers I wanted, some people chose not to share. For all the things I wanted to say, some people didn't have the desire to listen or to know me and they chose to pretend I didn't exist. And so, bit-by-bit, that nagging sense of being unwanted started creeping back into my heart.

I tip my hat to the women who voluntarily put their children up for adoption in the hope of a better life. I tip my hat to the men and women who work tirelessly and often thanklessly to make sure the rights and best interests of young mothers, newborn babies and families who'd given up hope are represented. I tip my hat to people like my parents, who could have a lot more money and fewer grey hairs (or more hairs, in Dad's case) had they not gone through the process of adopting two children.

But I didn't always.

What parents of adopted children don't always realize is that, no matter how hard you try or how much love you shower on your child, the questions are still there. No matter how many pieces of paper or documents or reports they read or social workers who tell them "it was for the best", the questions will never be answered. What my biological family doesn't know is that many of my questions are still unanswered, and I'm finally able to live with that.
  Not knowing is sometimes hard, but I learned that knowing can be harder still. Knowing that my biological mother faced some of the horrors she did hurt my heart. Knowing that my biological father refuses to acknowledge my existence hurts my heart. Knowing that he married a woman and adopted her children hurts. Seeing how the unease and unresolved questions from our various adoptions has taken a toll on my siblings hurts, too. But like so many things in life blame lays nowhere. Laying blame doesn't help. Harbouring anger and resentment and sadness only makes the pain greater, like rubbing salt in a wound.

Coming to terms with the facts surrounding my adoption hasn't been easy, and perhaps it never will be - maybe I never will. While the facts are hard and fast, the emotions are slow and they stick to you, flaring up unexpectedly and intermittently. The things I want and don't want are sometimes within arm's reach, but sometimes they are totally out of my control. And that's OK.

I wouldn't want it any other way.

Spitting Images

"He looks just like his father," the man said, smiling at F.

I guess it's a part of our vanity as parents that we long to hear how much our child looks like us, and depending on who you ask, F either looks just like me or just like the sperm donor (which, for the record, is what I choose to call my ex since he doesn't deserve the D or the F word, unless the  D word is douchebag or deadbeat and the F word we're talking about is fucktard - but I digress). I always flutter a bit of pride and happiness when I hear how much he looks like me - lucky kid, right? - but for once I didn't feel a pang of anger when this strange, kind man exclaimed how much F looks like his Dad.

Because this man thought Red was F's Dad. I don't think you could have smacked the smile off of Red's face.

It's funny how people see similarities in the appearances of others. I'm told all the time how much I look like the Carmichaels, and my brother is "the spitting image of his grandfather, Allister" but the truth is that I'm no more related to the Royal Baby than I am to the Carmichaels or the MacInnis clan. Which brings me to thinking, how lucky would the Royal Baby be to look like me? I'm kidding, you guys.

Kind of.

But, I can see how people would say I look like my Mom (the Petersons), or my Carmichael cousins and I can even see how one might liken my brother's thin frame and small face to my late-Papa. I can also see how it might lie in our mannerisms, the way we laugh, the way I tell stories the exact same way every other MacInnis does... with a lot of wind and hopefully a beer or two.

I spent a lot of time believing that family meant something very different than what it does - a surprising thing, given my own family. I believed firmly that F needed his biological dad. Maybe because I didn't have mine. Maybe not. What I've learned is that family is what you make of it. Pets become your children and friends become your sisters and brothers. You love people, and that is what family is.

Finally

I imagined the day I would meet my birth mother for a long time.

Months. Years. Decades. Forever, it would seem, to my twenty-five year old self.

I had it all planned out, you see. It would be a beautiful day (obviously I planned for the weather), and we would have some sort of cheesy picnic or other reunion of sorts and we'd laugh and cry and recognize all the things that were similar in ourselves - my siblings, my mother and I. From the time I knew she was out there. from the moment I heard her voice I knew we would meet and it would be wonderful. And in many ways it was, except for one...

We met because her father is dying.

