Fifty-six years ago today, I was adopted. Every year on this day, my parents tell the story of meeting a beautiful, blonde, chubby baby who was all smiles. Every year, I’ve heard about how cute I was, how well my foster parents looked after me, and how happy I was. I don’t have any stories from the day I was born, so my parents decided to create a “special day” to celebrate the day I was adopted. 

I don’t remember being told I was adopted. There was no big reveal. I just always knew. I knew it made me special in a good way. I mean as a kid who wouldn’t want two birthday type celebrations every year? My special day is complete with a cake, gifts, but most importantly stories of the day I was adopted.

Adoption back in the 60s looked very different than today. Sure my parents had to go through a home visit and background checks, but it was a shorter and easier process back then. My parents had already adopted my brother, when my Dad’s job got transferred from Montreal to Ottawa. My mom called the adoption agency and let them know that they really wanted to adopt a girl before they moved. By some miracle, the agency called a couple of weeks later and told them they had a three month old bouncing baby girl for them. I know every detail about the day they met me. My mom talks about the dress I wore and how well cared for I was. My dad talks about how round and giggly I was. I don’t take this for granted. When my parents met my brother, who was in foster care for six months before being adopted, he wore dirty clothes, had a terrible diaper rash, and cried non-stop. 

I sometimes wonder about those three months from the time I was born until I was adopted. Who were my foster parents? Were there other kids in the house? Did they tell me they loved me? I feel fortunate to have landed in one of the good foster homes. I don’t think my brother did. Why me and not him? The first year of life is so critical when it comes to attachment. I will never know who they are or any of the details, but I’m grateful to these strangers for their kindness and care. 

I’m thankful for my birth mother too. I know she was a sixteen year old girl who could have made a different choice but didn’t. Abortion wasn’t legal in Canada until 1988, and before then thousands of women had illegal, often dangerous abortions. My birth mother carried me for nine months, gave birth to me, and left the hospital empty handed. I think about her saying goodbye to me in the hospital. Did she hold me? Did she say goodbye? Did I know what was happening? Could I feel it? I have so much respect that sixteen year old.

Over the years, many people have asked why I haven’t tried to contact my birth mother. Yes, I wonder what she looks like. Would I see myself in her? Does she also have weird toes? Is she creative? Does she get the hiccups a lot? But none of this has ever been enough to start the search for her. My Dad had several partners over the course of his eighty-six years and that made for a lot of women in my life. These relationships had their challenges, and I never wanted to add to the already complicated landscape of my life. Maybe one day, when there is more than curiosity driving me.

This is my first special day without my Dad. I won’t get a phone call or a story from him today. I won’t hear him call me “sweetie” or tell the story about how he used to bounce my belly on the top of his head and every time he did I would fart (fart humour was our love language). In honour of him, I will tell that story to my girls today. I know they will roll their eyes, say it’s gross, and question my sense of humour, but I will smile just like my Dad when he told it to me.