I woke to a text from my biological mother informing me that her father was in hospital, and the family had been called. She, her husband, brother and kids were driving from Ontario to Nova Scotia, in a race against time to be with her dad. I felt sick.

I didn't sleep much last night. My mind raced: how was I going to do this? Was I ready? Are you ever ready? I prepared myself for what I knew would be hard. I got dressed, did my hair and got in the car.

The drive was stressful - three hours in length. I drove in silence for a long time. Then with music blaring. F slept. I called Red. My mom called. I listened to my GPS and navigated an old highway I'd never driven before. I saw the sign to the hospital, I took a deep breath and I pulled in. Here it was.

I saw a group standing together outdoors, and I knew. I knew it was my family - even without seeing a face. Then I saw her. My mother. She turned and watched as my car pulled in. They all turned. I composed myself, and got out of the car. As she walked towards me we both began to cry. 25 years. A quarter century. Emotions and memories and so many things passed in the next seconds that the earth stood still as we hugged and cried, while family I didn't know looked on. We just cried.

Hugs. Introductions. Names. New faces. It was a lot to take in, and yet nothing at all, as I took it in stride and F did too. Strangers, and yet family. Strangers and yet familiar. Mine. Ours.

Just over two hours I spent with them, during their saddest time, as someone they loved and I would love to know is slipping away from them. It was bittersweet. I felt my heart break as Grandad looked at me and said "All the years we've missed..."

All the years.

25 years of memories and chances we've missed, so I did what I could to make up for them in that short time. As I said my good-bye, my heart shattered. I'll never get to know him. F will never get to know him. But I got to see him, and that's more than I might have had. I got to hold him and kiss him goodbye. Someone I don't even know, but care about in a way I can't explain. I can't explain any of it.

Darlene (birth Mom), Granddad Bill, Myself and F - Together, 25 years later.

I took the chance today, and I couldn't be more glad that I did. They slip away, you know. Chances. People. Loved ones. Memories. In a heartbeat, they're gone. Don't let them. Today, I saw where I came from. Who I am. Where I began and I finally found the closure I've wanted all my life.

I couldn't have done it without the love and support of my amazing parents, Debbie and David or without Red. Thank you. Without my friends, I might have lost the courage. Thank you.

Chance

I’ve grown to be pretty cautious over the years.

Once upon a time, I would ride my bicycle as fast as I could down the driveway – feet out to the sides, wind blowing in my face – and I wouldn’t worry a hair on my little head. It was fun, and I was carefree. I used to venture out and try things from playing a new sport to learning new information and then, one day, the fear of failure and disappointment and hurt instilled itself deep within my once carefree self.

And now I’m not so carefree. I don’t take chances any more. I analyze the bejeezus out of everything. I doubt. I question my own decisions and I won’t even get into the lack of faith I have in the decisions of others.

It was years of analyzing and questioning before I filled out those seemingly simple sheets of paper, moving frantically because I was so afraid I’d change my mind.  I was chancing it.

I wrote the letter. I took a chance – risking my fragile heart breaking again. What if there came no reply?

It’s been more than six months, and I’m not sorry I did it but I moved faster than I was prepared to and felt my comfort zone disappear as things began happening at the speed of light. So I put on the brakes. No more. I couldn’t.

Until I realized that I might not have the chance again. Time won’t wait for me to be ready. It can’t wait. Life moves on, and passes us by and chances escape us. Can I take that chance?

Can I risk the meltdown I’m sure will come from meeting my birth family on short notice – in under 48 hours? Can I live with the regret I might always have if I didn’t go in the 11^th hour, when there may never be another opportunity?

These are the things that no one ever prepares you for. There’s no book on how to cope with adoption disclosure. There are no rules. No “What to Expect” literature as you venture into it all.

Unless you’ve ever looked in the mirror and wondered who you are and where you come from, you can’t understand. And the only thing harder than that, is when you look at the little person who is a part of you and wonder what parts of them you don’t know, because you don’t even recognize those parts in yourself.

What if this is my only chance to know?

Unchanged

It's amazing how quickly things can change.

Back in October, I wrote about my feelings on being adopted. Just a few days later I shared the excitement of knowing my birth mom had happily received my letter. When I first wrote my letter, I didn't really know what to expect. It was emotional, to say the least, and terrifying every step of the way. I anxiously prepared for the worst, and I am thrilled at the way things have turned out.

It's been two weeks now that I've been in constant contact with my Birth Mom (BM), my siblings and one of my uncles and I've never felt so at ease - though the fact that I'm on anti-anxiety medication may play a role in that. It's weird to go from feeling unsure of who you are to feeling complete so suddenly. Learning about the quirks I share with people I've never met has somehow given me and understanding of who I am and the power to become who I really want to be.

It's even more amazing how, in spite of everything that goes on in our lives, that any of us can remain the same.

A few friends have expressed concern that I might suddenly change - or have a total meltdown, which admittedly could happen - as my world begins to catch up to speed in the aftermath of finding my birth mom. By my own admission, I've been hiding in the woodworks for the past week or so just trying to catch my breath and steady myself. But I'm still me. I'm still all of the things I was before.

I'm still a MacInnis - unless I plan to have that expensive, ghastly-scar-leaving tattoo removal - and I will always be a MacInnis. It's kind of like a gang. There's no getting out! (Just kidding - we're so awesome, people keep trying to get into the clan)

In spite of wearing high heels and living in the city, I'm still a rubber-boot wearing girl who snorts when she laughs and prefers beer and lobster over pasta and wine. Well, unless the pasta includes lobster. And I've never turned down wine before.

Although I've been lucky enough to gain a whole new family, I like my old family just fine and they are irreplaceable. People like Mom and Dad, my grandparents, aunts, uncles and some (alright, all) of my cousins are few and far between in this world.

Disclosed

Imagine being 25 years old and hearing your mother's voice for the first time.

I lived that last week and it was as incredible and indescribable as you might imagine. Even more incredible has been learning how much we're alike, from taste in music to favourite wines, the way we drink our coffee and even having similar tattoos. It's been nothing shy of a dream come true. We even look alike.

Communicating with my brothers, my little sister and my uncle has been one of the most amazing experiences I will ever have, falling only behind F's arrival. I can't wait to meet them, hold them and see them face to face. I have played it over and over in my mind my whole life, but now I have images to go with it.

I am the oldest of seven kids, aunt to two nephews and niece to two uncles. Though it has been a bit overwhelming, I feel complete now - at peace, even - that I have this knowledge and this new connection with people who are a part of me. It is still surreal, my excitement is still electrifying and I don't think anyone could beat the smile off my face.

I have lived a very blessed and privileged life... In fact, I have been totally spoiled by two selfless people who have given me all I ever wanted and more (except for that pony, but they did fund many years of riding lessons). While many people live their lives without support - with no family - I am now fortunate enough to have two families of which I am a part of. My son has earned 4 additional uncles and a beautiful aunt, a new grandmother and her husband. He has two new cousins to grow up with.

The process of the adoption disclosure was long and tedious. After two years of waiting, a phone call changed my life. I laid in bed on the weekend F turned three and browsed her photos, fingered the writing on her letter to me... When we connected online last week, the world stopped turning and it's not quite up to speed again. And if things never go back to the way they were, that would be just fine.

From being the fake kid, to being Darlene's daughter I've come to believe that fairy tales do come true.

Bestest

Hiccups.

They happen at the least convenient times, don't they?

Not just the "hic-cup!" ones either, the ones that you can't stifle no matter how hard you try when you're sitting in an exam or church. I mean the kind that throw your entire system out of whack, like when your apartment isn't ready and you can't move in. That kind. You spill coffee on yourself the one time you wore a white top (am I right?), or got mud on your nice, clean pants. The phone cuts out just at the moment you finally got through the 20-minute wait with Bell custome service. It rains and your hair looks like more poodle than volumous the day of your interview or hot date. They happen to us all, some more easily straightened out than others.

My Mom is the ultimate in straightening-out of things. From stained shirts to ripped pants, the woman can fix pretty well anything except a broken heart, but she's pretty good at helping you put the pieces back together. I'm not even half the Mom she is, and I mean that in the least self-depracating way possible. I've got 21 years to go before I can truly compare myself, but if nothing else, I hope F thinks I'm as great as I think my Mom is. She is funny, kind, intelligent, able, and down-to-earth. She has bent over backwards for my brother and I a gazillion times, loved us when we were hard to like and stood up for us when she probably should have knocked us on our asses. She's that kind of Mom. The kind of Mom that every child should have.

We've had some rough times, she and I. I've loved her and been royally pissed at her a million times over growing up, and we still argue. We're really different. She is reserved and neat, and she's almost never on time - early isn't in her vocabulary, but I adore her. I have pushed her patience, let her down, made her angry and probably made her question her own sanity about four hundred times in the past year alone. Throughout every up and down, she's been right next to me. Even though I can't imagine how I've done it, I've somehow managed to make her proud twice that many times in the past year. She listens to me rant and cry and laugh and pretends my (not so funny) jokes are funny. She is my fashion consultant, voice of reason and biggest cheerleader and I sure hope that she knows she's my best friend. If she doesn't, she'll know soon when I approach her with the usual, "Hey, want to hear the blog post I just wrote?".

She's not alone in her awesomeness, though. My Dad is pretty awesome too. The pair of them have bailed me out more times than any of us can remember, and I pretty much owe them an Island or something to that extent. They have moved me to and from the city, into new apartments and back into my bedroom at their house. They've let me sit and feel sorry for myself, dragged me out when I least felt like it and held my hand through the storm. They've changed F's diapers and cleaned up Daisy's messes. I'd be totally lost without them, and the most amazing part?

They didn't have to do a single bit of it. They didn't have to be my parents. They wanted to.

Alis Volat Propriis

I have five tattoos.

Five. All different, and all kind of the same. Each is mine, holding meaning and promise. Every now and again someone will ask me if I'm getting a new one, and the answer is usually filled with uncertainty. Maybe, maybe not, probably not, possibly. I think my poor mother will crucify me should I walk through her door with another one. (She's already threatened to disown me.) Sometimes, I'd really like to get another one but right now, I'm pretty happy with what I've got - in more ways than one!
 
I got my first tattoo when I was 18, in the summer between my high school graduation and my first day in university. I drew it out myself: a treble clef, eighth note and music staff for my love of music, and three little stars - blue, pink and yellow signifying my past present and future. It covers the top of my foot and I was fiercly proud of it. I felt that my foot was the perfect spot - I could easily hide or display it, a good trait for a tattoo when you expected to be in the public eye. It is big and my mother nearly threw up her lunch when she saw it, lamenting over and over that she "thought it would be smaller". I planned this tattoo for months, changing the design or placement, but eventually settling on what I have. Seven years later, I love it just as much as I did that first day.
 

My Butterflies

My second tattoo came just a year later, six butterflies down my spine - my own design again. One for each musical accomplishment I head dear to my
heart, from musicals in high school to singing on "real" stages. I hid it for two weeks from my Mom, until the day I forgot to let my hair down and she spotted it nestled between my shoulder blades. "One day, you'll get married in a beautiful gown and you'll have that on your back!" It's true. I did get married in a beautiful gown with it on my back and I'd be willing to bet no one noticed it. It was an impulsive tattoo, and I had decided on it just the day before. I've forgotten about it a million times only to be surprised by it when I caught a glimpse of it in the mirror. In spite of my ability to forget it being there, I always smile when I see it. I love it, too.

My third tattoo was a celebration of F: a birth dove carrying an olive branch, with the words Mo Stoirin (translation: My Treasure), in Irish Gaelic. He was six months old at the time, and I was so excited it was unbelievable. I put my own twist on this image, and wrote out the script by hand. It took almost two hours, and it was a mix between tender and ticklish. It's my biggest tattoo by far, set above my left hip, nestled among my stretch marks. My Mom hated it, naturally, but came to eventually say that it was "pretty" and since it too is usually covered, she's managed to cope. My uncle called me crazy for having another, but it is my favourite of all. No matter where I am, I will always have my baby on my hip.
 
The forth was extra special for me, as I got inked with my baby brother - my half-brother, adopted into the same home as I. It was done just a month before my wedding. We got co-ordinating tattoos, MACINNIS across his shoulder blades and nicaonghais along my ribcage - the Scot's Gaelic feminine MacInnis (Mac - son of/ Nic - daughter of). I will never change my surname. I may not biologically be a MacInnis, but I am as much a MacInnis as anyone else in the family. Both my parents were present for these tattoos, both acting disgusted but secretly pleased that their adopted children take the pride we do in our last name.

 My fifth tattoo is for no one but myself. Alis Volat Propriis - she flies with her own wings. My motto, my reminder that I can do this myself. There is little hiding of this tattoo - set right on my arm, just above my elbow. Only two people in the world have expressed any dislike for it - you guessed it - my parents. Strangers, friends and co-workers have told me they love it for the placement and the dainty font. It was a bold move for me - it means long sleeves in a conservative work place and a tattoo on my arm when I'm a granny. If I ever re-marry, I'll have TWO tattoos visible - what ever will my mother do? I see this tattoo 2.7 million times a day, and I love it a little more every time. 

I like what a lot of people don't like about tattoos. They are permanent: always with you. No matter how tough my day is, I can look down and be reminded that I fly with my own wings and make my own happiness. I am labeled with the name of my family. I will always have my son on my hip, my passion on my foot and my accomplishments on my shoulders. I love that no one else has these five tattoos: they are mine. 

Fairies Are Real

At 1:07PM on Thursday afternoon, I was running around like a headless chicken. F and I were to get to town, run some errands and get back in time to pick up my brother's girlfriend. For the umpteenth time in the past few months, my cell phone lit up with BLOCKED dancing across the screen. I used to answer every call, sometimes no one was there, sometimes someone would be breathing into the phone. One call included a "You're a terrible mother" comment before the caller hung up, so I started ignoring them. I was about to throw my phone into my bag and let it go when I decided to answer it.

"This is Karen from Adoption Disclosure Services." I stood in the driveway staring at my car realizing that a phone call I've worked towards for two years is in progress.

HOLY COW!

"We have found your birth Mother. I wanted to let you know I got to speak with her. I read her your letter and it was very well received. It was emotional, but she is very happy and is preparing a letter for you now..." She's real. I was happy and sad, scared and excited all at once, along with a million other emotions I still haven't identified. She's really out there. I didn't come from the fairies - I'm not a fake kid!

In what was just another great example of how life throws things at you when you least expect it, the timing of this phone call was incredible. Just the night before, I posted The Fake Kid. A post about my adoption, about the uncertainties. One day later, I had the answer to my biggest question: Did she even want to meet me? She does.

I ran into the house to tell my Mom that the call had come. After sharing what details I had with her, I left for town. I sent about forty texts to friends telling them the call had finally come. I imagined our meeting, what would I say? What would she look like? Would I get to meet my two brothers, my dad? I let my mind wander with possibilities until I heard my phone ringing.

It was my Mom. "I was thinking about what you said. About that call."

I've always been afraid that Mom and Dad would feel bad about my decision to look for my birth parents. I hope they know that no one will ever replace them. I hope that they believe me when I tell them that. Biology doesn't make a Mom and Dad - love does. They have given me so much love that it's spilled over and we've all burst at the seams more than once. We have laughed and cried, fought and apologized a million times over and that is what makes us a family.

My attitude has changed a lot in the last number of years, particularly since becoming a mother myself. I used to refer to Mom and Dad as my "adoptive parents", and my birth mom and birth dad as my "real parents". I know now that this was wrong. Mom and Dad are my "real parents". Birth Mom and Birth Dad are just that - birth parents.

And Fairies are real.

XO :-)